This past weekend, I woke up to that rare, unremarkable silence — the easy kind that doesn't ask anything of you. The house was still in that way it only ever is when no one is waiting and no plan has yet claimed the day. The dog was asleep, the light coming through the window was gentle, and the hours ahead stretched open without instruction.

I made breakfast and sat down with a book I'd been meaning to read for weeks, assuming this was what rest would feel like when it finally arrived. Instead, within minutes, I was back on my feet, glancing at my phone, moving a half-finished load of laundry, checking where my son was on his college campus map as if he were a small blinking dot in The Sims, his well-being somehow tethered to whether I was actively doing something on his behalf.

It was only then that I noticed the disconnect. I had been craving rest, but now that I had it, my body didn't quite believe it. The quiet felt provisional, like it might be withdrawn at any moment, and I found myself moving out of habit, the way you do when stillness feels like something you haven't quite earned.

Sound familiar?

We talk easily about wanting peace and quiet—unstructured weekends, inboxes that don't demand our attention—but when the pace finally slows, many of us feel strangely unsettled. We scroll and reorganize things that were perfectly fine five minutes ago (the spice rack is........

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