In Praise of Boring Days: Why Slowness is Sacred

The Myth of Constant Progress

If you asked my mom, she’d say my engine was always revved. I walked at seven months, was known for constantly moving — toddler leashes were invented because of me.

That energy carried me into my late teens and early twenties. I was the go-getter, the grinder, the I can sleep when I’m dead girl. The hustler. It was a badge I wore with pride. I wanted to travel, build a career, and be an entrepreneur.

And instead of questioning the constant revving, I followed in the footsteps of the 30-something women just ahead of me — girlbossing and grinding.

Now, eight years later, I am one of those 30-somethings. And I’m exhausted.

I know with certainty that if I hadn’t been laid off, I’d still be revving — still gripping the wheel, still obeying the message that forward motion equals worth.

But something cracked open.

Now I want to slam the brakes. Kill the engine. I don’t want to be “on” anymore.

I want boring.

Not the kind you apologize for with a sheepish laugh: “Oh, I had a boring week.”

I mean the kind of boring that holds you. That heals you.

Because “boring” isn’t failure — it’s integration.

Romanticizing the Mundane

Now, I look for rituals that are “boring.” 

I look forward to my morning cup of coffee, chatting with my mom on the deck.
I get giddy over the simple act of watering my plants.
I savor the scent of lavender detergent as I wrestle with a fitted sheet.

Even grocery shopping has become something I savor — choosing produce with care, moving slowly through quiet aisles. I feel a little thrill when I wipe down the counters, refilling the olive oil, and listening to the hum of the dishwasher.

These are the boring things that ground me.
They soften me.
There’s something sacred about putting my hands on the everyday.
I don’t rush through these moments anymore. I bask in them.

But I wouldn’t be honest if I said that comes easily. Basking doesn’t happen all the time. There’s a lot of self-trust I have to wade through. A lot of “shoulds” I swim past.

A former coworker recently asked how I was doing, and I told her: 'I’m working on resetting my nervous system.'

Because I spent so much time chasing and grinding, I came to equate doing more with being alive. So now, when I sit inside these quiet, boring moments, I remind myself: This is what it means to be alive.

This is the gift.
And I intend to praise it.

The Discomfort of Doing Less

If there’s one thing you should know about me by now, it’s that I live in the dichotomies. I hold both truths like a crystal to the light, turning it slowly in my hand, looking for the angles I missed before.

Because the truth is: slowness isn’t always peaceful. Sometimes it’s confronting.

I could leave it at “boring is now being alive” and move on. But I’d be skipping the real lesson. I’d be avoiding the part of the essay where the professor pauses and says, Go deeper.

So I’m asking:

• Why did I equate my worth with productivity?

• Why did I feel embarrassed to admit I had a “boring” weekend?

• Why did I believe that doing more made me more alive?

The irony, of course, is that I had to slam the brakes to even ask these questions. I had to stop to see what I’d been running from.

Right now, I’m wading through self-trust. The kind that whispers: You are not wasting time. You are not falling behind. You are doing just enough.

I wish I had all the answers. Why doing “more more more” made me feel worthy. Why stillness made me itch.

Maybe those answers live somewhere between me and my therapist.

But I do know this: I wasn’t living intentionally — I was just revving.
And resisting boring might just be resisting what’s asking to be felt.

Boredom as a Portal

When things got slow, I expected peace. But instead, what surfaced was restlessness. Grief. Guilt. The voice in my head still pipes up sometimes:

You should be creating.
You should be using this time better.
You should be doing something visible.

And I have to pause and remind myself — stillness is productive in its own way.

For so long, I thought I was resisting boredom. But in reality, I was actually resisting what was asking to be felt.

Since I was 19, I knew I wanted to work in social media. I loved how these platforms could bring people together. I was good at it — so I kept going. I reached 28 and thought, Okay, enough of being the social media manager. I want to lead strategy now. So I made a five-year plan. And then? I landed that title in six months.

I had been rewarded — again — for revving.
Of course, I was addicted to the momentum.

I had been conditioned to believe that if I wasn’t producing, I’d be forgotten.

Stillness became scary because I didn’t know who I was without the doing.

But then, the brakes slammed.

And thankfully, the glass didn’t shatter. I didn’t go flying through the windshield.

I just… stopped.

And looked around.

For the first time, I was still.

Now I understand: bored is an emotion. Boring is a descriptor. And my little boring rituals — folding warm laundry, wiping down the counter, listening to the hum of the dishwasher — I am never bored doing them. They’re where my aliveness lives. 

I am never bored when I am present.
And presence is a tiny rebellion.

Tiny Rebellions

I’ve come to believe that boring days aren’t the break from becoming — they’re where becoming happens quietly.

Ironically, boring days are where my creativity has started to rev.

When I was laid off and forced to slow down, something unexpected happened: my creativity expanded. My thoughts softened. My inner voice got louder.

I’ve started thinking of boring days as part of the creative process — not a pause from it.

Boring is now one of my favorite forms of rebellion against societal standards.
Because in a world that rewards constant motion, stillness is subversive.
Quiet is sacred.
And boring? Boring gets you back to yourself.

If you’re constantly doing, how can you hear your own thoughts?
You can’t pour from an empty glass.
You need boring.

So how do you find it? Through tiny rebellions — soft, deliberate choices to live differently.

Doing less is radical.
Choosing boring is brave.

Tiny (Boring) Rebellions to Try:

• Take a nap at 2pm

• Say “no” and don’t explain why

• Skip the morning walk (even if TikTok says it’s sacred)

• Pause mid-task and ask: Why do I feel the need to do this right now?

• Do a puzzle while listening to an audiobook

• Read the smutty novel instead of the self-help one

• Sit with the feeling instead of fixing it

Reminder: these ideas are something to explore, but not in a hustle-y way — in a choiceful way.

They are tiny acts of resistance against a culture that says “rest is lazy” and “boredom is bad.”

Cycles, Not Straight Lines

And here’s a gentle reminder: Growth doesn’t move in one direction.

The last thing I want — for myself or for you — is to believe that if you’re not enjoying the boring, then you’re somehow doing it wrong. That you’re not worthy. That stillness has to be productive to be allowed.

I don’t want “boring” to become the new hustle.

My creative sabbatical (aka: my layoff) hasn’t been a flood of inspiration or constant clarity.
Some days, it’s just been quiet. Some weeks, I’ve done less. But the boring has always led me deeper.

Because this is a cycle. Just as nature intended: Dormancy. Bloom. Harvest. Decay.

Nature rests without shame. 

And always trusts it will bloom again. 

Winter doesn’t apologize for being quiet — or boring. We know that in winter, things are resting. Gathering. Slowing down beneath the surface.

Spring doesn’t apologize for being messy — with its mud and its rain. We know that something is about to bloom.

Summer doesn’t apologize for burning bright. It luxuriates in its fullness.

Fall doesn’t apologize as it lets go. It trusts that something new is coming.

Nature doesn’t rush to bloom. So why do you? 

The earth is never in a constant season of output — and yet, it’s always becoming.

So stop fighting stillness.

Stop resisting boredom, slowness, quiet.

They’re not signs you’re stuck — they’re sacred stages.

Trust your cycle.

You’re not behind. You’re in a season.

You are still growing, even in the quiet.

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A question for you!

What season are you in right now — and can you honor it, without rushing ahead?