I Don’t Know How to Rest Without Feeling Like I’m Failing

The hidden trauma of high-performance survival mode — and why your exhaustion isn’t weakness

I don’t know how to rest.

Not really. Not without guilt crawling up my spine like a fucking parasite. Not without that gnawing feeling that I’m falling behind, disappointing someone, or proving every single critic right who said I’d never amount to shit.

And I know I’m not alone in this.

Because for people like us — the high performers who were built in trauma, not peace — rest isn’t recovery. It’s threat. It’s emotional whiplash. It’s everything we were trained to fear.

“You’re doing nothing? Must be nice.” “Don’t you care about your future?” “You’ve changed. You used to be more driven.” “What happened to you?”

They don’t understand. And maybe they never will. Because they weren’t shaped in survival mode. They weren’t made in chaos. They weren’t taught that your only value is what you produce, what you earn, what you can prove.

But I was.

I was rewarded for overfunctioning. Never for resting.

When I was a kid, I watched my dad lose everything. His business. His mental health. Our stability.

Then in 2014, while he was in and out of mental hospitals, we got evicted. I watched everything we had left get stripped away. The shame of that. The fear. The fucking helplessness of watching your whole world collapse while everyone looks to you to fix it.

I learned early that success wasn’t just about achievement — it was about survival. Money wasn’t just numbers in an account — it was the only thing standing between us and being on the street again.

So rest? Rest was a luxury we couldn’t afford. Rest was what people did when they weren’t one bad month away from losing everything.

The message was clear: If you stop moving, you lose. If you stop producing, you’re done. If you stop grinding, you become another cautionary tale.

So I got up. I moved. I performed. I produced.

Even when I was exhausted. Even when I was confused. Even when I had nothing left to give.

Especially then.

Because in my world, stillness meant vulnerability — and vulnerability meant you could lose everything. Again. Just like we did in 2014. Just like I swore would never fucking happen to me again.

“I became an expert at reading everyone else’s needs while completely disconnecting from my own. That’s not a skill. That’s survival.”

You know what’s fucked up? I became an expert at reading everyone else’s needs while completely disconnecting from my own. I could sense a mood shift from three rooms away, predict an emotional explosion before it happened, manage everyone’s feelings but mine.

That’s not a skill. That’s survival.

I didn’t heal. I adapted — until I couldn’t anymore.

When I got older, I kept moving. Faster. Harder. Like if I just achieved enough, earned enough, proved enough — maybe then I’d finally feel safe. Maybe then I’d never have to watch everything crumble like I did as a kid.

I threw myself into finance. Became a top performer. Managed over half a billion in assets. Got nationally recognized for my sales performance. Ran on 3 hours of sleep and called it “grinding.”

I looked unstoppable. Unbreakable. The kind of person others envied.

But the truth?

I was just too scared to stop moving.

Because stopping meant feeling. Stopping meant remembering. Stopping meant the mask might slip. Stopping meant they’d see I was human.

And it did slip. Oh, it fucking shattered.

When I was sabotaged at my high-level finance job — by people who smiled in my face while plotting my downfall. When the people I thought I could trust turned on me like I was nothing. When my own therapist — a licensed professional who was supposed to help me heal — manipulated me into financial ruin. When I tried to hold it all together and realized I couldn’t.

The breakdown wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t Instagram-worthy. It was raw and ugly and real.

“If I stop, I’ll drown.”

That’s what trauma tells you. That rest is weakness. That slowing down means losing your edge. That boundaries will cost you everything. That the moment you stop producing, you stop mattering.

But here’s what they don’t tell you about survival mode: It doesn’t scale.

“You can’t outrun your nervous system. You can’t achieve your way out of trauma. You can’t produce enough to finally feel worthy.”

You can’t outrun your nervous system. You can’t achieve your way out of trauma. You can’t produce enough to finally feel worthy.

And eventually, it kills the parts of you that make life worth living.

Your creativity dies first. Then your joy. Then your ability to connect. Until all that’s left is a high-functioning shell that looks successful but feels empty as fuck.

Even now, I don’t rest. I collapse.

People think the hard part is making big life changes — like quitting addictions, walking away from toxic situations, or being vulnerable in public.

But honestly? The hardest part has been letting myself breathe.

I mean that literally.

When I finally stopped numbing myself with vices after years of addiction, my body didn’t know what to do. I kept bracing for the familiar coping mechanisms. For the distractions. For that familiar suffocation that had become my normal.

But what I felt was emptier than that. I felt space.

And that space was terrifying.

Because space means stillness. And stillness means vulnerability. And vulnerability, for survivors, is where the danger used to live.

It’s where the criticism lived. Where the judgment lived. Where the “you’re not good enough” lived.

“You’re not safe when you slow down.”

That voice doesn’t leave easily. It lives in your nervous system. In your muscle memory. In the pace of your breathing. In the way your chest tightens when you try to relax.

“You’re replaceable.” “You’re lazy.” “You’ll fall behind.” “They’ll realize you’re a fraud.”

And the worst part? You believe it.

“Every time you tried to rest as a kid, you were punished. Every time you showed weakness, it was used against you. Every time you asked for help, you were shamed.”

Because every time you tried to rest as a kid, you were punished. Every time you showed weakness, it was used against you. Every time you asked for help, you were shamed.

So you learned: Safety comes from constant motion. Security comes from constant earnings. Survival comes from never stopping, because stopping is what happened right before everything fell apart.

But that’s not safety. That’s Stockholm syndrome with productivity.

Rest isn’t resistance. It’s rewiring.

I’ve had to teach myself — over and over — that recovery doesn’t mean failure. That resting isn’t giving up. That slowing down doesn’t make me less worthy.

But that’s not easy when every cell in your body was programmed to survive through output.

I’m still learning how to:

• Sit still without checking emails or feeling like I’m wasting time

• Take a walk without trying to monetize the idea I had while walking

• Watch a movie without guilt eating me alive

• Sleep without panic that I’m missing something important

• Exist without justifying my existence

You want to know something fucked up? The first time I took a real day off — no work, no hustle, no productivity — I had a panic attack. My body literally didn’t know how to process rest without interpreting it as danger.

That’s how deep this shit goes.

“You don’t have to be in crisis to matter.”

That’s a truth I’m still trying to let in.

Because the world doesn’t reward rest. It doesn’t celebrate emotional boundaries. It doesn’t validate recovery that doesn’t look sexy or productive or profitable.

“We live in a culture that glorifies burnout. That romanticizes the grind. That tells you to ‘sleep when you’re dead’ and calls exhaustion ‘dedication.’”

We live in a culture that glorifies burnout. That romanticizes the grind. That tells you to “sleep when you’re dead” and calls exhaustion “dedication.”

But I don’t write for the world. I write for the ones who know this feeling too well.

The ones who overfunctioned their way into burnout. The ones who made it out of hell and still can’t sit still. The ones who confuse calm with danger. The ones whose nervous systems are still stuck in 2005, or 1995, or whenever the trauma started.

You’re not failing because you’re tired.

Let me say that again for the people in the back:

You’re not failing because you’re tired.

You’re tired because you’ve survived too much for too long without a break. Because you’ve been running on adrenaline and cortisol for so many years that your body doesn’t know how to function without them.

That isn’t weakness. That’s trauma fatigue.

Your exhaustion is valid. Your need for rest is valid. Your struggle to rest is valid.

You don’t need another motivational speech about grinding harder. You don’t need a planner, a productivity hack, or a better morning routine. You don’t need to optimize your rest or make it efficient or turn it into another thing to achieve.

You need someone to tell you:

It’s okay to stop. You’re allowed to rest. And you’re still worthy even when you do absolutely nothing.

The real mind-fuck about healing

Here’s what nobody tells you about healing from this shit: The healthier you get, the more you realize how sick you were.

When you finally start honoring your needs, you see how long you ignored them. When you finally set boundaries, you see how violated they were. When you finally rest, you feel how exhausted you’ve always been.

And that’s fucking terrifying.

“Anyone who only values you for what you produce was never really valuing you at all. They were valuing your trauma response.”

Because it means admitting that the way you survived wasn’t sustainable. That the identity you built on achievement and productivity was actually a trauma response. That the people who benefited from your overfunctioning might not like the version of you that has boundaries.

But here’s the thing: Anyone who only values you for what you produce was never really valuing you at all.

They were valuing your trauma response. They were valuing your self-abandonment. They were valuing your willingness to burn yourself out for their benefit.

And fuck that.

So if you’ve been pushing nonstop and secretly praying for permission to rest?

This is it.

This is your permission.

You made it out. You survived the unsurvivable. You’re still here, still breathing, still fighting.

You can stop running now.

Your worth isn’t tied to your output. Your value isn’t measured in productivity. Your humanity isn’t something you have to earn.

“Rest isn’t lazy. Rest is revolutionary. Rest is the most radical thing you can do in a world that profits from your exhaustion.”

Rest isn’t lazy. Rest is revolutionary. Rest is the most radical thing you can do in a world that profits from your exhaustion.

So rest. Even if it feels wrong. Even if it feels scary. Even if every cell in your body screams that you’re falling behind.

You’re not falling behind. You’re finally catching up to yourself.

And that person — the real you underneath all the performing and producing and proving?

They’ve been waiting for you to slow down long enough to meet them.

They’re worth meeting. You’re worth meeting.

Even if you do absolutely nothing else today.

— Cody Taymore

Kill The Silence

If this gave you clarity, peace, or just helped you feel a little less alone — and you want to support more work like this — you can leave a small tip here.

Buy Me a Coffee