On Rest and Resistance
Reclaiming Rest in a Restless World
Dearest Reader,
It’s taken me longer than I planned to send this to you, and I’ll be honest: it’s because I decided to rest. As the year ended, I found myself caught in the irony of rushing to publish a newsletter about rest while pushing myself too hard. In choosing to pause instead, I was reminded of the very things I’ve been reflecting on—how rest is an act of care, not indulgence.
So here we are, stepping into the new year with this reflection on rest. It feels fitting, in a way, to begin with this: a reminder that rest isn’t something to earn, but something we all deserve. As I send this to you now, my hope is that this newsletter inspires you to embrace moments of pause as we navigate another year together.
It’s the end of the year—and the beginning of another
Probably like me, you’re also caught in that familiar tug of reflection. Where did the time go? How did the days slip by so quickly, so relentlessly? In a world where every moment feels claimed by obligations, news cycles, and the weight of simply staying afloat, I’ve been wondering: What does it mean to rest?
Rest hasn’t come naturally to me; not for as long as I can remember. Even when I do pause, I fidget. My mind wanders to what needs doing, what’s left undone, or the guilt of stopping when so much around me feels urgent and unfinished. A friend’s well-meaning reminder to “Take rest” often feels like a puzzle because, at times, I truly don’t know how. How did something so essential—something our bodies are designed to do—become so difficult?
Lately, I’ve been reflecting on rest—not just as a personal practice, but as something bound by the systems we live within. What does it mean to rest in a world that feels restless? How do we give ourselves the permission to pause, without guilt and shame, especially when so many around us cannot? And how can we reimagine rest—not as a reward or a luxury, but as a shared, communal act of care and reclamation?
Rest as Radical
Rest is complicated. It’s not always easy, accessible, or even welcome.
There is a memory I can’t shake. As part of my fieldwork, during my Master's program, I sat with a group of Dalit and Muslim women in the urban bastis of Mumbai. We were talking about rest. And one of them laughed wryly and said, “Humein toh marne ke baad hi milega aaraam.” “We’ll only get to rest when we die.”
Her words were met with knowing laughter—a bittersweet acknowledgement of a reality too many women face. Their exhaustion isn’t just personal; it’s rooted in deeply entrenched social hierarchies. These women carry the dual burden of unpaid domestic labour and exploitative jobs, often without recognition or relief. Patriarchal and casteist structures demand their unending labour while shaming them for taking even a moment to pause.
Their stories brought to mind an article I once read: “Ladies Without Leisure” by Priyanka Kotamraju and Meera Jatav. It recounts similar remarks from women in Bundelkhand, UP:
“When we take a break from our never-ending work, we call that rest. Women can’t think of leisure for its own sake.”
But even for me, with more privilege and choice, rest feels slippery. There’s the constant pull to do more, be more, achieve more—whether for myself or others. How do we unlearn that pull? How do we begin to see rest not as a luxury? What if rest wasn’t merely a pause between tasks but a reclamation of our time, our bodies, and our lives?
For marginalized communities, rest has long been a radical act of resistance. To pause amidst systems that devalue your worth is to reclaim your humanity. As Audre Lorde wrote,
“Caring for myself is not self-indulgence, it is self-preservation, and that is an act of political warfare.”
When Rest Feels Like Complicity
Rest-lessness is systemic in nature. For those of us who carry the weight of injustice—whether through witnessing global atrocities, surviving systemic oppression or both—rest can feel like complicity.
This year, as the gen0cide in Gaza and atrocities globally unfolded in real time, I found myself overwhelmed by the tension between action and exhaustion. How could I pause when so many were losing everything? How could I rest when their suffering demanded attention? The helplessness hollowed me out.
This tension is one I carry often: the guilt of rest, the feeling that to pause is to betray those who cannot. But guilt, I am learning, is not a sustainable fuel. It burns hot and fast, leaving ashes in its wake. If we are to keep showing up for the work that matters—for justice, for liberation, for our communities—we must learn to rest, not as an escape, but as a way to sustain ourselves.
I am reminded of the words of Gwendolyn Brooks, the first Black Pulitzer Prize winner for poetry:
“Live not for battles won. Live not for the-end-of-the-song. Live in the along.”
Rest, perhaps, is about learning to live in the “along”—to find pauses even amidst the struggle, to honour the small moments that keep us going. Rest does not mean turning away. It does not mean forgetting or ignoring. It means creating space to breathe so that we can stay present without breaking. It means holding onto our humanity, even in a world that often demands its erasure.
Medical staff at Al Awdah Hospital in Gaza, singing amidst gen0cide, declare: “We will stay here until the pain is over... We will live here and we will keep singing…” Refusing to evacuate, their rest becomes resistance, their commitment to serve becomes defiance, and their dignity becomes a powerful act of reclamation in the face of gen0cide. Source: Instagram.
Rest as Resistance: Reclaiming What Was Stolen
To talk about rest is to talk about power. Rest has never existed in a vacuum; it is shaped by the systems we live within. Colonization didn’t just extract land, resources and labour—it reshaped how time, work, and rest were understood. In indigenous and communal traditions, rest was not an individual pursuit. It was deeply tied to the land, to the seasons, and the collective. It was cyclical and reciprocal—a way of honouring the natural rhythms of life.
Colonization and industrial systems disrupted these rhythms. They demanded unending productivity, severing people’s connection to these communal practices of rest. For historically marginalized communities, labor was extracted under the threat of violence, leaving no room for rest or leisure.
As Patricia, the Radical Therapist puts it:
These histories of survival live in our bodies. They shape how we understand rest, how we experience guilt when we pause, and how we struggle to believe we deserve it.
Decolonizing rest means rejecting the idea that our worth is tied to productivity. It is about reclaiming care that is cyclical, collective, and deeply human. In doing so, rest becomes more than a personal act—it becomes a reclamation. It becomes a way to resist systems that have stolen too much, for too long.
Khayaal Rakhna
In Urdu and Arabic, khayaal is often translated as “thought” or “imagination.” But when we say khayaal rakhna, it holds something deeper: care, attentiveness, and presence. “Apna khayaal rakhna.” It is not a mere goodbye, rather we are leaving behind a piece of ourselves, a quiet assurance that they are held in our thoughts. In saying so, we acknowledge that our well-being is intertwined—that the way we hold ourselves reflects how we hold others.
But khayaal rakhna also asks something of us: to hold that same care for ourselves. This is perhaps the harder part. It’s easy to give care, to pour from ourselves into the lives of others. But to pause and ask, Am I holding myself with this same tenderness?—that is the real work.
An Invitation to Reflect and Rest
As we begin this new year, I invite you to think about the spaces in your life where rest and care live. How do you hold care for others? How do others hold it for you? And how might you hold it for yourself, even in the smallest of ways?
Rest, like care, isn’t always grand or transformative. Sometimes, it’s as simple as sitting with someone or yourself in silence. Sometimes, it’s pausing, not as a reward for your labour, but as a way of honouring your humanity.
Let’s challenge the framing of rest as a product to buy, a retreat to book, or an app to download. While these tools can be helpful, they often strip rest of its essence—its relational and communal power—and ignore the systemic barriers that prevent so many from accessing it. They turn rest into something to consume, to achieve—when rest is a right that belongs to all of us.
Rest will not solve the world’s problems, but it can give us something we so often forget to hold on to: clarity, strength, and the ability to keep moving forward without losing ourselves. It can remind us of our need to connect, to pause and to simply be. Something that we need now more than ever.
So this is my invitation to you: Take a pause. Hold yourself with the tenderness you would hold for someone you love. Let yourself rest because you are allowed to exist beyond what you produce. And when you can, make space for others to rest too.
As Tricia Hersey says, “Release the shame you feel when resting. It does not belong to you.”
May this year be filled with rest, rest and rest!
Apna khayaal rakhna,
Fazariya.
This is so good to read and reflect upon! Nice pictures too.
Really appreciate this :))