Recently, I was diagnosed with an autoimmune disorder after spending the better part of 12–15 years wondering why I seemed to be operating on the off-brand rechargeable batteries (never charged ones at that) while everyone else got the premium Duracells.

Before anyone starts imagining me wrapped in a blanket dramatically gazing out a rain-covered window while sad music plays in the background, I’m okay. This isn’t a tragic life update. I’m still working, going to the gym, hiking, chasing animals out of places they don’t belong, and trying to keep up with the general chaos of everyday life.

What the diagnosis did give me was an answer to a question I’ve been asking for a very long time—and a reason to start examining the way I talk to myself when my body asks for rest.

For years, I called myself lazy.

Not the kind of lazy that never gets anything done. The kind of lazy that sleeps in on a Saturday. The kind of lazy that sits down after work instead of tackling another project. The kind of lazy that needs a nap after a busy week. The kind of lazy that occasionally stares at a pile of laundry and decides future me can deal with it.

You know, lazy. Or at least that’s what I thought. For years, every time I felt exhausted, I assumed I needed to push harder.

If I was sore, I needed to move more.

If I was tired, I needed more discipline.

If I wanted to stay in bed an extra fifteen minutes, I was being lazy.

Somewhere along the way, many of us learned that rest is something we have to earn. We celebrate being busy. We brag about being exhausted. We wear burnout like a badge of honor.

But rest? Rest gets judged.

This morning my husband said he was being lazy because he wanted to stay in bed a little longer after working three days in a row.

“You’re not lazy,” I told him. “You’re resting.”

The moment the words came out of my mouth, I realized I needed to take my own advice. Because if I’m being honest, I still hear that little voice in my head.

“You should be doing something.”

“Get up.”

“Stop being lazy.”

It’s funny how easily we offer grace to the people we love while refusing to extend it to ourselves. The reality is that neither of us is lazy. We’re people in our forties who have spent decades working, paying bills, raising families, taking care of others, showing up when we didn’t feel like it, and doing what needed to be done. We have put in the hours. We’ve earned the right to sleep an extra twenty minutes without turning it into a character flaw.

And maybe that’s why this diagnosis has forced me to rethink some things. Not because it changes who I am, but because it changes how I understand myself.

Looking back, I wonder how many times I labeled myself lazy when I was actually exhausted. How many times I felt guilty for needing rest. How many times I pushed through fatigue because I thought powering through was somehow the more admirable choice.

Maybe the goal isn’t to fight our bodies every step of the way.

Maybe the goal is to listen.

Maybe staying in bed for an extra twenty minutes isn’t a character flaw.

Maybe sitting on the couch after a long day isn’t laziness.

Maybe taking a nap doesn’t mean you’ve failed at adulthood.

Maybe rest is just rest.

I’m still learning this.

After years of believing that my value was tied to how much I could accomplish in a day, changing that mindset doesn’t happen overnight. Especially after spending so many years wondering why some things seemed harder than they should have been.

But I’m working on it.

One slow morning at a time. One guilt-free moment of rest at a time.

And if you’re someone who automatically labels yourself as lazy every time you slow down, maybe consider this:

What if you’re not lazy?

What if you’re just tired?

What if your body is asking for something you’ve spent years denying it?

What if rest isn’t something you have to earn?

I don’t have all the answers yet. In fact, I’m still figuring out what this diagnosis means for me and what life looks like moving forward. For the first time in a very long time, I’m starting to think I may have been asking the wrong question.

Maybe the question isn’t, “Why am I so lazy?”

Maybe the question is, “Why have I been so afraid to rest?”

— The Jaded Mother ❤️