The Real Reason You Can’t Sit Still (It’s Not Just Busyness)
Are you the type of person who always has to be on the move? Do you feel like you just have to keep going? Have you ever noticed how hard it is to simply sit still—not because you’re so busy (though that’s probably true too), but because the moment you pause, something inside starts to stir? A wave of restlessness. A voice whispering that you're falling behind. A flicker of shame or self-doubt. In this article, I explore why stillness can feel threatening—not just as a product of modern distraction, but as a deeper nervous system strategy shaped by trauma, chronic stress, or early emotional pain. And more importantly, I share how we can begin to reshape our relationship with stillness—so it becomes a place of reflection, not fear.
In tomorrow’s paid-subscriber post, I’ll take you deeper into the practice. I’ll share the nightly ritual my family uses to build safety with stillness—yes, even with young kids. You’ll get a simple, body-centered practice to meet what arises when you slow down, plus language you can use to speak to your children (and to your inner critic) when things feel overwhelming. If this resonates with you, I’d love for you to join us as a paid subscriber and access the full resource—a small but powerful next step in learning to feel safe in stillness.
“I just like being active.”
“I can’t meditate.”
“You should be more productive.”
“I just need to keep moving.”
“This is wasting time”
For years, I thought I was just bad at resting. That my nervous energy was a product of modern life. Too much to do. Too little time.
But eventually, I realized something deeper: I wasn’t avoiding stillness. I was avoiding what shows up in stillness.
The Hidden Agitation Beneath Stillness
I’ve always had a hard time being still.
Meditation made me restless. Even when I tried, my mind would leap toward something I “should” be doing. A dish to put away. An email to respond to. And now, with my phone always within arm’s reach, I don’t even have to try to sit with discomfort—any quiet moment can be instantly filled. Email. Text. Instagram. Distraction on demand.
For a long time, I chalked this up to modern life. But eventually, I started noticing something deeper.
When I stopped doing, something in me got agitated. Not just mentally—but in my body. I’d feel fidgety, restless, subtly uncomfortable. And underneath that hum, I’d start to hear it: the voice of my inner critic. The one that says I’m falling behind. That I should be doing more. That rest is indulgent. That just sitting without doing anything is, somehow, deeply uncomfortable.
That’s when I remembered the Default Mode Network (DMN)—a part of the brain that activates during rest, reflection, and stillness. And for many of us, especially those with trauma or chronic stress histories, this part of the brain has become wired not for peace—but for self-protection.
The House of Mirrors in the Mind
Imagine your mind as a grand house of mirrors.
When you’re moving—getting things done, talking to others, managing daily life—you pass quickly through the halls. The mirrors are there, but you don’t really look at them. You’re focused outward.
But when you stop… when everything goes quiet… the lights in the house dim. The doors close. The mirrors light up. And suddenly, you’re face to face with your own reflection.
For some, those reflections are curious, playful, nostalgic.
But for others—especially those with trauma—they’re distorted. Harsh. Critical. Shame-filled. The voice of an old caregiver. A memory we never wanted to revisit. A fear about the future we haven’t faced.
This is what happens when the default mode network turns on. It’s where we go when we’re not actively focused on the external world. It’s where we reflect on ourselves, our relationships, our memories, and our imagined futures.
But when our nervous systems are shaped by chronic stress or emotional pain, that inner world stops feeling like a sanctuary.It becomes a haunted funhouse—full of warped reflections, old ghosts, and voices we’ve spent years trying not to hear.
Stillness, then, doesn’t feel like rest. It feels like a threat.
Because when we slow down, those distorted reflections start to surface—what I sometimes call the “demons in the mirror.” And it’s tempting to do what we’ve always done: avoid them… or go to war with them.
But we don’t have to do either.
We can begin to relate to them.
That might sound like:
“I see you. I know you showed up to protect me. But I don’t need to go to war with you anymore.”
These voices often carry the echoes of times when we felt unsafe, unseen, or unloved. Meeting them with curiosity and compassion is how we begin to change the tone of the whole house.
What the Brain Is Actually Doing
Let’s make this more tangible.
1. The Default Mode Network (DMN)
Activates during rest, daydreaming, and introspection
Processes self-related thoughts, memories, and imagined futures
In people with trauma, it becomes over-coupled with shame, rumination, and fear
2. The Task Positive Network
Activates during focused, goal-oriented tasks
Suppresses DMN activity and helps regulate attention
Becomes a refuge for those who find stillness overwhelming
3. Your Inner Threat Detector
(Think: amygdala + survival brain)
Scans for danger based on past experience
May interpret stillness as risky, especially if pain or fear previously arose in those moments
When you stay busy, your brain actually shifts networks. The critical voices soften. The pain gets temporarily silenced. And your nervous system thinks, We’re safe again.
So of course we keep moving. Of course we reach for our phones. It’s not weakness—it’s biology.
When I Couldn’t Sit With the Pain
This isn’t just about the past. It also happens with new pain we don’t feel equipped to face.
A few months ago, I got some concerning lab results back for my daughter, Jordan. My stomach dropped. I felt a wash of fear. And before I even realized it, I was back at my desk—typing, planning, emailing.
Work became my escape hatch.
Not because I didn’t care. But because I cared so much that the pain felt unbearable. So I unconsciously did what my nervous system has always done to cope: I distracted myself.
And it worked. Kind of. For a while.
But that night, the fear was still there. In my chest. In my jaw. In the shallowness of my breath.
That moment reminded me: avoidance isn’t just a habit—it’s a protection strategy. Not from laziness, but from love. From overwhelm. From not knowing what to do with the intensity of what we feel.
And that’s okay. It’s not failure—it’s adaptation. But if we want to heal, we need to gently build the capacity to stay with ourselves, even when it hurts.
Why We Need to Stay With Pain
This can feel confusing. Why would we want to stay with pain? Isn’t the goal to get rid of it?
But here’s the truth: pain doesn’t need to be fixed—it needs to be felt. Not endlessly. Not dramatically. But compassionately.
Let me put it this way: When a child is hurt, do we try to get rid of the child? Of course not. We go to them. We sit with them. We hold them while they cry.
When my daughters were little, they’d get hurt and crawl into my lap. I wouldn’t rush them or try to shut it down. I’d just hold them. Let them feel it. And eventually—without any push—a shift would happen. A deep sigh. A softening. And then they’d wriggle off and go play again.
That’s what pain does when it’s held in safety. It moves through.
But when we push pain away or distract ourselves too quickly, we send a different message to our bodies:
“This feeling is dangerous. You’re not safe here.”
That message wires us for vigilance, not ease. Avoidance, not integration.
Healing, then, isn’t about forcing stillness or fixing pain. It’s about learning to be a safe place for whatever shows up.
A Gentle Path Back to Stillness
You don’t have to meditate for 20 minutes a day or sit in silence. You can start small. Here’s a compassionate path forward.
1. Reframe Avoidance as Protection
“Of course you avoid stillness. Your body remembers what shows up there.”See your resistance as wisdom, not weakness.
2. Introduce Micro-Doses of Stillness
Try 30 seconds. Pet the dog. Step outside. Put your hand on your chest. Let yourself pause—not to be productive, but to be present.
3. Pair Stillness With Safety
Try using co-regulating cues:
A warm cup of tea
A soft blanket
Gentle music or dim light
Rocking, swaying, or slow breath
Let your body associate stillness with warmth, not coldness.
4. Meet the Critic With Compassion
Have a phrase ready:
“I know you’re trying to protect me. Thank you—but I’m okay now.”Or picture someone kind sitting beside you in the stillness. You’re not alone.
5. Shift From “Doing Nothing” to “Being With”
Stillness isn’t emptiness. Its presence. Be with your breath. A tree. A memory. A song. Let it be relational—not isolating.
Parenting Note: Helping Kids Feel Safe in Stillness
If your child resists quiet moments, it may not be defiance—it might be discomfort. You can help them build trust with stillness by making it relational.
Try this:
Snuggle during rest instead of sending them away to “go calm down”
Narrate what’s happening: “Sometimes when we stop, big feelings come up. That’s okay. I’m here.”
Offer gentle anchors: a soft toy, dim lighting, calming music
In our family, we’ve made this a nightly ritual. We sit together for just five breaths—nothing fancy, just presence. Over time, this simple rhythm has helped us all build a kind of “calming muscle.” A few breaths, every night, becomes a new neural pathway—a reminder that stillness can feel safe, even shared.
To support this practice, Alona and I created a gentle tool called webe kalm—a breathing device designed for kids to slow down and connect with themselves. It’s not about perfect calm, but about building the habit of returning—to breath, to body, to relationship.
You're not just helping your child regulate in the moment. You're helping their nervous system learn that stillness can be a place of connection, not fear.
A Guided Pause (Try This Now)
Take a moment.
Place one hand on your chest, one on your belly
Close your eyes or soften your gaze
Take a slow breath in through your nose… and out through your mouth
Say to yourself:“It’s safe to be with myself right now. I don’t have to fix anything.”
Notice what happens.
You don’t need to perform this moment. Just be with it. That’s the work.
Why This Matters
You’re not bad at stillness. You’re not lazy or broken or undisciplined.
You’re a human being with a nervous system that has learned to protect itself from pain—and now, you’re learning a new way.
A way that invites stillness not as a threat, but as a homecoming.
The default mode network isn’t your enemy. It’s your inner storytelling space. With the right support, it can become a sanctuary again—a place of reflection, creativity, and healing.
And you—just as you are—deserve to feel safe inside your own mind.