I recently came back from a three-week holiday in Japan.

And for a good part of it, I felt guilty for being there.

Even in a place designed for stillness, something in me couldn’t fully land.

Somewhere between the mountains and the temples, there was this quiet and persistent voice:

How can you enjoy this when the world is burning?

Have you ever felt something similar?

Not necessarily on holiday, but in moments where things slow down, and you don’t?

My background is in humanitarian aid. For over ten years, I worked in environments where crises are a daily reality, not headlines.

And that doesn’t switch off when you step away.

If anything, it follows you more closely.

We rarely talk about the emotional cost of being aware.
Of being informed.
Of caring.

You finally have time to rest.

And yet, something in you stays alert.

You sit on the sofa, but your body isn’t fully there.
You check your phone, because you don’t quite know how to stop.
You close your laptop, but your mind is still running.

As if slowing down wasn’t entirely safe.

The moment I stopped

It took me a few days to admit something simple, but uncomfortable:

I was exhausted from constant exposure to information, to urgency, to a world that never pauses.

This is where I found myself:

If I stay connected, I feel overwhelmed.
If I disconnect, I feel guilty.

Do you ever feel like there is no right option?

If you’re someone who is used to holding a lot - for your work, your family, your relationships, the world - this might feel familiar.

Because at some point, “being responsible” quietly turns into “never fully switching off”.

So I made a decision.

I stopped checking the news.

And my first thought was:

This is selfish.

As if staying informed was a moral obligation.

As if disconnecting meant not caring.

But what if that wasn’t true?

What silence revealed

A big part of my trip was spent walking.

Long, quiet paths through villages, bamboo forests, empty roads.
The sound of my own steps.

And space.

And in that space, it became visible how activated my system had been.

In a subtle, constant way.

A low-level alertness that had become normal.

When the system doesn’t reset

Because this is the part we often underestimate.

Not just what we do, but what we take in.

Information. Emotion. Urgency.

From a nervous system perspective, every piece of information your brain processes, especially if it carries threat, uncertainty, or emotional charge, activates your stress response.

Your brain doesn’t fully distinguish between direct danger and perceived danger.

So repeated exposure to distressing news can keep your system in a constant state of alert.

And when there is no space to process or release that activation, the system doesn’t reset.

It stays on.

In the body.

Even when nothing is happening.

This is what can lead to that constant feeling of being slightly “on edge”.
Difficulty fully relaxing.
Trouble being present, even in safe environments.

And this is because your nervous system hasn’t had enough space to return to baseline.

The shift

This trip changed my relationship with rest.

Before, my thinking sounded like rest is something I need to justify.

Then a different question emerged:

What happens if I don’t stop?

What happens to the quality of my presence?
How do I show up in my work, my relationships, my decisions?

Because not resting doesn’t make me more useful to the world.

It just makes me more depleted inside it.

And from there, something shifted.

First, awareness: recognising what was actually happening in my system.
Then, regulation: allowing moments where my body could slow down.
And from there, choice: how I wanted to show up, rather than reacting from exhaustion.

Rest stopped being something to justify.

It became regulation.

Now it’s what allows me to stay in relationship with reality.
It’s what makes my presence sustainable.

This is what a transition can look like

From operating in constant activation to allowing moments where the body feels safe enough to slow down.

From thinking you need to carry everything to recognising what is actually yours to hold.

If you’re reading this and something resonates, you can start noticing:

Where are you still “on”, even when you don’t need to be?
What are you holding that might not be yours to carry all the time?
And what would it mean to allow yourself moments of real pause, without needing to justify them?

What I’m taking with me

A lot is happening in the world.

That hasn’t changed.

But something in me has.

I’m starting to recognise when I need to step into a space with a little less noise.

As a way to stay connected to reality without losing myself.