The Importance of Downtime

Some days, the most spiritual thing you can do is absolutely nothing.

Not channel.

Not journal.

Not even pull a card.

Just… be.

In a world that’s obsessed with growth, movement, and “the next upgrade,” rest can feel like rebellion. But for many of us walking the path of awakening — especially the ones wired to hold space, offer guidance, or constantly evolve — the invitation to hermit is sacred.

Downtime isn’t laziness. It’s integration. When you’re on a spiritual journey, you’re not just learning — you’re unlearning lifetimes. You're deconstructing belief systems, recalibrating your nervous system, and remembering who you were before the noise.

That kind of work doesn’t always show up in to-do lists. Sometimes, the deepest healing happens on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket, mid-movie or mid-nap — when your spirit finally gets the stillness it’s been begging for.

And the truth is, even when it feels like we’re “not doing the work,” we often are. Unconsciously. Subtly. Consistently. Our higher self doesn’t clock out just because we’ve paused our rituals. Our guides don’t leave just because we’ve gone quiet. They whisper through the stillness. They use the quiet moments — the long walks, the kitchen cleaning, the daydream stare into nothing — to drop the insights that couldn’t land when we were busy trying to “figure it all out.”

We’re always being guided. But sometimes, the guidance can only be received when we stop trying to control the timing of the message.

And if we don’t choose to slow down? Spirit sometimes chooses for us. That sudden flu. The stomach bug that takes you out for days. The exhaustion that hits like a wall. These aren't always random. They're often interventions — sacred slow-downs. Moments where your body steps in and says, “If you won’t stop for rest, I’ll stop you for healing.”

I experienced this firsthand not long ago. A collaboration I was deeply invested in came to an unexpected pause when the person I was working with became unwell. What we thought would be a short interlude stretched out into four full weeks. At first, it felt like interruption. Limbo. Unfinished business. But in that sacred quiet, something shifted.

The blog was born. The book flowed through. My vision took form. I stopped waiting for the green light from someone else and gave it to myself.

I realised I had it in me all along — the clarity, the creativity, the momentum. But more than that, I created the structure I’d been missing. A container that could hold my ideas, honour my energy, and support my own rhythm. I laid the foundation for a working flow that would let me move with grace, rather than burnout. No more exhausting myself trying to guess what was next. No more scattering my focus. I caught up with myself — and that was the moment everything clicked into place.

And then, just like that, the collaboration returned. Not with pressure, but with joy. Not with urgency, but with clarity. My co-collaborator had received her own lessons in the pause, and now we’re both back — steadier, stronger, more aligned than before.

It wasn’t a setback. It was a setup. It wasn’t wasted time. It was sacred space.

So if you’re in a season of stillness, don’t rush it. You’re not falling behind. You’re being positioned. You’re not disconnected. You’re recalibrating. You’re not lost — you’re just getting quiet enough to hear what’s been waiting to arrive.