DISCLAIMER: I recognize that the ability to choose stillness is a privilege. I examine the culture of “utility” with the awareness that the circumstances of many do not allow them to opt out. This blog post is a reflection of my own personal experience, not a dismissal of the systemic realities that demand our labour. 

Why I stopped running toward "enough"

While it feels like everyone is busy creating goals on how to optimize their year, I’ve been focused on unlearning the very idea that I need to be “more” to be enough. I’m learning, instead, the value of being “nothing” at all. This shift has forced me to ask: What exactly am I afraid would happen if I stopped trying to look better, do better, and be better?

As far back as I can remember, the message I received was expressed in one verb: Do. A moment of pause was scary because if I wasn’t “doing,” I would feel an unbearable, restless energy that was all-consuming. I thought this was just my personality, the “hustle” required to change my circumstances. 

The cost of survival 

I eventually discovered that at the root of my restlessness was an internal voice telling me I wasn’t good enough unless I was performing. It wasn’t a simple self-esteem issue, but the result of deeply ingrained programming from childhood. 

As far back as I can remember, life was chaotic, unstable, and unpredictable. Growing up in poverty meant that the essentials—a roof over our heads or heat in the winter—were never guaranteed. I lived in a state of perpetual readiness, waiting for the inevitable knock on the door that signalled another eviction. Before I finished middle school, I had moved roughly twenty times, never staying long enough to call any place home. Faced with that reality, performance became a means of survival. 

Collecting gold stars 

The way I saw it, I had two choices: continue playing the hand I was dealt, or draw new cards. I refused to repeat cycles of generational trauma. I understood clearly, in my world, trauma was poverty—and I wanted out. 

So, I pushed. 

I was the first in my family to attend university. I earned my bachelor’s, and then, without a single breath of pause, I pursued graduate studies. Then law school. Then post-graduate law. To pay my way, I worked two to three jobs every year, collecting credentials like gold stars. I was chasing stamps of approval, convinced that with one more title, it would finally be “enough.”

Deconstructing the racialized female tax 

I came to realize that the ‘racialized female tax,’ the exhausting need to work twice as hard to be seen as half as competent, was the adult manifestation of the survival skills I learned as a child. Just like I was once on high alert for the next eviction, I now scanned my professional environment, knowing that a slip-up wouldn’t be seen as just a mistake—it would be confirmation of every stereotype held against me as a woman with brown skin from a low-income background. I was still in that state of perpetual readiness, still overperforming to ensure the ground stayed beneath my feet. 

The push continued well beyond its expiration date. I had reached the destination: I was a working professional, but I was still running as if the chase were all I had left. I couldn’t find the “off” switch. The need to prove I was good enough, worthy enough, came crashing down the moment I stopped. I was having an identity crisis, because if my worth wasn’t attributed to my output, what was? 

The trap of “productive rest”

I started to become aware that I needed to make a change because of the anxiety I felt around achievement. At first, I had mistaken rest for “productive rest.” It felt impossible to tame my need to be constantly occupied. The silence was unbearable, and the nagging voice telling me I was wasting time was the loudest it had ever been. My busy mind demanded a busy body, so I tried to cheat. I found myself “productive-resting:” redecorating the apartment, scouring job boards, or signing up for volunteer positions. I was addicted to the momentum because, to me, sitting still would mean I’d have to face the parts of myself that I was hiding from. The truth was, I wasn’t happy. 

While the people around me were creating full lives, entering romantic partnerships and having babies, I was buried in books and work and trapped on a hamster wheel. It was the fear of failing that propelled me each day, not joy or passion. I felt a void too big to fill and a clock that wouldn’t slow down. 

I understand that this is a key feature of  capitalism culture. After all, we are told every day that when we aren’t productive, we are worthless. But understanding this conceptually did very little when it came to application. My brain knew the system was flawed— that “enough” would never truly be enough—but my nervous system was wound up, vibrating with the urge to perform. I was terrified of losing my place in a world that so often only values women for their utility. 

The gift of stillness 

As I moved through 2025, my desire for stillness became louder with the arrival of my daughter. In my womb, she already tells me when I need to pay closer attention to her and my body. She has reminded me that resting isn’t a loss of momentum, but a requirement for being present. Protecting this stillness is no longer just a gift to myself, but the first sacred space I am setting for her.

Rest slowed my nervous system down. It has taken me well into my thirties to tame that internal voice and teach my body that I am allowed to exist. It is a work in progress, knowing that I sometimes slip up. For once in my life, I am learning that I am worthy as a person and as a woman, even when I am not “productive.” I am starting to get that rest, in itself, is the necessary “doing.” My “journey of stillness” is a quiet rebellion against the idea that my value is tied to my degrees, my domestic output, or my professional status. 

I’ve spent my lifetime chasing the next thing, only to realize that the most powerful gift I can give to myself is to be still. With a rested nervous system, I can dream and imagine, which allows me to make choices that are authentically aligned with the life I want. Lately, I’ve been asking myself: When I wake up in the morning, how do I want my day to go? My daily ritual of intention setting has turned the transition from overdrive to stillness into something that is grounded and manageable. 

My desire for 2026 is not to become something more, but to become “nothing at all”—to simply be as I am right now. 

Meet Harpreet: Harpreet Ahuja is a lawyer, human rights consultant, and social justice advocate driven by the conviction that systems need reimagining. Her work explores the intersection of law, policy, and lived experience — and tells the human stories behind injustice. Harpreet is based in Vancouver on the traditional, ancestral and unceded territories of the xʷməθkʷəy̓əm (Musqueam Indian Band), Sḵwx̱wú7mesh (Squamish Nation), and səlilwətaɬ (Tsleil-Waututh Nation), and publishes on her website.