I used to think slowness meant something was wrong.
Wrong with my motivation.
Wrong with my discipline.
Wrong with my ability to keep up.
But what I’m learning is this:
slowness is not failure—it’s information.
My body learned speed because it had to.
Urgency because it was necessary.
Constant motion because stillness didn’t always feel safe.
So when I slow down now, it can feel unfamiliar.
Even uncomfortable.
But that doesn’t mean it’s bad.
Moving slowly has taught me how to listen again.
To notice hunger before exhaustion.
To rest before collapse.
To choose before reacting.
There is wisdom in a slower pace.
It creates room for clarity.
It softens the nervous system.
It allows truth to surface without force.
I’m no longer interested in racing my own healing just to look functional to others.
I’m interested in being well.
And if that means fewer tasks, longer pauses, and quieter days—
then that’s not something to fix.
That’s something to honor.