After the Break: Learning to Carry Peace Forward

I got home tonight and did my usual routine on autopilot.

Coat off. Shoes off. Work clothes off like I could peel the whole day away with them. I set my bag down and didn’t pick up my phone. I didn’t turn on a show. I didn’t even move for a minute.

I just sat on the couch in the quiet.

It wasn’t a dramatic moment. It was my body asking for stillness before my brain could assign me another task. My shoulders felt high and tight. My stomach felt unsettled, like it was still in the middle of the day. My mind was buzzing, but my body felt heavy.

After a few minutes I got up, put on my moo moo, opened my laptop, and logged back in.

Because that’s the part that always gets me. Even when I’m home, my brain and my body is programmed, "I have to do this because I’m responsible". It wants to tie the day up neatly. It wants to make sure nobody is waiting on me. It wants to be “good.”

And the thing is, my workday doesn’t end when I leave the office.

I’m in the building at 7am. The earliest I’m out is 1. Then I come home and I go remote. So even on days where I technically “leave early,” my day is still waiting for me. The second shift is quieter, but it stretches. Emails. Follow ups. Loose ends. Calls that didn’t get returned. People who need an answer. Things that have to move forward so tomorrow isn’t worse.

I finished what I could. I answered what felt urgent. I stayed on longer than I meant to. Then finally, I shut it down.

Now it’s late. I’m here. I’m still. And for the first time all day, I’m actually letting myself feel what this week has felt like.

And I can tell the truth without minimizing it.

This job is high stress. It is high paced. It is one fire after another. Even when things are “fine,” they are fine because somebody is actively keeping them that way.

Most days, that somebody is me.

I’ve been back at work since Wednesday, and I think my body knew what was coming before I did.

Wednesday was my first day physically back in the office after the holidays. On the drive in, the closer I got, the more nauseous I felt. Not sick like I was coming down with something. More like my nervous system was bracing. Like my body was saying, we remember this.

I did what I always do. I told myself to push through it. I told myself to be normal. I told myself not to make a big deal out of it.

Then I walked in and switched on.

That’s the part people don’t always see. I don’t just do tasks. I hold a lane that touches everything. Contracts. Legal coordination. Insurance and compliance packets. Accounts receivable. Invoicing. Vendor communication. Job readiness. Purchase orders. Permits. Systems and processes. Office wide updates when something changes. Executive support. Staff management and questions. Client follow ups. The constant back and forth that keeps things moving.

So when I say the day moves fast, I mean I’m in the middle of it all day.

If a contract is missing something, I’m the one tracking down the attachment, sending it back for correction, circulating the revised version, and making sure it gets executed properly. If an insurance certificate is needed to release a job or finalize an agreement, I’m the one coordinating the right certificate, making sure it matches requirements, assembling the packet, and getting it where it needs to go.

If money is owed, I’m the one following up. If money is promised, I’m the one confirming when. If money shows up without remittance detail, I’m the one chasing the invoice numbers so it can be applied correctly. If a vendor is calling, I’m the one managing the relationship while also managing the reality of what we can actually pay.

It’s not just “emails.” It’s pressure with paperwork on top.

Thursday was the second wave. Thursday is what I call transfer day.

Transfer day is when we write out checks to the vendors we can after payroll and operating expenses were deducted on Tuesday. It’s also when we look at what has to be set aside for the following week, because next week is still coming even if this week is slow.

And January is always slow.

January is slow because so many companies were closed for the holidays. Payments move later. Approvals lag. The money comes in slower. But vendors do not pause their expectations just because the season is slow. Everyone is calling for payment. Everyone has urgency. Everyone wants to be first in line.

So on transfer day, I’m sitting in the reality of limited funds and unlimited demands.

I’m calling. Following up. Checking in with clients. Trying to get updates. Trying to keep my tone steady while I hear every version of an answer.

Good news. Bad news. No news. “We’re working on it.” “Check back next week.” “The person who approves that is out.” “We’ll call you.” Silence.

And I have to stay positive anyway.

Not fake positive. Not motivational poster positive. More like steady. More like, keep the relationship intact. Keep the communication clean. Keep the door open. Keep the next step clear.

Meanwhile the phones are ringing. Vendors are calling. Staff is coming to me for guidance. Questions. Confirmations. “Can you take a look at this.” “What should I do here.” “Can you handle this call.” “Can you tell me what to say.”

Even when I encourage independence and free thinking, people still come to me for the answer. Sometimes it’s because they’re new. Sometimes it’s because they’re afraid to make the wrong choice. Sometimes it’s because they want reassurance before they act. Whatever the reason, it means I become the decision point for a lot of things, and that becomes its own kind of exhaustion.

Not because I don’t want to support people. I do. I care about how we work together. I care about morale. I care about people having lives outside of work.

I’m not a micromanager. I’m not the kind of manager who believes your job should come before your health, your family, your sleep, your humanity. I don’t want to be the person who creates a culture of fear. I don’t want people living like they are disposable.

But there is an irony in it.

I try to protect my team’s balance, and I end up sacrificing mine.

Because when everyone routes up to me, the pressure doesn’t disappear. It concentrates. It lands in my body. It becomes my job to hold the pace, hold the tension, hold the consequences, and still keep moving.

That’s what Thursday felt like. Not just busy. Not just stressful. More like being pulled in ten directions and still being expected to sound calm, clear, and confident in every single one.

This is what I mean when I say my job is fire after fire. It isn’t one big dramatic crisis. It’s a constant stream of problems that need solving, money conversations that need handling, documents that need moving, and people who need reassurance.

When I got home tonight, I could feel it in my body immediately.

I could feel how tight my chest was. How shallow my breathing had gotten. How my shoulders were still raised like I was waiting for the next call. Like I was still in the office, even though I was sitting on my couch.

That’s what scares me a little. Not that I’m stressed. Stress makes sense. It’s that my body carries it like it has nowhere else to put it.

And I’m tired of living like my nervous system is always on standby.

The holiday break didn’t magically fix my life, but it did show me something I needed to see.

My mornings were slower. I woke up without an alarm. I stayed in bed without immediately needing to be useful. I didn’t start my day in a rush to respond, solve, or prove anything.

There was something deeply comforting about having nowhere to be right away.

It wasn’t indulgent. It wasn’t lazy. It felt stabilizing.

It felt like my body got to come back to baseline.

I didn’t realize how much of my normal life runs on a low hum of pressure until the hum disappeared. When the pressure quieted down, I noticed what I had been missing.

Space.

Space to breathe without thinking about timing. Space to make a cup of coffee without checking messages. Space to read without rushing. Space to write without forcing it. Space to be alone without feeling like I was falling behind.

Being alone felt like emotional safety. Not isolation. Safety.

And it made me realize something that is hard to admit, because it sounds simple.

I wasn’t just resting from work. I was resting from being “on.”

I was resting from tone monitoring, from constant responsiveness, from the feeling that a delay could create a problem, from the reality that a single missed detail could turn into a whole situation.

During the break, my body softened. My mind slowed down. My thoughts didn’t feel like they were sprinting ahead of me. I felt less reactive. More grounded.

Coming back this week made the contrast loud.

Even with two days back, I can feel how quickly my system tightened up again. How quickly the margin disappeared. How fast my body returned to bracing like it was a job requirement.

And maybe it is.

But it’s still heavy.

As much as part of me wants to hold onto that peace, I also know I can’t romanticize opting out.

I cannot pretend I can just stop working and everything will be fine.

Work pays the bills. Work funds the future. Work is part of how I take care of myself in a world that does not offer much grace. Stability matters. Security matters. Planning matters.

I didn’t go back because I was suddenly inspired. I went back because I have to.

I have responsibilities. I have goals. I have a future self I’m trying to protect. I have a business that requires me to show up. There isn’t a safety net that makes it all easy if I disappear. There isn’t a magical solution that arrives just because I’m tired.

That truth is real.

And it exists alongside the exhaustion.

I can want peace and still need stability. I can crave a softer life and still understand that building it takes resources. I can acknowledge that work is necessary and still grieve how much it costs.

I also want to name the guilt that tries to attach itself here.

Guilt for wanting rest. Guilt for struggling with something people call normal. Guilt for not being grateful enough.

But needing money and needing peace are not opposing desires. They are both legitimate. They are both human.

The problem isn’t that I have to work.

The problem is what work often asks for in return.

Constant availability. Emotional restraint. Performance without pause. The expectation that I can move at full speed indefinitely without consequence.

I’m not trying to escape responsibility. I’m trying to survive it without losing myself.

There is a difference.

What I keep coming back to tonight is this: peace does not have to be all or nothing.

I may not be able to preserve the version of rest I had during the holidays, but I also do not want it to disappear completely.

So I’m thinking smaller. More realistic. More compassionate.

Not, “How do I overhaul my entire life?”

More like, “How do I make my day less hard on my body?”

Right now, holding onto peace looks like fragments.

If I start my morning with my phone, my nervous system spikes immediately. So I’m trying to give myself a buffer. Even five minutes. Even two minutes.

Feet on the floor. A few slow breaths. A moment where I am not reacting to anyone else yet. A moment where I remind myself, I am still here. I am not behind just because I am quiet.

If I go straight from leaving the office to logging back in at home, my body never gets the message that it is allowed to downshift.

So I want a small ritual in between. Something simple, like:

* changing clothes immediately

* washing my face or taking a quick shower

* sitting for five minutes in silence before I open my laptop

* eating something before I start the second shift, even if it is small

Not to be aesthetic. To be regulated.

When my shoulders creep up and my stomach tightens, I want to treat that as information, not weakness.

A few things that actually help me:

* press my feet into the floor and feel the support under me

* relax my jaw on purpose

* unclench my hands

* exhale longer than I inhale a couple of times

* drink water before I push through the next task

Small things, but they tell my body, you are not in danger, you are just in demand.

1. A boundary around urgency

Not everything is an emergency, even when people treat it like one.

Sometimes holding onto peace looks like a pause before responding. A breath. A moment to choose my tone instead of rushing. A reminder that I am allowed to be thoughtful, not just fast.

2. Protecting what regulates me

Reading. Writing. Gaming. Music. Quiet. These are not rewards. They are stabilizers. They keep me from unraveling.

I don’t want to treat them like something I earn after I have suffered enough.

3. Watching the pattern early

I know how it starts. I answer faster than I should. I stay logged in longer than I planned. I tell myself it’s just this week. Then sleep gets worse. Then I get more irritable and anxious. Then everything feels sharp.

This year, I want to notice earlier. Not with shame, but with honesty. If my body is warning me on the commute, I want to listen. If my chest feels tight at my desk, I want to pause. If I’m still braced on my couch at night, I want to give myself a real landing.

Tonight, I don’t need a grand plan. I don’t need a perfect routine. I don’t need to force myself into being tougher.

I need permission to admit this week hit me.

Permission to believe my body.

Permission to take my peace seriously, even if it shows up in small pieces right now.

I may not be able to protect my calm perfectly. There will be days where the fires don’t stop, where the calls keep coming, where the pressure follows me home.

But I can carry pieces of quiet with me.

In how I wake up. In how I transition. In how I choose one small act of care instead of pushing until I disappear.

Peace does not have to be constant to matter.

Sometimes it is just a few minutes on the couch, no phone, no movement, reminding myself that I belong to myself too.

And for now, that’s enough.