I was meant to be writing about rest because I’d taken a well-earned break. A holiday in the Lake District. Slow mornings. A view that wasn’t my laptop. Instead, I’m writing this with my middle finger strapped into a splint, unable to bend
It turns out my left hand does… pretty much everything and my middle finger gets in the way of everything. Cooking is basically out of the question. Buttons? Impossible. I’m genuinely considering going to the hairdresser just to get my hair washed.
This isn’t the kind of rest I chose.
It’s the kind of rest that forces you to stop.
Temporary disability is still disability
This will (hopefully) heal with time and physio. But right now? I feel the world shrinking a little. Tasks I usually breeze through have become slow, painful, or frustrating enough to make me want to scream.
It’s wild how quickly independence changes.
One minute I’m juggling all the things.
The next, I can’t do up my trousers.
It’s a humbling reminder:
We are all only temporarily able-bodied.
Burnout doesn’t wait for permission
The holiday being cancelled didn’t help. I’d been running on empty for months: building a business, renovating a home, growing our food, trying to keep my Crohn’s disease calm after my flare up in May. I was already tired — the injury just made it impossible to ignore. I had the chance to got to the Lake District in May when I was still on the steroids but others talked me out of it because "it sounded like effort", I shouldn't have listened.
Rest that you choose is nourishing.
Rest that’s enforced feels like failure.
But maybe that’s the point. My body is telling me: slow down or I’ll slow you down.
Accessibility hits differently when you need it
I build websites for a living and I talk a lot about accessibility and inclusive design. But I’ll be honest: it’s different when it’s your finger that won’t bend on the key you need to press.
Tiny buttons. Fiddly controls. Forms designed for perfect dexterity. Don't even get me started on how much I miss buttons and knobs over touch screens.
Suddenly every small barrier feels personal.
This isn’t a Chicken blog post but I can’t un-see the connection. Designing for accessibility isn’t just “nice”. It’s necessary because none of us stay fully able forever.
Nature knows how to heal
In the garden, the dahlias are done for the year. The last petals zapped by Miss Winter (I love this sketch by Andrea Valls on Instagram). Underground, the tubers are resting and storing energy for next spring, and as long as I tuck them in so the frost doesn't get them they'll be even better next year.
They’re not busy. They’re recovering. Quietly. Purposefully.
Maybe I need to do the same.
Let the healing happen below the surface.
Trust that recovery counts as progress.
For now, I’m letting myself winter
I can’t power through this one.
My body won’t let me.
So I’m learning to accept help.
To step back.
To slow right down.
Rest isn’t doing nothing.
Rest is doing healing.
This year I'm reading While the Earth Holds Its Breath by Helen Moat. I'm hoping it'll be as good Wintering by Katherine May
How do you allow yourself to winter, even if it arrives before you wanted it to?
Here’s to resting well, and growing back stronger.
— Justine
Comments