I used to carry a heavy quiet guilt whenever I rested longer than I worked. Somewhere along the way, I had convinced myself that rest was a waste of time—time that could be "spent" on something productive rather than "lost" to sleep.

For years, I sacrificed my sleep on the altar of achievement. That is, until I became a caretaker. In those long, difficult nights, my only prayer to God was simply for the ability to sleep. I just wanted to rest in the quietness of a dry bed. Suddenly, rest became the most precious commodity I had.

But even after that season changed, anxiety would still often hijack my nights.

My mind has a habit of becoming a restless wanderer. It is not just the to-do lists or the mission plans that keep me awake; it is the heart of a mother stretched across the globe. With three children living in different countries and different time zones, my internal clock is rarely my own.

I find myself staring at the ceiling in the silence of the night, doing the mental math of their locations. Is he awake yet? Did she get home safely? Why haven’t they replied? I catch myself waiting for the notification light to blink, just to get that small digital assurance that they are okay. My body is in bed, but my spirit is on patrol halfway across the world.

The result? I often walk through the next day feeling like a zombie. My brain feels stopped, my motivation evaporates, and I have no desire to achieve anything on those carefully curated lists. I have big dreams and plans—sometimes my brain lights up in the middle of the night with excitement over them—but my exhaustion paralyzes me.

I realized I was breaking down. I was desperate for peace. And that is when God gave me one of the most unexpected miracles of this year: Rest.

But it wasn't the kind of rest I thought I wanted. It wasn’t the rest that comes when the project is finished. It wasn’t the rest that comes when the kids are all in the same room and safe. It wasn’t the rest you "deserve" after a job well done.

It was rest in the middle of the unfinished business.

Life was still demanding. The responsibilities were still heavy. The questions were still unanswered, and the children were still miles away. Yet, somehow, my soul learned how to stop.

I stopped pushing myself to over-function. I stopped trying to carry tomorrow’s worries (and tomorrow’s time zones) today.

God showed me something gentle and freeing: Rest is not a reward. Rest is a gift.

I didn’t earn it by being strong enough. I received it by being honest enough to say, "I can’t do this alone anymore."

Rest came when I let God hold what I couldn’t finish. When I trusted Him with what I couldn’t fix. When I allowed myself to pause without guilt.

This year taught me that exhaustion is not holiness. Busyness is not obedience. And rest is not laziness.

Rest is faith.

Because resting says: "God, I trust You to work even when I stop. I trust You to hold my children when they are out of my reach."

And that kind of rest has changed how I live.