“Allow yourself to be bored a little. In our world full of distractions, create some space for nothingness.” ~Unknown
My roommate sat in the kitchen, eating his late home-cooked dinner, and commented with a half-mocking smile, “Ah, you’re still living.”
The words hung in the air, awkwardly playful but sharp enough to sting. They echoed something larger: the subtle judgment that creeps into our culture of relentless productivity.
Confusion bubbled up inside me, followed quickly by shame. My cheeks turned red. I had spent most of this sunny Saturday alone in my room—reading books, listening to music, writing a little, and, to be honest, staring out the window, feeling restless.
“What do you do all day?” he asked, genuinely curious.
Yes, what I felt was definitely shame. In a world that glorifies busyness, I often feel like a criminal for spending an entire day at home, or for strolling through the city without real plans. The implicit expectation to do something, to make the day “count,” feels suffocating.
“Reading and writing,” I replied, suppressing the urge to explain myself.
He looked puzzled. “You can’t fill a whole day with writing, can you? Isn’t that boring?”
Here it was: the quintessential clash between introversion and extroversion. He didn’t understand me, though, in fairness, I think he wanted to. I was tempted to agree, to downplay my day and say, “Yes, it’s boring sometimes.” But I stopped myself.
Because recently, I’ve realized something important: I need that stillness.
The Shame of “Doing Nothing”
His confusion wasn’t just personal; it felt like a question society constantly asks people like me: What are you doing with your time? In a culture that glorifies constant productivity, the idea of having unstructured time is almost heretical. If you’re not ticking off items on a to-do list or working toward a measurable goal, then what exactly are you contributing?
This shame runs deeper than personal insecurity—it’s rooted in a culture that values productivity above all else. The industrial revolution reinforced the belief that time is money, a resource to be maximized. Today, even our leisure activities are judged: hobbies are monetized, vacations become opportunities for curated Instagram posts, and relaxation feels like something we must earn.
For me, this shame shows up in subtle ways. If I spend an afternoon reading or writing without a clear goal, I catch myself justifying it: It’s practice for my craft. When a friend asks how my weekend went, I feel compelled to list the “productive” things I did—chores, errands, something quantifiable—before admitting that I spent hours simply being. It’s as though I need permission to slow down, even from myself.
But this obsession with busyness comes at a cost. It fuels burnout, anxiety, and a relentless sense of inadequacy. It leaves us disconnected from ourselves and the quiet, unstructured moments that bring clarity and peace. What happens when we’re always striving to prove our worth through what we achieve? We lose the ability to simply be.
Stillness as a Portal to Creativity
What I’ve come to understand is that restlessness isn’t the enemy. It’s the hum beneath the surface where creativity brews. When I sit still or let myself feel bored, something unexpected arises: a fleeting thought, a fresh perspective, or a spark of an idea. Those unhurried moments, I’ve learned, are where the magic happens.
Our culture teaches us to fear downtime, to see it as wasted hours. However, it’s often in those “empty” moments that our most meaningful insights emerge. I’ve had some of my best ideas while folding laundry or lying on the couch doing nothing in particular.
As Julia Cameron writes in The Artist’s Way, creativity requires spaciousness. She even prescribes a full week of media deprivation—no social media, no podcasts, no books—to help artists reconnect with their inner world. By removing distractions, she argues, we create the room to truly sit with our feelings and thoughts.
In my own life, I’ve noticed this truth. Some of my favorite moments are not grand or planned—they’re the small, unexpected joys that arise during quiet days. When I’m doing dishes, I’ll start humming, then singing, and maybe even dancing. What felt like a mundane chore transforms into a moment of aliveness.
Why We Need Unstructured Days
The irony is that the days I spend without clear plans often end up being the most productive—not in a traditional sense, but in the way they nurture my inner world. These are the days when my thoughts settle, untangle, and expand. They’re not lazy days; they’re spacious ones.
In fact, I’ve started to see quiet time as a quiet rebellion against a world that demands constant output. When I allow myself to slow down, to let go of the need to perform or produce, I’m pushing back against a culture that equates worth with busyness.
But this isn’t easy. Society tells us to fear idleness, to run from it with endless distractions: a scroll through Instagram, a new TV series, a side hustle. Slowing down feels countercultural, even indulgent. But I believe it’s necessary.
The next time someone questions how you spend your time—or when you catch yourself feeling guilty for slowing down—try reframing the question. What if restlessness isn’t wasted time, but the soil where creativity and self-discovery take root?
A New Definition of Productivity
So, was my roommate right? Is it boring? Sure, sometimes. But that quietness isn’t a problem; it’s a gift. It’s the pause between notes in a symphony, the blank page before a story. It’s not laziness; it’s space where something always stirs.
What if we saw stillness differently—not as something to avoid, but as a doorway to clarity, creativity, and reflection?
Maybe it’s time for your own experiment. Turn off the noise, let yourself stare out the window, and see what stirs in the quiet. You might be surprised at what emerges.
What about you? How do you feel about unstructured time? Is it something you avoid, or have you discovered its unexpected value? I’d love to hear your thoughts.
