the radical act of slowing down
The Productivity Myth and Urgency Culture
To some, slowing down — whether by choice or necessity — is often met with discomfort, suspicion, or pity. It can also be easily mistaken for failure.
In our culture, the productivity myth prevails. We live in a world that worships speed. Quick decisions, fast fixes, and relentless momentum are praised as signs of strength. Productivity often seems like the singular measure of our worth — the force that directs our life’s vision and dictates the rhythm of our days. We’re taught to place misguided virtue on how much we can juggle and sustain at once, yet we continue to pile more onto ourselves in the pursuit of a life that feels “full.”
This frantic pace is stressful, difficult to maintain — and decidedly ableist. If we (or our bodies) can’t keep up, well…
Sometimes, the reality of this way of living hits us like a brick in rare moments of quiet stillness. Perhaps that’s why we so often reach for distraction — scrolling on our phones, tuning out at every opportunity. It can feel almost too frightening to confront this artificial, superimposed paradigm head-on.
Despite our best attempts to roll with it, there comes a day for many of us when it’s no longer sustainable. Our bodies may have sent signals we ignored, and suddenly we’re forced into an abrupt halt that says, clearly, enough.
For me, that was the sudden onset of chronic pain and a severe limitation in my ability to move.
The Pace I’d Lived By Before
As some of you know, I used to teach German. The German language uses the verb hetzen to mean “to rush” or “dash about.” Even without knowing the definition, you can almost hear the hurriedness in the sound of the word.
Perhaps less easy to translate is the phrase Alles in Ruhe. It means something like “everything in peace,” often said when casually planning an event or heading out somewhere, signaling a calm, unhurried pace — the opposite of hetzen.
My life before chronic pain was the epitome of hetz-ing. My days began at 5 a.m., responding to emails that were somehow all urgent, then dashing into the shower and again to my office in another town. From there, I’d scramble for a parking spot, finish grading yesterday’s homework, and review that day’s lesson plan before rushing down the stairs to class — all before 10 a.m. The pace only accelerated from there. Looking back, it’s no wonder my body was preparing to get my attention in a very big way.
There was never a sense of being “done.” Tasks mounted endlessly, each one demanding to be tended to now. I felt productive — but there was always the next pile of papers to grade or the next course to revise. My days revolved around the clock, due dates, and deadlines.
Then my world turned upside-down, and I found myself in very unfamiliar territory.
The Pace Life Chose for Me
I didn’t choose to move more slowly — at least not at first. My body made that choice for me.
What began as a vague pressure in my abdomen became a gripping pain I often described as “unholy.” Soon, I had difficulty walking. I was holding onto walls for support and counting steps back to my car. I kept working while doctors ran tests and passed me from one specialist to another. Looking back, I’m still curious about what drove me to keep pushing so hard. In time, I could no longer continue and found myself at home, in disbelief at what had happened to my life. The transformation was like a dull but deafening thud of quiet and emptiness. I was unaccustomed to slowness, living one moment at a time.
Adapting to this new pace initially felt like culture shock. For a long while, I felt I’d “failed” at working, and the feeling of uselessness was intense. But slowly, I began to see the script I’d been living under — one written by some invisible force “out there.” I started recovering from the accidental addiction to productivity and began to imagine what it might mean to me now. Over the years, I’ve reshaped it into something that could adapt to me for a change.
I came to view moving more slowly as a kind of superpower, a way to give my full attention to whatever I was doing, instead of splintering myself into a thousand parts. I found presence in my movements and purpose in each task. I saw the frenzied outer culture for what it was and realized I’d lost my taste for it.
Ultimately, I stopped trying to keep pace with the able-bodied world and I haven’t looked back. Now, “productive” feels more intentional, more selective. There’s far less “have to” in my life, and I create my own timelines, if I choose.
Slowness revealed a rhythm that matched my body and my truth. Within it, I found a quiet but potent resistance to urgency culture. I also learned something that was a new concept for me: As it turns out, not everything is urgent.
The gift of moving slower
There’s something powerful in reclaiming slowness — not as defeat, but as defiance. Especially in the context of chronic pain, it becomes an embodied resistance: I will no longer contort myself to meet a world that contributed to my body’s collapse.
Now, I feel genuine accomplishment and contentment in things I once considered “small”:
Wiping down the countertops or doing a load of laundry
Making myself a meal and writing a little
Setting reasonable goals with built-in flexibility for my body’s needs
Engaging in activities that truly make sense for my life
Dedicating time for rest
Determining my own schedule
Telling myself “Well done!” throughout the day
Savoring small wins instead of racing to the next thing
Even my social life reflects this new ease. I choose my interactions wisely and allow for a go-with-the-flow vibe. I avoid over-commitment and honor my body’s limits. It feels right.
I never set out to challenge urgency culture, but the gratitude I feel for life bringing slowness to me is profound. Over time — painfully, imperfectly — I’ve found the wisdom in it. Slowing down has become a radical reclamation of how I exist in the world. It’s almost…subversive.
For those of us living with chronic pain, slowness doesn’t always begin as optional. But what if it’s an invitation? What if our slower pace isn’t just about limitation, but quiet resistance? If we can claim slowness as our superpower, it can be. It’s something we can actively choose to embrace rather than passively endure.
Not everyone will understand — and that’s okay. For those of us who know the gift in slowing down, we’ll recognize each other by the ease of our breath, the lack of furrowed brows. We’ll see the dignity and sovereignty in the new rhythms we’ve chosen for ourselves.
Life on the slow road began with my body choosing for me. Now, it’s a choice I make for myself. I meet my body where it’s at, following its wisdom into unhurried days and a natural pace. There’s space for flow there, for softening. A flexibility that feels more human, less mechanical.
My prevailing mantra now: Alles in Ruhe.
With you on the journey,
Julie
🦋 What brings you to reflect on your own pace in life? What feels within your control to change for the better?
*chronic pain creating our reality redefining our experience productivity life lessons urgency culture mindfulness