Rest is not a luxury; it is a form of resistance. — Tricia Hersey
—What lingers after this line?
One-minute reflection
Why might this line matter today, not tomorrow?
Reframing Rest as a Political Act
Tricia Hersey’s line pivots rest from something optional into something oppositional. Instead of treating downtime as a reward reserved for those who have “earned it,” she suggests rest can push back against systems that normalize exhaustion. In that framing, sleep, stillness, and unstructured time become statements: an insistence that a human being’s worth exceeds their output. From there, the quote invites a change in moral language. If rest is seen as resistance, then chronic overwork stops looking like virtue and starts looking like compliance with a culture that benefits when people are too tired to question the terms of their lives.
The Productivity Myth and Its Hidden Costs
Building on that reframing, the quote critiques the modern equation of constant activity with goodness and identity. Many workplaces and social norms imply that being busy signals importance, while resting signals laziness. Yet this assumption quietly shifts the burden of systemic problems—understaffing, precarious work, unrealistic timelines—onto individuals who feel compelled to “push through.” As a result, rest becomes psychologically expensive. People not only lack time to recover; they also carry guilt when they try. Hersey’s statement interrupts that cycle by arguing that choosing rest can be a deliberate refusal to internalize a harmful metric of value.
Historical Roots: Labor, Control, and Time
Zooming out, “resistance” makes sense because control over rest has long been tied to control over people. Industrial capitalism standardized time, intensified schedules, and often treated fatigue as an acceptable cost of production. Earlier labor struggles—including campaigns for the eight-hour day—were not merely about comfort; they were about reclaiming life outside work, a theme echoed by the labor slogan “Eight hours for work, eight hours for rest, eight hours for what we will.” In that light, Hersey’s quote continues an older argument: when rest is withheld or stigmatized, it functions as a tool of discipline, shaping what people believe they are allowed to need.
Rest as Care for the Mind and Body
From history, the idea moves naturally into the body. Rest is not simply the absence of work; it is an active process of repair and regulation. Sleep supports memory consolidation, immune function, and emotional stability, while chronic sleep deprivation is linked to elevated stress and impaired judgment. When a culture rewards sleeplessness, it encourages people to trade long-term health for short-term performance. Seen this way, resisting exhaustion is also resisting a slow erosion of agency. A rested person can think more clearly, set boundaries more effectively, and notice when “normal” conditions are actually harmful.
Who Gets to Rest—and Who Doesn’t
The word “luxury” highlights inequality: rest is unevenly distributed. People working multiple jobs, caregivers, and those navigating discrimination often have less access to restorative time and more punishment for appearing tired. Even when time exists, surveillance—formal or informal—can make rest feel risky, as if it must be justified. Consequently, resting can become a form of solidarity as well as self-preservation. To insist that everyone deserves rest challenges the idea that some lives are meant to be depleted for others’ convenience, comfort, or profit.
Practicing Resistance Through Everyday Boundaries
Finally, the quote becomes practical: resistance doesn’t always look like public protest; it can look like refusing the always-on posture. Taking a lunch break without apology, turning off notifications after hours, scheduling genuine recovery time, or protecting sleep can be small acts that contradict a culture of endless availability. Over time, these choices can reshape what feels possible. When individuals and communities normalize rest—through workplace norms, mutual support, and clear limits—they don’t just recover; they quietly rewrite the terms of what a life is allowed to be.