When Being “On” Becomes Too Much

 

For a long time, I lived in a state of being permanently “on.”

On mentally.
On emotionally.
On for other people, for responsibilities, for expectations—most of them self-imposed.

From the outside, it probably looked like I was functioning. I was getting through days, responding, solving, pushing. Inside, though, my nervous system never really stood down. There was always something to think about, something to anticipate, something to manage. Rest felt unproductive. Slowing down felt risky.

I didn’t collapse dramatically. I didn’t have a single breaking moment. Instead, my body started whispering—and then speaking more clearly.

I got tired in a way sleep didn’t fix.
My focus dulled.
My appetite disappeared.
I felt vaguely unwell, disconnected, foggy.

What was confusing was that by the time these symptoms showed up, the anxiety itself had eased. The external stressors were quieter. Yet I felt worse, not better. That’s when I realised something important: just because the pressure stops doesn’t mean the system instantly recovers.

Being “on” for too long rewires how you operate. Your body learns vigilance. Your mind learns constant scanning. And when that state goes on for months or years, switching it off isn’t a button—it’s a process.

We don’t talk enough about this phase. The after-phase. The part where you’re no longer in crisis, but you’re not well either. Where you’re not anxious, yet you’re exhausted. Where you’re sleeping plenty, but not restoring. Where concentration feels slippery and motivation feels forced.

This isn’t weakness. It’s physiology.

The nervous system isn’t designed for endless activation. Eventually, it asks for repayment. And it doesn’t ask politely—it takes it.

What I’ve learned is that recovery doesn’t come from pushing harder or trying to “get back to normal” quickly. It comes from something far less glamorous: going offline.

Offline from constant input.
Offline from self-monitoring.
Offline from the idea that rest must be earned.

Caring for yourself at this stage isn’t about fixing. It’s about allowing. Allowing boredom. Allowing simplicity. Allowing your system to feel safe enough to recalibrate.

That might mean fewer plans. Smaller days. Repetitive routines. Food that’s easy. Movement that’s gentle. Sleep that’s regular, not excessive. And, most importantly, compassion for the fact that healing rarely looks productive.

We live in a culture that rewards endurance and speed. But sometimes the most responsible thing you can do—for your health, your clarity, your future—is to stop performing resilience and actually recover.

Being “on” kept me going.
Going offline is teaching me how to come back.

Not all at once.
Not dramatically.
But steadily, quietly, and in a way that lasts.