why we need zero days and my version of one

some days, i wake up and feel the weight of everything before i even open my eyes. it’s not exhaustion, not exactly. exhaustion implies effort spent, something drained, something depleted. this is different. this is absence. a hollow kind of stillness, like my body knows before my mind does that today is not a day for movement. i used to fight it. force productivity onto a mind that refused to engage, stack my to-do list with things that felt important just to convince myself i wasn’t falling behind. because isn’t that what we’re supposed to do? optimize, maximize, push forward, even when everything inside us is asking for stillness?

over time, i’ve learned to recognize the shape of these days. i call them zero days. not because they are worthless, but because they are empty of expectation. a day that doesn’t demand achievement, that doesn’t measure itself in tasks completed or progress made. zero days exist outside of productivity, and that’s precisely why they matter.

i think about how we’ve been taught to fear stillness. how we’ve been conditioned to see rest as something indulgent rather than essential. and yet, every system in nature has a cycle of rest. trees shed their leaves in winter, not because they have failed at being trees, but because they are conserving energy for what’s next.

i am trying to be more like that.

so when a zero day comes, this is what i do.

i resist the urge to fix myself.
there is nothing to fix. i am not broken, i am not malfunctioning. i do not need a reset button, a morning routine overhaul, a list of hacks to make me feel better. i let the day be what it is. i let myself be what i am.

i move through the day like i am underwater.
everything slower, everything softer. no sharp edges, no sudden movements. i let the smallest things count as effort. if i make tea, i have accomplished something. if i take a shower, i have achieved. if i step outside and let the sun touch my skin, i am participating in the world.

i avoid the temptation to measure my worth.
no good comes from holding myself up against a standard i didn’t agree to in the first place. the world will not end if i do not answer emails today. my future will not collapse if i spend an afternoon staring at the ceiling. time is not running out. i am allowed to exist without justifying it.

i choose comfort over accomplishment.
on a zero day, i do not need to be impressive. i do not need to be efficient. i do not need to be anything other than exactly as i am. so i lean into comfort. oversized sweaters, warm drinks, books with no purpose other than pleasure.

i remind myself that slowness is a form of survival.
we are not meant to be in a constant state of production. we are not machines, we are people. and people need slowness. people need pause.

i let the world exist without me for a little while.
and when i am ready to return to it, it is always still there.

what zero days actually look like for me

on days like this, the first thing i do is throw my phone across the room. not literally (though sometimes), but i keep it as far away from me as possible. i know that if i start scrolling, i’ll see other people’s lives moving at full speed, and it will make me feel like i should be moving too. zero days are not for “should.”

instead, i start slow. i stay in bed longer than usual. if i get up, it’s only to make something warm—chamomile tea, a latte with way too much milk, hot chocolate if i need the extra comfort. i light a candle, not because it’s necessary, but because small rituals make slow days feel intentional. right now, my favorite is a sandalwood and vanilla one that makes my apartment smell like a quiet bookstore.

i put on something soft. a hoodie that is a little too big, cashmere socks, sweatpants i should probably retire but never will. i want my body to feel safe in its own space.

then, i let myself consume without guilt. a book that doesn’t require too much thinking. something atmospheric and beautiful, like pachinko by min jin lee or the bell jar by sylvia plath. if i’m too tired to read, i watch movies that feel like a warm hug. before sunrise, because i love the way it lingers in conversation. little women (2019), because it reminds me that life is both ordinary and grand at the same time. her (2013), because even loneliness can be beautiful.

if i have the energy, i make something. a simple pasta, buttered toast with honey, eggs scrambled so slowly they turn into custard. cooking on a zero day is never about complexity. it’s about reminding myself that i am capable of caring for myself, even in the smallest ways.

if i do one thing that feels nourishing, i consider the day a success. maybe it’s journaling. maybe it’s going for a walk just to see the sky. maybe it’s lying on the floor listening to music. some days, it’s just breathing.

and then, i let the day end the way it started—slowly, quietly, with no expectation.

recommendations for zero days

• movies: before sunrise, little women (2019), her, amélie, lost in translation, pride & prejudice (2005)

• books: pachinko by min jin lee, the bell jar by sylvia plath, normal people by sally rooney, the house in the cerulean sea by tj klune, on earth we’re briefly gorgeous by ocean vuong

• candles: sandalwood & vanilla, fig & amber, anything that smells like an old library

• music: cigarettes after sex for late-night existentialism, ludovico einaudi for soft piano escapism, norah jones for cozy warmth

• snacks: dark chocolate, warm croissants, buttered toast with honey, homemade chai

• journaling prompts:

  • what would it feel like to let yourself rest without guilt?

  • if you could spend an entire day doing only what feels good, what would that look like?

  • what are the parts of you that need rest the most right now?

  • how do you know when you need to slow down?

  • what is something you can give yourself permission to let go of today?

because at the end of the day, zero days are not wasted time. they are the space between notes that make the music possible.