"Yaar, I just need another break."

I've said this so often lately that I've lost count. Here's the irony—I'll say it to a friend, then sit down in a therapy session to hear a client say the exact same thing. Sometimes I catch myself thinking, I should have better tools than this, yet here I am, scrolling reels of beaches and homestays, building imaginary itineraries to soothe myself. Even as someone who helps people navigate burnout professionally, I'm not immune.

When Did Rest Become a Luxury?

When I was younger, I didn't remember needing breaks this often. A vacation was a luxury, not a necessity. Now, as an adult, the urge to escape hits so quickly—work stress, social commitments, family responsibilities, personal goals—it all piles up. And the constant scrolling, the imagined trips, the planning of something "better than real life" is my coping mechanism. I know logically a temporary relief, but I reach for it anyway.

Looking back at my parents' generation, the difference is stark. Weekends were simple: family time, small gatherings, evening strolls. Work stayed at work. Phones and laptops weren't buzzing constantly (only because there weren’t any). They had a kind of presence I envy—the ability to enjoy small things without always chasing more. I see this reflected in myself now: I'm juggling so much, trying to do it all, keeping up with everyone while also trying to stand out. Work, friends, family, personal goals—it's exhausting, and yet we act like we should thrive in every role simultaneously.

Does Life have to imitate Art?

In my sessions, I notice this mirrored in my clients. Some need three to five days off every few months; others need ten-day retreats. I've begun to realize that the patterns I observe professionally are the same patterns I experience personally. That duality is uncomfortable, sometimes humiliating—I'll tell a client to pause, to be present, to rest, and then I'll find myself planning another imaginary trip while my laptop is still open. I feel like a hypocrite, but also profoundly human.

I've started to notice two types of stress we carry.

One is external: bills, deadlines, societal expectations, and family expectations.

The other is internal: the voice whispering, "You're not enough, you should be further ahead, how has everyone else figured their life out?"

Combined, they create a constant sense of urgency that's hard to escape.

What We're Running From?

Even when I take breaks, satisfaction doesn't always follow. I recall an evening out with a friend: we'd been looking forward to it, but halfway through, we were both fielding work calls, checking messages, and coordinating plans. We were physically together, but mentally elsewhere. That's when I realized: the craving for breaks isn't just about escaping life—it's about wanting to actually live it without distractions.

So I've been experimenting, not as a therapist telling others what to do, but as someone in the same cycle. Tiny rebellions: having chai without my phone, talking to my partner before sleeping instead of scrolling reels side by side, logging off at the end of the workday even if one last task isn't finished. Saying no without guilt. And something I do especially at work when things are piling on me: playing one song I like. Just one song. No multitasking, no to-do lists, no screens—letting it wash over me for a few minutes. These small acts don't fix everything, but they give me moments of presence, and those moments matter far more than I realized.

What I'm slowly learning is that rest isn't somewhere you travel to. It's in claiming presence in ordinary life, in tiny pauses, in moments where you let yourself just be. My parents had a simpler flow, and while we'll never fully escape the pressures of modern life, I'm learning that being fully here—even for five minutes—can feel as restorative as a real getaway.

And sometimes, that’s all you need.