Unwinding

I’m not sure I do this very well.
Even the question—how do you unwind?—makes me pause. It doesn’t trigger a confident answer, but a kind of internal audit. I don’t have a ritual for it, not really. Not in the conventional sense. Unwinding, for me, is functional. It isn’t about indulgence; it’s about rhythm.

I’ve learned that rest, for me, is not so much about recovery as it is about preparation. The most important thing I do to wind down is go to bed early. I do this not because I’m exhausted, but because I’m a morning person—frequently up at 4:00am. That’s when I’m most alive. That’s when the world is quiet, and my creativity finds its edge. Rest, then, is future-facing. Not an escape from what has been, but an act of generosity toward what’s next.

Evenings are a fragile space. If I stop completely, I’ll fall asleep. Reading will do that. Watching TV will do that. So instead, I stay gently activated. I might tinker with something small, creative, undemanding—just enough to keep me present, not enough to wear me out. It’s like shifting into a lower gear, rather than braking altogether.

Sometimes I write. I’ll revisit something from the day—a moment of meaning, a story I heard, something in the news, a stray thought from a conversation—and I’ll turn it over, let it teach me something. That’s my kind of unwinding: not zoning out, but drawing in. Not escape, but integration. Writing helps me metabolise the day. It allows me to trace a thread of meaning through the noise. That’s when I exhale.

So no, I’m not the kind of person who collapses onto the couch with a drink and a show. I’m someone who surrenders the day with intention. My rest is more about beginning than ending. I don’t seek leisure as much as low-effort presence. I don’t chase distraction; I lean toward reflection.

The irony is, I am unwinding. Just not in the ways that are easy to name. For me, unwinding looks like a slow, deliberate descent into quiet—a disciplined generosity toward the next dawn.

It’s strange to think of unwinding
as something learned—
as if rest were not natural,
but a rhythm to be tuned.

Left alone, I drift off too soon,
a book falling, a show unwatched.
So I give the day a soft ending—
a sentence to finish,
a small thought to hold.

I’m not unwinding,
I’m preparing—
not emptying out the day,
but breathing in
for what comes next.

Like a musician’s pause
before the next phrase,
I sleep early,
not to forget,
but to be ready.

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