NASA. Naps. Paint. & Wax.
"But what will they think?"
"Who's they?"
"You know…”
“Other people."
"That you're tired?”
“More human."
I'm at my favourite café. The one no-one knows how to pronounce. Drinking my signature drink: Almond chai. No sprinkles. Telling a trusted friend about my recent revelation.
He's not surprised. He gets it. Being wired a lot like me. The only judgement present. My own. As the leaves fall. On a windy Autumn day. 2024.
It's been almost 12 months. Without work. Doing. Or achieving. The space in-between. A prolonged pregnant pause. With conflict contrasted and neutralised against less competitive forces.
A choice. I consciously. Chose.
Walking away from the corporate control room. From the criticism, carelessness and caustic culture. To rest. Restore. Revitalise. With the intention of re-turning.
Fuelled with ideas of becoming a fiercer leader. Less weak. Invulnerable. Harder, tougher. Less willing to please or appease.
Until the universe revealed its own path. And plans.
Cue cheesy 1980s iconic pop-rock-synth-pop.
Enter stage left: In white robes, black belt. And lotus flower bandana.
Lisa-san.
The resistant warrior. And underdog.
Living a life that felt something like a Karate Kid inspired movie montage.
My dojo became my living room. My 'wax on, wax off,' learning to write with my left-hand, as EMDR rewired my brain. My 'paint the fence,' walking, without a mountain to climb. My 'sand the floor,' telling people how I really was. In place of saying "I'm fine."
Enter stage right: In black robes, black belt. 3rd dan. My badly behaved bully. And arch-nemesis.
The. Nana. Nap.
Which it turns out, I have a massive issue with. Shocked to discover an unconscious bias and deep belief that people who sleep during the day are lazy, unproductive, wasteful. Procrastinators without a purpose. Or point.
And my Miyagi-Do Karate next move:
To master them.
A CEO who could achieve the improbable. But couldn't sleep on a sofa.
My first attempt was pathetic. Body rigid. Mind racing. Listing the 47 things I should be doing instead. The second attempt, worse. Guilt kicking in like I'd betrayed some unspoken contract with my lovers performance and productivity. Week three, barely any better.
Then I found out NASA's been onto this for years. Their pilots, the ones we trust with massive metal tubes at 40,000 feet, take 26-minute power naps and wake up 54% sharper. 34% more capable.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I’m treating a mid-arvo sofa moment like incomprehensible moral failure.
The research hits harder: our collective stigma against rest is literally making us more stupid. Less creative. More mistake-prone. But we wear exhaustion like a medal. Burnout like a badge. Doing like the done deal.
It took six. Months. To learn to close my eyes at 2:11pm without self-stigma. Or self-inflicted shame.
Daniel-san thought he was wasting time waxing cars. I thought I was wasting life lying down.
But the mundane was the training.
The rest was the work.
Turns out Mr. Miyagi knew the real battle was never against Johnny Lawrence in the parking lot.
It was against Daniel-san. In the mirror.
Like me.
Taking six months to see my revelatory reflection was not fighting sleeping in the afternoon.
But learning to stop fighting myself.
And the need to.
Wax. Off.
H2BH 037/365
