Unlearning ‘Busy Equals Worthy’: My Fight Against Productivity Shaming

On October 6, a pimple appeared on my face, which soon developed into a blister. I went to a walk-in clinic, where the doctor prescribed a 10-day course of antibiotics and casually said, “bad luck,” as if it were no big deal. With no clear diagnosis and no caution, I took the medication but didn’t give myself a chance to rest. Instead, I kept up a hectic pace—organizing events, putting on makeup, networking, booking social gatherings, and barely paying attention to my diet.

Then, on the night of October 21, things took a dramatic turn. I woke up feeling liquid running down my face. One look in the mirror, and I was horrified. The left side of my face was covered in blistering sores, red and inflamed, painfully itching. The next morning, I frantically called my acupuncturist for help, desperate and anxious. After a full day of worry, I finally saw him in the evening, only to be scolded: “This is shingles—why did you wait so long to come in?” His expression struck fear into me, and I started to worry that my face might be permanently scarred.

For someone preparing to lead a workshop, this felt like a disaster. I had to cancel every class, every event. I’d pushed myself so hard that my body finally forced me to stop. As I looked at my swollen, blistered face in the mirror, a question ran through my mind: why do I only allow myself to rest when I physically can’t go on? My brain never seems to stop; I’m always listening to lectures, reading, or catching up on news while I walk, cook, or eat. There’s hardly a moment to breathe.

That night, as I applied ointment and lay there in pain, unable to sleep, I broke down and cried, feeling a sadness I hadn’t experienced in years. Suddenly, a memory from my childhood came flooding back. I remembered how my mother would constantly urge me to stay busy, criticizing even the briefest moments of stillness. If I wasn’t doing something, she’d scold me, often saying, “Why are you just standing there? Go cook, clean, do something.” That little girl inside of me—the one who learned that stopping meant criticism, scolding, or even punishment—has been working tirelessly ever since, afraid to rest, afraid to be judged or seen as “useless.”

This inner shame around rest isn’t unique to me. Many people with a similar history of family trauma grow up to become workaholics, adding societal pressure to the mix. Today, there’s this unspoken “productivity shaming” where people compete to show who works harder or later, especially in remote work settings. Before COVID, people were busy at the office, but remote work brought a need to constantly prove oneself—almost as if we’re only valuable if we’re always busy.

My own mother, with her NPD(Narcissistic Personality Distorder) traits, controlled and pressured me into an unhealthy work ethic from a young age, so I grew up feeling that only hard work could make me worthy of love and respect. Even after I thought I’d escaped that environment, the trauma lingered. In my personal relationships, I repeatedly found myself in situations where I was undermined and controlled. After my divorce, I was fortunate to work under some amazing bosses, which gave me a renewed sense of purpose. Seeking new challenges, I eventually moved into a role where I found myself reporting to a colleague with similar NPD traits. She frequently gaslighted me, insisted I only communicate through her, and publicly shamed and criticized my work- even down to capitalization.

With no boundaries left, I lost my courage to confront issues or advocate for myself. I’d internalized the belief that I had to accept this treatment, that my value came from doing more, working harder. It wasn’t until I reached a breaking point that I realized something was terribly wrong. I left that job, hoping my departure would prompt management to address the toxic environment. Instead, I was immediately cut off, my computer access revoked, as if I’d never been there. That moment felt like the ultimate rejection, echoing childhood fears of abandonment, the anxiety that I would be cast aside if I wasn’t “good enough.”

This experience was a wake-up call. I realized that I had been equating busyness with worth, seeing rest as shameful. It took me a long time to recognize this subconscious belief. Only after beginning sessions with a psychologist did I start to understand. Yet, even knowing this consciously, the old fears still gripped me, driving me to keep working.

Finally, lying there with my face covered in painful blisters, I recognized that unless I allow myself to rest, my body would eventually break down entirely. This time, I’m choosing to heal—not just physically, but also mentally, releasing the shame of rest and embracing the value of balance.