Performance Fatigue & The Need to Retreat

There's a difference between rotting and composting. Intentional rest can be transformative rather than just numbing.

But why do we need to retreat in the first place?

I think some people forget how overwhelming it is to always be "on."

Being around others, even people we love, takes quiet energy. Our nervous system is always scanning for cues: tone, touch, eye contact, mood. Not in a danger-sensing way necessarily. Just this low hum of awareness.

Even joy takes energy to absorb.

If you've ever had to shrink, smile, or shift the way you fill a room to feel safe, you know exhaustion doesn't always follow conflict. Sometimes it comes after joy.

The brunches.
The birthdays.
The shows.

The good kind of tired is still tired.

Some researchers call this performance fatigue. The slow wearing-down that comes from managing how you're seen: adapting, softening, code-switching, masking. Especially when you've learned to hold parts of yourself back to feel safe.

That's why we retreat. That's why we log off. That's why we say no, even when our heart is willing.

In our always-connected world, the moment you miss a message, decline a dinner, or take a little longer to say "hi," people assume something's wrong.

 

We forget that disappearing doesn't always mean disaster. It might mean we're clearing the way to come back whole.

When you retreat, your nervous system has already checked out, and that's okay. Saying you're tired doesn't really cover it. Because sometimes it's overstimulation. Sometimes it's masking. Sometimes it's just your soul needing you back.

 

When this happens to me, I dance. I scream-sing songs from uni days when no one's home. Or I rub shea butter into my hands after a warm shower because that scent and sensation soothes me.

And after those moments? I return clearer, softer and more attuned to my own rhythm.

 

Solitude Has Always Had Meaning

Across cultures, retreating has been sacred:

The fast before a holy day.  

The sabbath pause.  

Postpartum seclusion.  

The wilderness years.

Think of a mother who wakes before the house stirs, sits with her thoughts, and rises ready to love again. Aloneness not as punishment, but as preparation.

That's microhermitting. That sacred pause before you return.

The people who know you deeply will understand when you go quiet, reply later, or say no gently but firmly.

Because what if love isn't measured in speed or frequency, but in sacred presence?

When you microhermit with intention, you're not abandoning your people. You're composting. You're letting something break down so something richer can grow.

This isn't just self-care. It's community care. The version of you that comes back from composting listens better, holds space more gently and reacts less but offers more.

They are the version your people actually need.

So don't apologise for going quiet. Compost instead. Let your roots deepen. Let yourself break down what needs breaking down, so that when you return, you're fuller, softer, more available as your true self.

Honour the stillness. Honour the slowness.

Microhermit with purpose. Compost, don't collapse.

The people who matter will still be there when you come back.

And so will you...

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Next in the series: How our ancestors rested (spoiler: it wasn’t alone with three screens on)

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