On Inner Agitation and the Art of Being Still
Some years ago, I watched a man waiting at a train station. He wasn’t pacing, nor did he seem late. Yet everything about him was in motion. His fingers tapped against his phone screen with no real urgency, just a repetitive reflex. His eyes darted every few seconds—towards the board, the crowd, the clock, the phone and back again. His breath was shallow, his jaw tight. He was standing still, but inside him, something was racing.
I recognized that man. Because I have been that man.
And if I have to be honest, I still wear that invisible outfit from time to time — the one stitched out of deadlines, expectations, unfinished conversations, and silent to-do lists that run through the mind like ticker tape. It doesn’t matter if the external world is calm; the restlessness within persists like background static.
It’s a peculiar phenomenon—this ache of movement even in stillness. It shows up in the inability to sit through a quiet evening without reaching for a screen. It hides in the shallow scrolls, the needless multitasking, the way our thoughts leapfrog from one concern to another, unwilling to land.
Restlessness is not always loud. It often wears a suit. It gets things done. It’s admired, even rewarded. But beneath the sharp exterior lies a wound—a nervous uncertainty about what might surface if we truly paused.
We’ve grown uncomfortable with the void. Stillness now feels like exposure. So, we fill the silence—emails, errands, content, commentary. But like drinking saltwater, the more we consume, the thirstier we become.
This invisible outfit of restlessness—tailored by culture, fastened by habit—is worn not just by men but by anyone chasing worth through momentum. We confuse presence with productivity, relevance with reach.
But here’s a quiet counter-offer:
What if restlessness isn’t a flaw to fix, but a message to decode?
What if it’s the soul’s gentle rebellion against a pace that forgets to breathe?
When I’ve dared to sit with this discomfort—not to solve it, not to suppress it, just be with it—it often speaks. It doesn’t always have words, but it has truth. Sometimes it says, “You’ve been avoiding grief.”
Other times, “You are afraid of what stillness might show you.”
And sometimes, most powerfully, “You are safe now. You can slow down.”
So here’s today’s invitation:
Find a moment when nothing demands you.
Close your eyes.
Let your body soften and your mind wander.
Don’t reach for clarity.
Just let yourself arrive.
And then gently ask:
What am I running from when I am always running?
What part of me longs to be still, even for a moment?
You may not find answers.
But in the asking, you might feel something loosening—
an invisible seam in that restless outfit, coming undone.
Letters for the Inner Journey by Pushkar
Whisper back, if the letter spoke to you.