I’ll never forget the morning I woke up and saw a text message from a number that wasn’t saved in my phone. The number had an area code I recognized immediately. It was from the city where one of my best friends from college lived. Even though it wasn’t her number, I knew exactly who the message was about.
The message said, “I need you to call me immediately. Something really bad has happened.”
It was early. And when I say early, I mean that foggy, still-waking-up early. But reading that message? I knew something was wrong. I didn’t want to call back. My mind started spinning, calculating what might’ve happened.
It couldn’t be her—my friend. Her number is saved. Maybe she borrowed someone’s phone? Maybe it was her mom? Or maybe… maybe not.
The tone of the message wasn’t her. It didn’t sound like her, and the wording was too urgent, too final. I knew. Before I even made the call, my body already knew.
When I finally did call back, her sister answered. And before she could even say the words, I already felt the punch in my chest.
One of my best friends from college had died. A heart attack. On the freeway. On her way to work in San Francisco.
Just like that.
What We Always Talked About
The thing is—she and I used to talk all the time. In the mornings, on the way to work. In the evenings, headed home. We’d talk about everything and nothing. But more often than not, we talked about how tired we were. How much we had going on. How we needed to slow down. How we needed more rest.
We’d say things like “girl, you need to get some sleep” and then laugh because neither of us ever did. There were too many things to get done. Too many people depending on us. Too many dreams we were still chasing.
We were so young. We thought we had time. All the time in the world.
And we never could have imagined that one of those conversations would be the last one.
What’s wild is that she called me a few days before she passed, and I didn’t pick up. I thought, “I’ll call her back later.”
But later never came.
It just didn’t.
The Guilt We Carry for Resting
In the thick of my grief, something else began to rise—guilt.
Not just guilt for missing her call. But guilt I hadn’t even realized I was carrying.
Guilt for being tired.
Guilt for needing rest.
Guilt for slowing down.
Because somewhere along the way, we were taught that to be a Black woman in this world is to go and go and go until your body has nothing left to give. That rest is indulgent. That softness is weakness. That if you’re not moving, you must be falling behind.
We were raised to believe that our value lives in our output. And I believed it.
I saw rest as something I had to earn. And I rarely ever felt like I had earned it.
But grief has a way of stripping away illusions.
The Moment It Hit Me
It didn’t hit me fully until the memorial.
A few of our college friends gathered afterward at one of their homes. We sat around the living room, reminiscing, ordering food, trying to fill the silence with laughter.
And then one of the girls said something that sat so wrong in my spirit.
She said, “I thrive in chaos. I do my best work when I’m overwhelmed and just going.”
I wanted to scream.
I wanted to shake her. Not because I didn’t love her, but because how?
How can you say that after what just happened? After we just buried our friend who literally died on the way to work?
I wasn’t just hurt—I was enraged.
But even more than that, I was sad.
Sad because I knew she couldn’t see the connection.
Sad because she hadn’t done the internal work to understand what this moment was calling us into.
It was in that moment that I made a decision.
I told them, standing flat-footed and ten toes down:
I will no longer feel guilty for resting.
I said it with my chest.
I said it through my grief.
And I said it with the full knowing that something in me had shifted for good.
I Don’t Feel Guilty Anymore
I told them: “I know what we’ve been taught. I know what we’ve seen. But we cannot keep glorifying burnout like it’s a badge of honor. We cannot keep making exhaustion our identity.”
And they listened. A few of them cried. The moment cracked something open for all of us.
We were grieving a friend, yes. But we were also grieving the part of ourselves that kept chasing success at the expense of our health, our peace, our lives.
I don’t feel guilty anymore.
I give my body what it needs.
I rest.
I pause.
I allow myself to have slow mornings, full meals, and soft evenings.
I take naps. I sleep in. I move slower. I listen.
And I know—without a shadow of a doubt—that I do not owe anyone an explanation for that.
The Turning Point: Guilt
The guilt I used to carry was rooted in the lie that if I wasn’t constantly moving, I wasn’t valuable.
But grief taught me the truth.
Grief reminded me that life is short.
Grief made it clear: the world will take everything from you if you let it. But you get to choose what you keep. And I choose me.
I choose peace.
I choose rest.
I choose to honor the friend I lost by living in a way that she couldn’t. By no longer waiting for my body to break down before I give it the love it needs.
Let’s Talk About It
Where in your life are you still feeling guilty for resting?
What would it look like to stop waiting for permission and give your body what it’s been asking for all along?
Sit with that.
Write it down.
Say it out loud.
Let it be the start of your own turning point.
And if you’re craving more softness, more space, more truth—come join us in Wealthy Women Conversations on Facebook. We’re having real conversations about living fully, not just performing strength.
#SlowerWealthierHappier
#SoftLivingIsSuccess
#BlackWomenDeserveEase
#ThisLifeFeelsLikeMe
#RestIsNotLazy
Slower, Wealthier, Happier 
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