"As someone who moves between chaos and calm every day, I’ve learned that rest isn’t something that just happens—it’s something I have to make.

 At Session, we talk a lot about ritual, ease, and slowing down—but we haven’t talked much about doing nothing. This is the first in a new series exploring what that looks like in real life.

It starts with my own story.”

- Esther

Part 1: When was the last time you let yourself be bored?

I spent the week visiting my in-laws in the foothills of the Sierra Nevadas, outside Sacramento. At home, I’m always doing something—answering emails, tidying up, scrolling through my phone. But up there, everything slows down. Their house is quiet, filled with the ambient routines of retirement. I try to stay present when we’re in the same room. No aimless scrolling. Just availability.

When I’m alone, the biggest task is figuring out what to do with myself in someone else’s house. One day I baked a pie. Another, the highlight of the day was riding a golf cart to the grocery store with my husband, stopping for a cheeky sesh along the way. There’s something oddly comforting about wandering the wide aisles of a suburban grocery store with nowhere else to be.

This trip, I couldn’t get into the book I brought. I sat in their sunroom, surrounded by filtered light and quiet, and felt it—boredom. A feeling I hadn’t met in a long time. It took me back to childhood visits with my grandparents, where the only options were to eat or nap.

Now, though, the boredom felt different. Restorative, even. As a kid I dreaded it. Now I crave it. In my everyday life, I’m constantly stimulated—online, available, busy. But this quiet boredom felt like a return. I realized that without stillness, I lose track of how I actually feel. I need time, space, and silence to find myself again.

Trips up north remind me how to unplug. They help me remember how to do nothing. But back home, the noise creeps back in. The schedules, the content, the constant urge to keep up. In this era of hyper-connectivity, doing nothing is not a default state—it’s a choice. A deliberate reclaiming of time.

That’s part of why I love the ritual of using a bong. It’s analog. There’s intention in the process: choosing flower, packing the bowl. My body knows this rhythm now. It’s somatic. When my hands are busy, my mind quiets. That ritual becomes a buffer between me and my thoughts. It creates space—room to sort what matters from what doesn’t. I realize that just because something triggers my anxiety doesn’t mean it’s urgent, or dangerous. That distance lets me reorganize my inner world.

And in that space? Creativity has a chance to root. It’s in the vacancy—between overstimulation and reaction—where ideas have room to grow. Where perspective shifts. Where I let myself wonder.

Doing nothing is a practice. It shouldn’t be reserved for vacations or special locations. All you need is time. And intent.