Boredom
I distinctly remember telling my parents that I was bored — mainly because of the reaction.
My Irish, working mother continued her nursing role in London while having her first two children (my slightly older sister, Fiona, and me). She chose
night shifts so she could be there for us during the day, which meant she
basically didn’t sleep at all for… well, years. Then there was my dad, who’d
come from farming in Ireland to construction work in London, arriving home head
to toe in dust and bone‑weary.
The look of incredulity on both their faces said everything. We scuttled off and didn’t mention boredom again. Well, we probably did — but not often.
Boredom has cropped up on and off throughout my life, and I find it acurious thing. There always seems to be something else going on beneath it,
something we call boredom because we don’t quite understand what we’re actually
feeling.
I’m part of an online Power of 8 group. We’ve met weekly for years — a really solid, special group of women from various parts of Europe. One of our
ladies, recently and somewhat unexpectedly retired due to health challenges,
said the other night that she was just feeling… bored.
We talked it through, and it stirred memories of the times I’ve felt that way myself, and what it turned out to mean.
Energetically, I asked her whether it was really boredom, or whether it might be the absence of busyness that felt unsettling. In my mind’s eye, I
could see something being bored through the surface, revealing unexpressed
grief underneath. When I voiced this, it seemed to discombobulate her — as
though the words couldn’t quite land. So I suggested letting it percolate,
perhaps doing some gentle writing or recording, with radical kindness rather
than force. After the call, I sent a few open‑ended prompts she could use if
and when it felt right.
What also struck me was that when the group offered ideas about what she could do — despite unseasonably wet weather in Spain — she said all the self‑care suggestions felt boring.
And of course, that meant I had to sit with myself.
It’s far easier to observe another than to turn the lens inward. But at this stage of my life, I don’t seem to get a choice. If something shows up, it’s
there, squarely in my face, asking for consciousness.
I recognised the feeling immediately. That sense that self‑care is boring. Fake, even. Dressed up as a treat. Doing what’s labelled ‘wellbeing’. And
honestly? It bored the tits off me.
Which took me down a familiar path. Of course it’s boring. We’ve been trained to be productive. If we’re not performing, achieving, producing
something tangible — then what’s the point? All those purchases to feel better,
look better, be better. For fuck’s sake. A dazzling distraction from what?
From being bored. And from what boredom actually is or could be.
Because boredom, when you sit with it, can feel like a fear of stillness. Afear of looking inward without props, roles, or momentum. If you haven’t been
given the skills or capacity to do that — and most of us haven’t — then of
course distraction and bollocksology win.
There’s another layer here for me, and it matters.
I only really feel good when what I’m doing benefits someone else. If self‑care or mindfulness is purely for me, I find it excruciatingly dull. But if it’s in
service of another — if it helps, supports, or eases someone else — I’m
completely engaged. Which makes sense, given my life. Nursing. Complementary
therapy. Showing up for others to the best of my ability, in practical,
grounded ways.
Helping has been my way of regulating, of feeling useful, of feeling okay. And if I’m honest, it’s also been my biggest distraction from being alone with
myself.
My mind has never lacked ideas — if anything, it’s the opposite — and stillness can feel less like rest and more like exposure. That doesn’t negate
the care or integrity in how I’ve lived; it simply tells the truth about how my
nervous system has learned to cope.
So where does that leave us?
Not with more doing. Not with better pretending. And definitely not with another neatly packaged solution. There’s no plan, no cream, no tablet for
this. It’s subtle. It’s the opposite of how most of us have been conditioned to
function.
We also can’t ignore the reality that even the more conscious among us are still living in a world that runs on disconnection, productivity, and noise — a
world that can feel heavy and, at times, quietly devastating.
So if there’s a call to arms here, it’s a very gentle one.
Start small. One tiny step toward yourself. Not a prescription. Not a suggestion — because even that can derail the moment. It has to come from you.
And I’ll go first.
For me, it’s writing. Not committing to a routine, or a word count, or daily discipline. Just one sentence, when it wants to come. And if it doesn’t come,
that’s information too.
That’s enough.
One sentence. One pause. One barely noticeable moment of turning toward yourself.
Not to fix anything. Just to be there.