I asked for an extended leave of absence from my job, and they said yes! I officially have eight weeks off to do whatever I please (well, at this point I have 6 weeks left).

Now for most people, this probably sounds like bliss. But for me, a productivity junkie (as much as I’ve tried to work on this, it still holds true), I don’t know what I was thinking. I don’t even like weekends or holidays. Why did I think I would do well with an extended period off of work?

The first two weeks were rough. I felt aimless, adrift and somewhat melancholy. I couldn’t concentrate or figure out what to do with myself. I’d try to read, but couldn’t get into anything. I’d try to make art, only to hate what I was doing. My body hurt more than usual. A few days ago, I spent my therapy session in tears.

“I’m wasting my time,” I said. “If I’m going to mope around, what’s the point? I may as well be working.”

She reminded me of the reasons that led up to my asking for the time off:

• I was exhausted and needed some deep rest.
• I wanted more time to devote to an intensive mindfulness program I was in.
• I was curious. What might emerge when I cleared some space in my life?

“Oh, right,” I sighed. “I guess I just thought I would be in a better mood by now.”

I shouldn’t have expected that two weeks in of what I’m calling The Summer of Barb* (with a nod to George Costanza) could undo decades of conditioning by a culture that exalts efficiency over rest.

I know in my head that my worth does not reside in how much I “produce” (e.g., how many books I’ve written, even how many people I’ve hopefully helped in my career), but on a gut level I can easily fall prey to feeling like I have to earn my right to exist.

I hope in the weeks to come I’ll make a dent in changing this deeply flawed way of being.

But I won’t work too hard at it.

*If you want a laugh, watch a few minutes of this Seinfeld episode, The Summer of George.