The Slow Burn

When my therapist suggested more sleep, I paused. My mind immediately pushed back: Isn't that lazy? Aren’t I supposed to be hustling? Wasn’t there a hashtag telling me to grind harder?

I remember the summer before 7th grade better than most. I got to spend it with my mom. I shaved my legs for the first time. I even got my hair cut to resemble Cindy Crawford's from the Pepsi commercials—while I drank all the Coca-Cola. It was also the summer I boarded a train in Williston, ND, with my Camp Fire Girls troop to spend a week in cabins and camping around the Detroit Lakes area.

On the first or second night, a group of us were running and skipping back to our cabin when my foot got caught by a tree root, and I slid down a dirt hill on my freshly shaved legs. Blood, rocks—but no tears—covered my hands, knees, and shins. To this day, if you look closely enough, you can still see faint red squiggly scars.

What I haven’t mentioned is that the next morning was our first chance to participate in the ‘Polar Plunge.’ Any girl who got up at some ridiculous hour and jumped into the lake would get a chip. Girls who did it all five mornings would earn a paper certificate with their name on it. The room buzzed with chatter and excitement. Determination was palpable.

The next morning, the girls in my cabin started stirring, changing into their bathing suits. I woke up feeling my aching leg. I told them it hurt too much, then rolled over and went back to sleep. I woke later to hear them chatting about their cold-water adventure and immediately regretted it. I wanted to be that girl—the one who got up, the one who was ‘part of.’ I thought about the chips and the certificate with my name on it. I even fantasized about them giving me the certificate despite missing a day.

With her newly shaved, stiff leg and open wounds, ASHLEY KELSCH managed to limp to the lake 4 out of 5 mornings and plunge into the freezing waters.

I’d be made an example of. In the future, when Glennon Doyle encouraged women to do ‘hard things,’ those girls and counselors would remember me plunging into the lake four out of five mornings.

Except, I never did rise to the occasion.

Despite the incentives, rewards, and fantasies of prestige, I failed to get out of bed. Instead, I’d roll over and continue the slumber party for one whenever I had the chance.

Those chances grew fewer as I got older, started a family, took on responsibilities, opened a business, and tried to keep up with the world while chasing the so-called 'American Dream.'

Or as I refer to it now, the American Nightmare; I was a full-time mother, full-time worker, full-time wife turned full-time single—and full-time exhausted. As life became fuller (and not in the spiritually fulfilling way), I woke with dread, wondering, How many hours until I can come back here? Anxiety, overwhelm, stress, and fear—so much fear—filled me.

It felt like a familiar crossroads: get up and go for the rewards—accolades, money, success? Or... sleep? Only this time, sleep wasn’t an option, and I couldn’t see any rewards in sight. Just fires that needed to be put out.

Fueled by cortisol and adrenaline, driven by fear, I’d push myself just to ‘make it another day.’ It got me out of bed, but it didn’t do much for me otherwise.

Sometime in my mid-30s, when my kids were in middle school and high school, I found myself in therapy. It marked the beginning of a long, drawn-out reckoning with my childhood shit, plus my current shit—which had landed me where I was: in deep shit. (Gross, I know. But I know you get me.)

A few years into therapy, my therapist said at the end of a session:

"Ashley, you should be sleeping 10-12 hours a night. You’ve been in a constant state of 'look out' and hyper-vigilance since you were a child, and it’s still happening. Your nervous system is in overdrive."

Sleep on it, he said.

Today, we know much more about burnout, exhaustion, our nervous systems, trauma, bodies, and societal overwhelm. Sleep is now considered the ultimate bio-hack—essential for boosting cognitive function, improving mood, and resetting your nervous system.

But this wasn’t today. It was the era of Girl Boss! Of Wake Up, Hustle & GRIND. Come on, girrrls, it’s GOAL DIGGING TIME! And, I won’t lie—part of me was envious of this ‘can do’ energy. The day I first heard about Sophia Amoruso of Nasty Gal in 2012, I left my office at Teddies for Bettys and went home for a self-pity slumber party. How is she doing it all?! I fell asleep swaddled in tears and resentment.

But while part of me envied it, another part—the tired, perpetually stressed-out part—was starting to wonder: what if the hustle wasn’t my answer?

It was an unlikely recipe for what I should be doing, but it also spoke to the girl inside me who, deep down, wasn’t interested in chasing false incentives, never had the personality to be bossy, and frankly, wasn’t interested in digging for anything.

When my therapist suggested more sleep, I paused, thinking, Despite all the memes and t-shirts screaming at me to hustle, you're telling me to stay in bed? For 10-12 hours? My mind immediately pushed back: Isn't that lazy? Aren’t I supposed to be hustling? Wasn’t there a hashtag telling me to grind harder?

Too tired to argue, the sleepy girl deep within nodded, like when your caretaker tucks you in, says sweet dreams, and gives you a forehead kiss.

I told everyone about my new diagnosis and treatment:

10-12 hours of sleep? Ummm… that seems like a lot..

Not for me! I’ve always been tired. When I was younger, I couldn’t stay awake at slumber parties, which is probably why I turned to cocaine in high school. Now I just need naps keep up with life’s relentless pace. Anyway, don’t call or text before 10am. I need my sleep; doctor’s orders.

For the next four years, I went undercover—under the covers, that is.

I started a newsletter and called it The Sunday Slow Roll.

I let my clients in on it, and soon I was getting texts like, "I know it’s before 10 and you’re probably slow rolling, but can we move our call up?"

I even went so far as to making coffee in bed with certain lovers. Why bother getting up if that’s where I plan on ending up anyway?

I felt like I’d finally arrived at the life I wanted. One that wasn’t about hustling or bustling, but emphasized rest and slumber (parties). I was a human being, not a human doing.

But despite getting 8-12 hours of sleep, my waking hours kept getting worse. I was exhausted, paranoid, and my fuse was shorter than ever. There was a clear difference between what was happening to me now vs. what had happened before. In my 20s and 30s, despite being stressed the f*ck out, I could still get up and keep going. In my 40s? I had lost all charge, desire, energy, excitement—whatever cocktail of adrenaline and cortisol had been fueling me was almost out.

While reading Polysecure by Jessica Fern, I came across her exploration of how attachment theory intersects with polyamory. She emphasized the importance of understanding the nervous system’s role in relationships, discussing how past trauma or insecure attachment styles can lead to either hyperactivation or hypoactivation of the nervous system.

Hyperactivation puts the nervous system on high alert, triggering anxiety, worry, or clinginess in relationships.

Hypoactivation is when the nervous system shuts down in response to overwhelming stress, leading to emotional numbing, disconnection, or withdrawal.

It hit me clearly: my slow roll had turned into a slow burn.

Wouldn't it be a literal dream if all we had to do was plug into some deep sleep to fully charge and cleanse our bodies of the days stressors? Of life’s accumulated stress?

“We don’t need to relax; we need to learn to self-regulate.”

More than likmy therapist likely offered more in that conversation than just "get some sleep." He probably began with something like, “You need to start signaling safety to your nervous system,” followed by, “You need to slow down in your waking hours. Start doing the things you love and—yes, like every self-helper prescribes—things that bring you joy.”

But for a girl who grew up never feeling safe and became a woman in survival mode, I wasn't going to hear that. I was in my so-called ‘safe space,’ wrapped in my own survival blanket. Even though I wasn’t living the 9-to-5 grind, the idea of slowing down and doing the things I loved? Well, I had the same knee-jerk reaction as anyone else hustling to make ends meet—‘ain’t nobody got time for that!’ Bills need to be paid, work needs to get done. Doing less wasn't an option.

What I’ve discovered this past year, though, is a deceptively simple truth: Body before Business.

Before I dive into the grind, I need to reconnect with myself. I need to get real about what’s happening, not the stories I’ve built around it. I need to close the loop on my stress, not just carry it forward like extra baggage.

And maybe the biggest lesson? No more plunging headfirst into my day. My younger self knew that instinctively. My adult self is just now catching up.

And these days, I start slow—with a dip at Barton Springs, of course—and find joy in the ease that floods over me.

Support Local Bookshops
As an affiliate with Bookshop.org, I earn a small commission on some books purchased through my links, while also supporting independent bookstores. It’s a win-win—get the books you love while helping to keep local bookshops thriving. Thanks for supporting both me and these wonderful small businesses!