Naps, sunbeams, and other essential life skills

Rest isn’t optional in this house. It’s practically an Olympic event! And I live with five feline competitors.

They’re furry, opinionated, and deeply committed to the art of doing nothing, whether it’s melting into a patch of sunlight, sprawling across my keyboard, or staging a nightly takeover of the recliner. I used to joke that I rescued them, but lately, I’m starting to think they were sent to rescue me.

Living with multiple sclerosis (MS) means my energy is limited. Rest isn’t a luxury — it’s a lifeline. And yet, I’ve spent most of my life treating it like a reward I had to earn.

But these cats? They rest without guilt. They stretch without hesitation and never once ask permission.

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My feline frenzy consists of:

• The sunbather, who claims every beam of light like it’s a birthright, stretching luxuriously until he looks like a painting left to dry.
• The lap twins, who treat my stillness like a siren call, jostling for premium real estate the moment I sit down.
• The ghost, an introvert who prefers the safety of shadowy corners and only emerges when the world feels quiet enough to trust.
• The recliner king, once a streetwise stray, now a full-fledged monarch of comfort. He demands a blanket each night with the solemn authority of someone who once lived without softness and refuses to do so again.

It’s hard not to notice the difference between us. Where they shamelessly nap, I negotiate with rest like it’s a rare privilege. Where they stretch without apology, I tighten with guilt at every pause, especially with a body that no longer runs on certainty or surplus.

Watching them lately feels like observing tiny, furry role models who are masters of an art form I was never taught: the art of resting without permission.

Why do we feel guilty?

For most of my life, rest was something to be rationed, like a prize earned only after pushing myself to the brink. Slowing down felt suspicious, indulgent, even dangerous, as if the whole fragile balancing act might collapse if I let go too soon. Living with MS only deepened that instinct, turning energy into currency and fatigue into shame.

But these animals are blissfully unaware of such rules. They don’t earn rest. They don’t have to justify it. They simply do it naturally and unapologetically, like it’s part of the deal for being alive. Watching them, I’m starting to wonder if they know something I’ve forgotten.

Maybe thriving isn’t about how much of a load you can carry without breaking. Perhaps it’s about knowing when to lay it all down and stretch out, without apology, in the warmest spot you can find.

Rest doesn’t have to always look like being still under the sunlight. Some days, it might mean pausing for five quiet minutes before diving back in. On other days, it might mean letting yourself stay in bed until your body says otherwise. Rest isn’t one-size-fits-all. It can look like solitude, softness, or even surrender. Or it could simply mean doing less in a world that always demands more.

My cats’ styles of rest vary, too. The sunbather melts into the light like butter on warm bread. The lap twins compete in slow-motion acrobatics to claim my knees. The ghost retreats into stillness — not out of fear, but reverence. And the recliner king — his standards now nonnegotiable — insists that his blanket be positioned just so.

Honestly, some days, I need a nap after just managing their moods, meals, and 2 a.m. hallway stampedes. Even the most beloved creatures can be exhausting, and that is another reason to rest.

My cats don’t see rest as an interruption. They see life as a disturbance to rest. They treat it as part of living, as a rhythm, a necessity, a quiet, guiltless truth. I’m trying to learn from them slowly and imperfectly, but intentionally.

Maybe thriving doesn’t look like nonstop motion or endless boxes checked off a list. Perhaps it looks more like a sun-drenched stretch, a soft landing in the crook of someone’s elbow, or a quiet corner carved out just for you. Perhaps thriving starts when we stop apologizing for needing a pause — and start trusting that rest isn’t something we earn.

Maybe it starts when we claim our own metaphorical sunbeam.

Note: Multiple Sclerosis News Today is strictly a news and information website about the disease. It does not provide medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. This content is not intended to be a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always seek the advice of your physician or other qualified health provider with any questions you may have regarding a medical condition. Never disregard professional medical advice or delay in seeking it because of something you have read on this website. The opinions expressed in this column are not those of Multiple Sclerosis News Today or its parent company, Bionews, and are intended to spark discussion about issues pertaining to multiple sclerosis.