We live in a world that reveres motion. Productivity is prized. Busyness is a badge of honour. Every idle second begs to be filled—with a scroll, a swipe, a tap. Yet beneath all this frantic movement lies a creeping anxiety: the fear of stillness. And while it might seem harmless, even virtuous, this fear is quietly eroding some of the most important aspects of our humanity.

I didn’t fully realise how addicted I was to “doing” until I found myself without much to do. It was during a short break from work, when my calendar was clear, my inbox was silent, and my body—tired but unsure what to do with itself—kept reaching for my phone. I told myself I was just catching up on news, or staying connected. But deep down, I knew I was just running away from the discomfort of being still.

Stillness, I’ve come to learn, is not the absence of activity but the presence of awareness. And that awareness is often uncomfortable. It brings us face to face with emotions we’ve buried—loneliness, grief, regret, confusion. These are not the kinds of things you can multitask away. You have to sit with them. And that’s terrifying for most of us.

In many African societies, including mine, idleness has long been associated with laziness or moral weakness. We’re raised on proverbs like “an idle mind is the devil’s workshop.” Even rest must be earned, justified, accounted for. But in glorifying relentless activity, we’ve created a generation that is always exhausted, always distracted, and rarely introspective.

This has moral consequences. We don’t reflect on the kind of people we’re becoming. We don’t pause to think deeply about our actions, our relationships, or our role in the wider fabric of society. We become reactive instead of reflective, constantly stimulated but rarely grounded. And in the absence of stillness, we lose the clarity that helps us make ethical choices. We rush to cancel, to consume, to perform—but not to understand.

Even spirituality has not been spared. Prayer becomes another task, meditation is something we “try once,” and silence feels like a waste of time. But if there’s anything the great thinkers and prophets across cultures taught, it’s that the most profound truths are often born in silence.

So why do we fear stillness? I think it’s because stillness exposes us. It strips away our masks and shows us what we’ve been hiding behind our to-do lists. And in a world that increasingly equates value with visibility, being alone with our uncurated selves can feel unbearable.

But maybe that’s precisely why we need it.