'Crazy-busy' is a great armor, it's a great way for numbing. What

“‘Crazy-busy’ is a great armor, it’s a great way for numbing. What a lot of us do is that we stay so busy, and so out in front of our life, that the truth of how we’re feeling and what we really need can’t catch up with us.” Thus speaks Brené Brown, the seeker of vulnerability and courage, whose words pierce through the noise of modern life like an arrow through mist. In her teaching lies a revelation both gentle and fierce—that busyness, that restless motion we call productivity, is not always strength, but often a shield against pain. It is not always life, but sometimes an escape from living.

In the ancient days, the warrior wore armor to protect the flesh; in our time, the soul wears busyness to protect the heart. We pile our days with tasks, fill our calendars with meetings, answer messages until our fingers ache—not always because we must, but because silence frightens us. Stillness opens the door to the voice within, and that voice often speaks truths we would rather not hear: loneliness, exhaustion, longing, fear. So we keep running ahead, as Brené Brown says, “out in front of our life,” hoping that the truth will never catch us. Yet the truth, patient as the tide, always follows.

The armor of busy-ness gleams in the eyes of our age. It is celebrated, praised, even envied. The one who says, “I’m so busy,” is honored as though they are important, indispensable, alive with purpose. But beneath that armor, many hearts are weary. They no longer remember the sound of their own thoughts, the rhythm of their own breathing. They have mistaken motion for meaning, activity for purpose, and in doing so, have drifted from themselves. For a body may move swiftly, but the spirit—unheard and unfelt—begins to starve.

There is a story of Prince Siddhartha, before he became the Buddha. He lived surrounded by abundance—festivals, music, and endless pleasures. Every hour of his life was filled, every desire met before it was felt. Yet when he saw, for the first time, sickness, old age, and death, the silence of truth broke through his palace walls. He realized that no amount of noise, comfort, or busyness could shield him from the impermanence of life. So he walked into the forest, leaving behind the world’s distractions, and sat beneath the Bodhi tree—still, silent, awake. Only in that stillness did he see the truth of existence.

Such is the meaning of Brené Brown’s warning: that busyness can become a form of avoidance. We wear it to seem strong, but it is often fear disguised as diligence. We avoid rest because rest would reveal our emptiness; we avoid reflection because reflection would expose our need for healing. Yet no armor can protect forever. The soul will one day demand its due—it will knock on the door of our overworked heart, asking, “When will you listen to me?” To live truly is to have the courage to take off that armor, to face what waits within.

The lesson is profound and practical: do not mistake distraction for direction. Do not fill every hour; instead, leave space for silence. Let your busyness serve your being, not replace it. Ask yourself, “What am I running from when I stay busy? What feeling have I left behind that is trying to find me?” Learn to pause, even for a few breaths each day. For it is in the pause that the heart whispers, and in that whisper, you will find truth.

So, my child, when you feel the world pulling you into its race, stop for a moment. Step aside. Watch the stream of time flow past you, and listen to the stillness inside. You will discover that you do not need to chase your life—it is already here, waiting for you. To slow down is not weakness, but wisdom. To feel deeply is not failure, but freedom. For when you remove the armor of busyness, what remains is the naked, honest self—and that self, though vulnerable, is the only one capable of joy, of love, of peace.

And thus, remember: the truly courageous are not those who never stop moving, but those who dare to be still.