Slowness – Silje Elsrud Yttervik

On Identity, slow-living, and the power of not apologizing

I like to think of my identity as a house. Different rooms in said house represents different aspects of my identity. Some rooms are small – other big, some are practically libraries, or warm kitchens full of memories. And some rooms are locked, as we’re still not sure how to enter them. Regardless of their size, and whether we are aware of them or not, each room represents parts of ourselves.

The problem arises however, when the rest of the world barges in, points at the first hallway they can find – and claims that «this is you, this is all that you are!»
For me, in recent times that hallway has most often been named «disabled».
They see the seizures, the paperwork, the pacing. They see my body moving differently or my voice halting from aphasia and assume that this single narrow corridor is the entire structure of who I am. But here’s what they don’t know:

That hallway leads to a whole damn palace.

Yes, I am partially disabled. I’m queer. I’m a woman. But use any stereotypical elements to describe me based on these categories, and you will be completely wrong. OK, not completely – as I do have a love for septum-piercings and I do have big hips. But that’s about It.

«Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)»
– Walt Whitman

So who gets to name your house?
Your Identity is not a one-room apartment. It’s a wild construction project of life experience, desire, emotion, history and sometimes even trauma. But the world doesn’t like mess or multiplicity. It wants easy-peacy simple signs; «woman», «disabled», «burdensome», «Inspirational».

I am a women of intellect and instinct. Highly ambitious but with a slow-living agenda. I’ve had a feminist, political rage in one hand and a childlike wonder in the other. I carry the knowledge of centuries of cultural memory, dreams for the future, and griefs I haven’t yet named. I am both very kind, and very stoic; higly neurotic – but also very practical. At this day and age, most of my doors are open, and I will not allow myself to be reduced.

Because too many of us, whether we’re disabled, queer, neurodiverse etc – we learn to play small. To shrink ourselves to the stereotypes that does not match us, just so that other people can place us in boxes we’re way too big for. We decorate the hallways of the house that is ‘us’, but never dare to open the door to the art studio, the debate chamber or the garden; rooms where our joy lives without supervision.

«I will not have my life narrowed down.
I will not bow down to somebody else’s whim, or to somebody else’s ignorance.»
– bell hooks

Personally, I believe we have no other choice than to open these doors. To fully accept and reclaim every inch of the internal home we’ve built, even the parts that seem broken, and in need of repair.
It might take a while, but with the right mending, it will be repaired!

Now I know, the world runs fast – and I don’t. That’s not a flaw.
Whether I like it or not, being disabled, while not my entire identity, does influence parts of it. Amongst other things, my pace is often slower. I get easily interrupted or paused – not because I lack drive, or lack the ability to multitast – but because my brain will litterally stop me from doing anything (including stop me from breathing) if my body feels too stressed, too exhausted or too tired.
This used to make me feel bad and broken. Used to make me feel lazy and lost.
But then I realized: everything sacred in nature moves slowly. Seasons don’t rush. Trees and flowers doon’t bloom on demand. Grief, love, healing – all of it takes time. Why should my life be any different?

«Adopt the pace of nature: her secret is patience».
-Ralp Waldo Emerson

Slowness and slow-living taught me to think even deeper. To notice what other’s speed past. In turn, it is rare that I watch a movie or a new TV-show without constantly guessing right about what’s to come (White Lotus, anyone?). Or meeting a new person and just understanding who and how they are within the first 30 minutes.
Not because this is particularly special in any way, but because allowing yourself to work, think, see and act slowly – also (quite often) leads to more detail-oriented steps ahead.
It has certainly helped me to build ideas brick by brick instead of by burnout.
And by showing me that being slow doesn’t mean being less – it just means being highly intentional.

And if the world in their ‘one hallway view’ calls that weakness or laziness, I call it a revolution.
___

Because, I do not apologize for being fully myself!
I’ve opened all the doors, and I let them stay open.
Because, being wholly yourself is not a performance, it’s a right.
I have known white – hot rage as a child, watching how I was treated in school. I’ve felt heartbroken over things I may never experience, and fear over what epilepsy and aphasia means for my future. I’ve also felt fire and brilliance move through me like a thunderstorm, and extreme joy over fun, life-altering experiences.
And none of it cancels anything else. Each room belong in the same house.

We are not meant to live inside the hallway. We are meant to inhabit our homes fully; to bloom in all the rooms built for us. Without apologies, without shrinking ourselves intoo palatable versions to make other’s comfortable – but with the soul-deep knowledge that this body, this mind, this identity is ours.
An no one else gets the final word on what that means.

So take up space, and let them misunderstand. Speak without softening your syllables, and let them question. Let them knock on doors they’ll never be invited through, and live like your voice is proof that you belong here –
Because it is. Because you do.

Lastly, a task for you, reader:

Take a moment today to explore the house of yourself.

1. What rooms have you been hiding?
2. Who told you they weren’t worth showing?
3. Where have you rushed when slowness would have healed?
4. What would it mean to live your multitudes without apology?

Write a list. Make a drawing. Take a photo. Share it or don’t. Just begin.
And if you ever feel someone trying to reduce you to a single hallway, smile, and say: “You haven’t even seen the rooftop.”

– Silje
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Want to go deeper? Try these books:

“Sick Woman Theory” by Johanna Hedva – an essay and framework about invisible illness, resistance, and political care.

“How to Do Nothing: Resisting the Attention Economy” by Jenny Odell –
a lyrical call to reclaim slowness, attention, and meaning in a world obsessed with urgency.
___

July arrives like a golden wave – fast, full and blinding. Everything blooms – everyone moves, and I… pause.

Personally, I’ve always perferred the colder months. In winter, society seems to move closer to my rhytm; the days are shorter and slower, people operate slower, and general rest is not only expected, but also respected.

Summer on the other hand, tends to surge forward. Everyone seems to be bursting into high-gear; vacations, festivals, sleepless nights – doing more, going faster, chasing light as if its running out (which for those of us in Scandinavia it litterally is come fall).
Additionally, the warmt of summer is pressing, and the air grows thick with newfound humidity. And I, in my invisibly disabled body, feel the gap widen between what the world expects of me, versus what I can offer…

So, as you can probably imagine, I’ve never felt entirely at home in the heat of summer. The sun shines bright, but I crave the shadows. Not out of sadness – but for sanctuary and the need for rest.

Throughout my life, my disability has taugh me many things. Perhaps the deepest of these is this;
Rest is not weakness. Rest is wisdom.

Especially (but not only) in the Western-world, exhaustion is treated like a badge. In such cultures, doing less is seen as a failure. But, for disabled people, doing less is often not a choice – it’s a lifeline! And in a season that celebrates motion, brightness, and constant energy, it can feel like being completely out of synch with society.

To use myself as an example; yesterday I had a lunch with some of the people I go to physiotheraphy with. The buss home takes about 20 minutes, and as I was feeling pretty good, I decided not to call a cab (which takes only 5 minutes, but is extremely expensive). Halfway home I apparantly had a massive seizure on the buss, the first ‘buss seizure’ since moving back here five years ago. I knew this was a possibility, as I’ve been having majour seizures every week for the past two months, but I felt alright and thought I would manage.
Luckily, a very kind gentleman called the ambulance, and I was safely followed home. However, it took me over 30 minutes to fully get back from the seizure, and I slept the entire rest of the day.

I had many plans that I wanted to get done yesterday, but ended up doing none of them. This is not uncommon. For many disabled people, summer becomes a season that exposes difference. Because, while other’s need for rest stems from the nature outside (such as the lack of energy with winter’s lack of sun), disabled people – especially those of us who suffers from fatigue; we experience this all year around, as our lack of energy comes from genetic-, neurologic- or other physical, internal issues.
So when others accelerate during the summer, our limits become more visible. When other’s glow, we might ‘wilt’. This is the reality of having disabilities. And for many of us, resting is a daily necessity.
As disability-advocate As Tricia Hersey of The Nap Ministry says:

«Rest is resistance. Rest is a beautiful interruption to a system that views us as machines.
It’s a divine right. We will rest.»
– Tricia Hersey

Resting interrupts the demand to always be «on», always be producing and always be performing. And that interruption can be healing – not just for the body, but for the soul. So while others sprint intoo summer, I will make a different choice. By slowing down on purpose, claiming stillness – not as defeat, but rather as depth of joy.

Because, joy isn’t always loud, fast, sweaty or crowded. It doesn’t need fireworks or festivals (althought even I can enjoy that at times!). Instead, the depth of summer joy can live in enjoying a slow morning coffee while listening to birds chirping, in reading a book in a quiet, shadowy corner, in picking (and tasting!) ripe forest fruit – or in wearing soft, easy – breezy fabrics while smelling the air. It lives in drinking cold drinks, taking a nap without the fear of wasting time – or very, very carefully taking a swim in the lake.

No matter how small, these moments matter. They might not be what summer ‘should’ look like. But they are what summer looks like too me. And that is enough!

______________

In the North, we know how to rest. We know the hush of snow, the stillness of night that falls early and stays long. In winter, everyone understands fatigue, and there is space for slowness.

But the summer season asks us to shine. And when we cant – when our bodies protests, and protects us – it’s very easy to be left behind.

But, what if we didn’t see our own rest as retreat, but rather as a return –
To breath
To joy
To being, not performing.

“Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass under trees on a summer’s day, listening to the murmur of the water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is by no means a waste of time.”
– John Lubbock

So this July – in order to create your very own Disabled Summer Story, I invite you to do less – not out of lack, but love.
I invite you to celebrate rest as richness. To notice joy not only as large spectacles, but also as small seeds.

Let your summer be slow. Listen to your body. Let joy come gently. Because, you are not late. You are not lazy. You are simply living at your own pace – and that is beautiful!

And if the world races ahead, let it!
You are not behind.
– You are exactly where you need to be.

– Silje