Pour from the saucer: Black rest as resistance and overflow

By Angela N. Harris

“Our bodies are a site of liberation. Naps are a portal to a new world.” — Tricia Hersey, Rest is Resistance

For generations, Black people have been taught—implicitly and explicitly—that rest must be earned. That productivity is proof of worth. That exhaustion is a badge of honor. But we are unlearning these lies. We are remembering what our ancestors knew in their bones: rest is not laziness. Rest is a portal. Rest is resistance.

We are entering a time that demands everything of us. The next four years will be marked by intensified political violence, economic instability, and the continued normalization of fascist ideologies. Racism is evolving—not fading—and the attacks on our bodily autonomy, voting rights, educational access, and even the freedom to remember our own history are escalating.

And still, in the midst of all this, we are told to keep grinding. Keep showing up. Keep fighting. But what if our greatest act of defiance is not working harder, but resting more deeply?

Stop Pouring From the Cup

You've heard the saying, “You can’t pour from an empty cup.” But let’s take it further. We shouldn’t be pouring from our cups at all. Our cups are meant to be full—for us. We should be pouring only from the overflow, from the saucer underneath.

That overflow is what comes after we’ve rested, after we’ve nourished our spirits, after we’ve protected our peace. Pouring from the saucer means our giving—whether it’s to our students, our communities, our families, our movements—is sustainable, rooted in abundance and not depletion.

We were not born to be machines in service of capitalism. We were not made to be fuel for a system that thrives on our exhaustion.

“Rest is a beautiful interruption in a world that has no pause button.” — Tricia Hersey

Rest is Our Weapon

In this political climate, where the goal is to keep us disoriented, overworked, and afraid, choosing rest is a revolutionary act. When we reclaim rest, we deny the systems that want to grind us into dust. We reclaim our time. Our bodies. Our birthright.

To fight fascism and racism, we have to be well. We cannot afford burnout—not now, not in the years ahead. This moment calls for sustained, strategic resistance. That means building communities of care. It means naps. It means long walks without a destination. It means logging off. It means sleep that is not squeezed into stolen hours, but embraced as sacred.

A Love Letter to the Black Collective

This is an invitation: let’s stop giving what we don’t have. Let’s fill our cups first—mindfully, radically, unapologetically. Let’s romanticize our own healing. Let’s lay down and let the Earth hold us. Let’s stop feeling guilty for resting. We are not machines. We are not tools. We are not hustling for our liberation—we are resting into it.

As we move through this next chapter, we must ask ourselves: How can we be fully present in the fight if we are not fully present within ourselves? How can we build a world we’ve never seen if we’re too tired to imagine it?

Pour from the saucer. Let rest be your strategy. Let rest be your resistance.

“We are enough. Our bodies are enough. Our rest is enough.” — Tricia Hersey