Key Signs That You Are a Restless Spirit
Most of us in this space have met restless spirits. Some of us are them. They’re not just curious or ambitious or easily bored. There’s something deeper going on—an unsettled energy that seems wired into their bones.
I don’t mean that in a poetic way; I mean it in the “I can’t sit in silence for more than five minutes without feeling like I’m crawling out of my skin” way. It’s a kind of existential itch that achievement can’t scratch and mindfulness apps can’t soothe.
Now, in clinical terms, this restlessness gets chopped up and relabeled—anxiety, hyperactivity, maladaptive coping, etc.
But that doesn’t quite capture the essence, does it?
A restless spirit isn’t just about being busy—it’s about never feeling like you’ve actually arrived. It’s being wired for movement even when everything around you says “You’re safe now.” And for some, that sense of movement isn’t empowering—it’s exhausting.
What restlessness really feels like inside
It’s not just “doing too much”
I think it’s way too easy to conflate restlessness with being busy or distracted. But here’s the thing: you can be a restless spirit and still lie on the couch all day. It’s not about your calendar—it’s about your inner state. You can be completely motionless but still feel like your soul is pacing in circles.
I once had a client—let’s call her L—who quit her job, moved to Portugal, and cut ties with half her social circle because she was “done with the grind.” For three weeks, she felt amazing. Week four? She was already browsing new business ideas and asking herself if Lisbon was “too quiet.” She wasn’t chasing goals. She was trying to outrun a sensation that had followed her across oceans. That’s what I mean by restlessness—it’s not behavior; it’s a state of being.
Emotionally, it’s hard to ever feel full
Here’s a pattern I’ve noticed in restless spirits: contentment feels suspicious. It’s like the nervous system doesn’t trust stillness.
There’s this subtle panic that starts to creep in when things are going well—as if peace is just a trap that’ll eventually collapse on you. Sound familiar?
You could have a beautiful relationship, meaningful work, a slow Sunday morning with coffee and silence… and yet there’s that whisper: “Is this it?”
It’s not entitlement. It’s a kind of spiritual agnosticism—this resistance to fully investing in the now because a deeper part of you is convinced it’s always a placeholder for what’s coming next. And that sensation—of life always being an in-between—can make even joy feel temporary and unreal.
Cognitively, the mind won’t stop skipping ahead
This is where it gets particularly noisy. Restless spirits live in a constant state of pre-processing. Not processing—pre-processing. We’re not dealing with what’s happened; we’re simulating what might. The next career move, the next spiritual breakthrough, the next place to live, the next “aha” moment.
And the kicker? The mind tricks you into believing it’s doing something productive. That looping internal dialogue feels like self-awareness, like evolution. But it’s actually avoidance dressed up in clever clothes. It keeps you locked in future scenarios and fantasies so you never have to ask the scary question: What if this is enough? What if I’m already there and I just don’t know how to land?
I’ve noticed that a lot of deeply intelligent, introspective people fall into this trap. The more nuanced your thinking, the easier it is to rationalize never being satisfied. Because the next idea always seems better.
Energetically, it’s a constant hum underneath everything
There’s a kind of vibration I associate with this state. It’s not anxious energy—it’s transitory energy. Like your spirit is standing in a doorway it never intends to walk through. You feel a pull, but never a root.
In somatic terms, many of these folks have difficulty grounding. Their breathing is shallow even when they’re calm. Their bodies are tight in subtle ways—tight jaw, restless legs, clenched toes. It’s like their nervous system is preparing for a change that never comes.
Some practitioners interpret this as trauma, which can absolutely be part of it. But I’ve also seen it in people with no obvious trauma background—just a lifelong sense that they were born “out of place.” These are the ones who say things like “I’ve never really felt at home anywhere.” There’s no catastrophe in their story. Just a gentle, persistent alienation.
It’s often mistaken for other things
Let me be really clear: restlessness gets misdiagnosed all the time. ADHD, burnout, even classic depression. And sure, there’s overlap. But the restless spirit often doesn’t feel disconnected—they feel hyper-connected… just not to anything tangible. They pick up on too many possibilities, too many futures, too many versions of themselves.
In the clinical world, we tend to like clean labels and linear narratives. But this kind of spirit doesn’t fit that. They aren’t “failing to thrive.” They’re thriving in motion. The second they stop moving, they start to decay.
There’s a shadow side to that, obviously. Relationships suffer. Projects get abandoned halfway. There’s a chronic lack of closure. But from the inside, it doesn’t feel pathological—it feels like survival.
Real-world example
Let me tell you about J, a 41-year-old artist who’s lived in eight cities in ten years. Every place she moves, she becomes deeply embedded in the local community, launches meaningful work, builds real friendships… and then something clicks. She wakes up one morning and feels like she’s done. No big trauma. No burnout. Just an internal knowing that it’s time to go. Her friends call her a “gypsy soul” and laugh about it. But what they don’t see is how painful it is for her. How leaving feels like breathing, even though it breaks her heart every time.
She once said to me, “I don’t want to start over again, but I can’t stay either. Staying feels like wearing someone else’s clothes.”
That line has haunted me ever since.
So what do we do with this?
If you’re an expert working with people like this—or if you are one—then you know how tricky it is to address. You can’t just suggest they “settle down” or “be more present.” That’s like telling a bird to stop flying and just enjoy the nest. You have to go deeper. Ask better questions. Explore what’s underneath the restlessness, and whether it’s trying to protect them from something—or lead them somewhere.
Because sometimes, restlessness isn’t dysfunction. It’s a compass.
And sometimes, it’s just noise.
And sometimes, it’s both.
Signs you’re not just restless—you’re a restless spirit
Let’s switch gears. I’ve talked a lot about the emotional, mental, and energetic terrain of a restless spirit, but now I want to give you something more tangible. A list. Something you can hold up like a mirror and go, “Oh yeah… that’s me.” Or your client. Or your friend who can’t stop moving but doesn’t know why they’re exhausted all the time.
These aren’t quirks or personality traits. They’re patterns. And when you look at them side by side, they start painting a picture of someone whose soul never fully puts its suitcase down.
Here are seven signs that you—or someone you know—might be living with a restless spirit.
You romanticize escape more than arrival
Let’s be honest. The high of leaving something behind often outweighs the comfort of actually arriving somewhere new. It’s not just wanderlust—it’s a deep craving for possibility. Escape gives you infinite doors. Arrival means picking one and closing the others.
I’ve heard this a lot from folks who say, “The planning is the best part.” They love researching new cities, new industries, new identities even—but once they get there, the shine wears off. The fantasy was always more nourishing than the reality.
Why it matters: This pattern isn’t about indecision. It’s about the emotional hit that comes from possibility itself. That hit becomes addictive.
You don’t know what “home” feels like
Not just the physical space—though that’s part of it. I’m talking about the sensation of home. The kind that hits you in the chest and slows your heartbeat.
When I ask clients to define what home means to them, I often get blank stares. Or metaphors. Or jokes. That’s a sign. A lot of restless spirits live without a sensory memory of rootedness. They associate home with obligation, or stagnation, or—sometimes—nothing at all.
Why it matters: Without an internal anchor, the external world can’t ever settle you. You’ll keep searching for grounding outside of yourself—and come up empty.
You restart your life every few years
I call this the “phoenix cycle.” Burn it all down. Start over. New job. New city. New friend group. You’ve probably done this more than once. You might even pride yourself on it.
But here’s the catch: you often leave without resolving the thing that made you want to burn it all down in the first place. So the cycle repeats. And you’re left wondering why every new beginning feels more hollow than the last.
Why it matters: Reinvention can be beautiful—but when it’s compulsive, it turns into a kind of emotional escape room. You’re solving puzzles just to delay the confrontation with your own stillness.
You resent routine, even when you created it
This one sneaks up on people. You finally build a life that should feel aligned—morning rituals, nourishing relationships, creative freedom. But then it starts to feel heavy. Predictable. You find yourself sabotaging your own design.
And it’s confusing as hell.
You think, “I made this. I chose this. So why does it feel like a cage?”
Why it matters: Restless spirits are often allergic to repetition. But the deeper issue is a fear that routine = stagnation = death. Until that association shifts, no amount of perfect structuring will bring peace.
You feel spiritually “between”
This is the most ineffable one. You’re not disconnected—but you’re not grounded either. You might believe in purpose, in soul, in guidance. But you also feel like whatever’s guiding you forgot to give you the map.
You’re in motion, but you’re not quite sure toward what. And yet stopping feels worse than wandering aimlessly. It’s a spiritual limbo.
Why it matters: You can’t deepen roots in a space you don’t claim. Without a sense of spiritual orientation—however you define that—restlessness becomes the default instead of the signal.
You see endings everywhere—even while things are good
This is big. You could be in a loving relationship, a great job, a peaceful moment—and you’ll still scan for the exit. You pre-grieve things. You imagine their demise. You feel the ending before it even begins.
And sometimes? You create the ending. Just to prove yourself right.
Why it matters: This is usually a protective mechanism. If you see it coming, it won’t hurt as much. But over time, it creates a loop where you can’t let yourself fully experience joy because you’re already forecasting its loss.
You crave meaning more than stability
Meaning is the drug. Not comfort. Not consistency. Not even happiness. You want meaning. And you’ll turn your life upside down to find it.
That’s not a flaw—but it is a challenge. Because meaning doesn’t always come in dramatic gestures or new beginnings. Sometimes it hides in stillness. And that’s where restless spirits often miss it.
Why it matters: If your nervous system is conditioned to equate motion with meaning, you’ll bypass the most meaningful moments—because they’ll feel too quiet to register.
Learning how to live with restlessness
So now that we’ve spotted it, what do we do with it? That’s the million-dollar question, right? I’ll tell you upfront: you don’t “fix” a restless spirit. You don’t smother it. You don’t shame it. You work with it. You build a relationship with it that’s based on dialogue, not dominance.
Start by getting honest about your pattern
This isn’t about judgment—it’s about recognition. What is your specific version of restlessness? Does it show up as boredom? Disconnection? Overthinking? Impulsivity? Isolation disguised as independence?
You can’t shift a pattern you won’t name. And once you name it, you can start to differentiate between when it’s guiding you and when it’s just pulling you out of your own life.
Try this: Journal the last three big changes you made. What triggered them? What feeling were you avoiding? What need were you chasing? You might start to see a throughline.
Build rituals that move with you
A lot of advice says, “Create structure. Build routine.” And sure, that works—for some people. But if you’re wired for movement, that can feel suffocating.
Instead, I recommend portable rituals—things that ground you no matter where you are. A breathwork practice you can do in airports. A check-in question you ask yourself every Sunday. A playlist that feels like home. Something flexible but anchoring.
Why this works: It teaches your body that grounding isn’t about staying still—it’s about staying connected while in motion.
Develop a tolerance for stillness
This part isn’t sexy. But it’s necessary.
Stillness will feel like withdrawal at first. You’ll want to check your phone, move your body, change something, do anything. But if you can sit through that sensation without reacting, you’ll start to access a deeper kind of rest.
Start small. Two minutes. No distractions. Just breathing and watching what arises. You’re not meditating. You’re titrating stillness—like exposure therapy for your spirit.
Why this matters: Restless spirits don’t need to become monks. But they do need to know how to pause without panicking.
Create meaningful thresholds
One of the most underrated tools for restless people? Ritualized endings. We’re great at starting things, but terrible at closing loops. That lack of closure creates psychic weight and leaves us constantly seeking fresh starts to bury the unresolved stuff.
So build small ceremonies. Write letters you never send. Say goodbye to versions of yourself you’ve outgrown. Light a candle. Make it matter.
Why this helps: It turns endings into integration points—not just escape hatches.
Stop pathologizing the impulse
This one might be hard for some of you. But hear me out: not every restless spirit is traumatized. Not every desire for change is a red flag. Some people are just designed to move. To seek. To question. That’s sacred.
But it becomes a problem when you demonize that part of you. When you assume it’s broken. When you try to shove yourself into someone else’s blueprint for peace.
Reframe: What if your restlessness isn’t the enemy? What if it’s a compass that just hasn’t been calibrated yet?
Anchor into meaning, not identity
This is key. Most restless spirits latch onto new identities to soothe the discomfort—new careers, new aesthetics, new social circles. But identities are temporary. Meaning is sustainable.
Instead of asking, “Who do I want to be next?”, try asking, “What do I want to stand for—no matter where I go?” That question will hold you when everything else is shifting.
Final Thoughts
If any of this resonates with you, you’re not broken. You’re not failing. You’re just wired for motion—and that’s not a flaw. Being a restless spirit doesn’t mean you’re lost. It means you’re sensitive to change, allergic to complacency, and probably more alive than most people realize.
The key is learning how to move without always running. To seek without always escaping. To build a kind of peace that travels with you, wherever you go.
And that? That’s the real work.
