The Performance of being busy by Anushree Singh

There is a strange pride people carry in exhaustion now. 

You can hear it in school hallways, office elevators, family dinners, even casual conversations between friends. 

“How have you been?” 

“Busy.” 

The answer arrives almost automatically, often followed by a tired laugh that sounds suspiciously close to achievement. Nobody says it plainly anymore, but somewhere along the way, being overwhelmed became impressive. Rest started sounding irresponsible. Free time became something people apologized for. 

I noticed this first during exam season last year. Everyone around me seemed to compete over who had slept the least. Someone bragged about surviving on three hours of sleep. Another claimed they had not taken a proper break in weeks. We all laughed, as though slowly burning ourselves out was something admirable instead of alarming. And I remember thinking: when did exhaustion become a personality trait? 

Maybe it happened gradually. 

Modern life rewards movement. The world constantly tells us that there is always something more we could be doing — another skill to learn, another opportunity to chase, another version of ourselves to build. Phones ensure that productivity follows us everywhere. Even moments that once belonged to silence are now filled with notifications, reminders, emails, reels, updates. There is hardly any space left where the mind is allowed to simply exist. 

And when everyone around you is moving at impossible speed, slowing down begins to feel like failure. 

Social media intensifies this feeling. Open any app and someone is waking up at five in the morning, reading three books a week, managing internships, running businesses, maintaining perfect routines, somehow still finding time to look effortlessly put together. Productivity is no longer private; it is performed. People document burnout aesthetically now — photographs of laptops beside untouched coffee, captions about “the grind,” jokes about not sleeping. 

The frightening part is how normal this has become.

Sometimes I wonder if people are truly busy, or if they are simply afraid of stillness. Because stillness leaves room for uncomfortable questions. 

Am I actually happy? 

Do I enjoy the life I am building, or do I only enjoy being praised for building it? Who am I when I am not achieving something? 

Constant busyness protects people from these thoughts. As long as there is another task waiting, another deadline approaching, another distraction glowing on a screen, there is no need to confront ourselves fully. We keep moving because movement feels safer than reflection. 

I think that is why boredom feels unbearable to so many people now. 

As children, boredom once created imagination. People stared out of car windows. They sat on rooftops. They wandered without documenting every second of it. Now, even waiting in line for two minutes feels intolerable without checking a phone. Silence has become something we instinctively try to fill. 

But human beings were never designed for constant acceleration. 

Even nature understands the importance of pause. The earth rotates between light and darkness. Seasons arrive and leave. Trees lose leaves only to grow them again. Everything living understands rhythm except us. We expect ourselves to function endlessly, then feel guilty when our minds and bodies cannot keep up. 

What makes this culture especially dangerous is how deeply it affects self-worth. People no longer ask one another, “Are you happy?” as often as they ask, “What are you doing these days?” Worth becomes tied to output. Someone constantly occupied appears ambitious and important, while someone resting risks seeming lazy. 

I have felt this myself. 

There are days when I finish doing absolutely nothing productive and feel overwhelming guilt by evening, as though I have failed some invisible test. It does not matter if I needed rest. It does not matter if my mind was exhausted. Somewhere internally, I have absorbed the belief that every moment must justify itself. 

And I know I am not alone in that feeling. 

Entire generations are growing up believing that burnout is the inevitable cost of success. Teenagers discuss stress before they even understand themselves fully. Young adults plan futures they are too exhausted to enjoy. People treat rest as something that must be earned rather than something fundamentally human.

Yet some of the most meaningful moments in life happen outside productivity. 

The conversations that last longer than expected. Sitting quietly beside someone you love. Watching rain collect on windows. Laughing so hard your stomach hurts. Walking without checking the time. Reading slowly. Doing nothing remarkable at all. 

None of these moments would look impressive on social media. None could be measured through achievements or certificates. But they are often the moments people remember most vividly years later. 

That is the tragedy of romanticizing busyness: life becomes so focused on building a future that the present quietly disappears. 

Of course, ambition itself is not the problem. Wanting success, purpose, or discipline is natural. The problem begins when exhaustion becomes identity. When people begin wearing stress like proof of importance. When slowing down feels morally wrong. 

Perhaps the real luxury today is not wealth, but the ability to rest without guilt. 

To wake up without immediately reaching for your phone. To spend an afternoon doing something slowly. To exist without constantly proving your usefulness to the world. 

In a society obsessed with speed, choosing stillness almost feels rebellious. 

And maybe that is what people are truly searching for beneath all the busyness — not success, but permission. Permission to pause. Permission to breathe. Permission to be human without turning every second into something productive. 

Because at the end of life, I do not think anyone will remember how quickly they replied to emails or how many tasks they completed in a single day. 

They will remember whether they actually lived. 

Whether they noticed sunsets. Whether they loved people well. Whether they allowed themselves moments of stillness long enough to feel alive inside them. 

And perhaps that matters more than a full calendar ever could.

About the Author

Anushree Singh is a student writer with a strong interest in reflective nonfiction, culture, and human behavior. Her work often explores themes of identity, modern life, emotional experience, and the relationship between productivity and self-worth. Through an introspective and conversational style, she aims to create writing that feels both personally honest and socially relevant. Outside of writing, she is interested in design, storytelling, and creative media.
https://linkedin.com/in/anushree-singh3