The Art of Doing Less
I’ve been plagued with a thought recently: are we doing too much?
I heard a somewhat profound piece of advice at a dream talk the other day: “Always have something to look forward to. Whether that’s something small each day, like a cup of tea – or more significant, like seeing your grandkids on the weekend.”
Akin to the new parlance of romanticising everything, the speaker had a point: there is joy in simplicity.
Often packing my schedule so full, she forced me to question my decision-making; is being busy an act of avoidance?
Whether it’s work, parties, or meeting up with friends, it often feels like I simply can’t miss out on anything. It’s funny, I'm a loyal advocate of JOMO – the joy of missing out – but it appears I had FOMO this whole time. Never wanting to miss a pay check, a moment with friends or an opportunity to scout for clients. In reality, I was running from a different kind of fear: stillness.
Believing that rest was earned, I crammed my day with endless stimulation from doomscrolling to Netflix, videos to exercise — everything had to serve as an investment. Constantly feeling pressured under the guise of productivity or ‘living life to the fullest,’ I wouldn’t dare turn down an invitation.
Fearing laziness or inadequacy, I’ve suddenly grasped the art of doing less after talking to a client of mine (who is ever so slightly older). She said, “Back in my day, we spent days doing laundry, cleaning the path outside and making good of the home.” She nostalgically reminisced over weekends helping her father do household chores – reflecting on moments of bonding. “We were proud back then, building a home we looked after.”
There was pride in the process — even in the mundane. It got me thinking about today, and why life feels so different now.
The first is obvious: no one can afford a house these days, and if you manage to, you’ve got to work overtime to pay it off. We barely spend time at home, truly nesting in place. Chores feel really like, well... Chores. Most things are automated. We no longer wash our clothes by hand, we have little robots vacuuming without command. We drive through car washes, load dishwashers, and discard clothes that aren’t perfect — we can forget mending, sewing or fixing anything.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying I want to do these things – no thanks!! What I’m trying to say is; we are completely catered for, yet utterly overstimulated. We anxiously scroll and consume because, well... What else is there to do? Small tasks create infinite irritation, any form of patience is unbearable, and thinking for ourselves? Yuck.
I’ve been watching many “life after social media” videos on YouTube. How our brains have all rotten thanks to Zuckerberg and TikTok’s manipulative algorithm – worse than sugar or heroin, we’re all ferociously addicted to that next dopamine hit. Like Huxley says in Brave New World: “People are controlled by inflicting pleasure... As long as every one is endlessly kept busy with trivialities, no one has time to think.”
Consciously trying to break the spell, I’ve started reading more and intentionally watching long-form content. It’s allowed me the space to think, culminate, and cultivate my thoughts – the ones that help me discover new ideas and creativity.
Two months ago, could I have sat here and spilt my thoughts out on the keyboard? Nope. That involves sitting still for a prolonged period of time – which led me here: the art of doing less – allowing for and creating a safe space that rejects time-wasting, but welcomes intentional withdrawal. The beauty in the quiet. The slowness of today — not the rush of what tomorrow may bring.
Ebbing and flowing with our internal rhythms, our bodies thank us for slowing down, chilling out and healing our brains from aggressive, colourful, enticing content that suffocates our every thought.
Maybe it’s time we stop glamorising the grind and comparing our lives to other’s online. Personally, I feel like I won the lottery. I have, quite possibly, the best life anyone could ever ask for. Surrounded by nature and animals, love and good food — yet I often don’t feel I’m doing enough. But how can I not? I’m forced by design to compare myself to thousands of people's snapshots – a happy moment forever captured in time. But we must remember: that’s not their always – that’s their sometimes – and we must learn to tell the difference.