When Productivity Becomes a Distraction from Growth
There’s a kind of high I don’t often hear talked about. Not the kind that comes from reckless choices or drug-induced escapes. No, the high I am talking about is wrapped in over-functioning. It’s the need to fix, to do, to help, even when it’s not yours to carry. It’s the high of solving problems with precision, delivering under pressure, excelling and performing. It’s not productivity for achievement’s sake, but for the sake of feeling alive.
And if I’m being honest, I’m addicted to it.
Not in a way that looks destructive from the outside, but in the quiet way that makes slowing down feel like a threat. In the way that makes peace feel foreign. In the way that I chase intensity, not because I enjoy it, but because it’s the only space where I feel enough.
The Addiction to Doing
I’ve started to wonder: why do I equate stillness with emptiness? Why does rest make me feel like I’m falling behind, or worse – invisible? Somewhere along the way, I internalized the belief that I must do in order to be seen. That achievement is a prerequisite for attention. That productivity is proof of worth.
There’s a rush I get when I’m in motion. When I’m solving ten problems at once, meeting deadlines, managing chaos, and making things happen. I feel powerful. Needed. Visible.
But the crash always comes. When the work ends. When the outcome doesn’t give me the dopamine hit I expected. When I’m left alone with the silence that no amount of performance can fill.
Is It Just the Way I’m Wired?
Sometimes I wonder if this constant striving is just how I’m wired from birth or if it’s something I was programmed to become as a child. Is there a younger version of me that learned comfort through performing? Did I grow up believing acceptance was something you earned, not something you simply deserved?
The more I trace the patterns, the more I see the connections: the way I recreate dynamics, hoping they’ll end differently this time. Hoping that this time, the high won’t crash. That I’ll be seen not for what I do, but for who I am underneath all the doing.
But the ending is always the same. The high fades. The void returns. And I begin again, chasing that feeling, afraid of the stillness, because stillness feels like abandonment. Like invisibility.
The Illusion of Control
High-functioning anxiety doesn’t look like chaos on the outside. It looks like color-coded calendars, inboxes at zero, goals on track. It looks like overachievement, ambition, and always saying “yes.”
But underneath it is a fear – not just of failure, but of what the quiet might reveal. If I slow down, what unhealed parts of me will I have to face? What grief still lives in my body? What old stories am I still reenacting?
So I stay in motion, not just for the thrill of it, but to outrun the shadows.
The Kind of Peace I Crave
And yet, I know there’s another way. A life that doesn’t revolve around the chase, but around alignment. A kind of peace that isn’t empty, but full. Full of presence. Full of breath. Full of grounded connections, boundaries that honor me, and actions that reflect my values.
This kind of peace doesn’t shout. It doesn’t perform. It doesn’t need to be earned.
It’s the peace that lets you wake up without anxiety, because you’re not running from yourself. It’s the peace that allows for joy in the small things -a walk in the sun, the quiet hum of your breath, or the way your heart softens when you’re truly seen.
The Practice of Coming Down
I’m learning slowly how to come down from the high. Not in a crash, but with compassion.
I’m learning that it’s okay to rest, not just because I’ve earned it, but because I deserve it. I’m learning to measure my worth by how honest I can be with myself, not by how much I can produce.
Most importantly I’m learning to fully feel the silence, the longing, the ache and the grief. Not to wallow, but to witness. To allow. To integrate.
Because healing isn’t about eliminating the need for highs. It’s about no longer needing them to feel alive.
Final Thoughts
If you, too, are someone who finds comfort in chaos, who chases the rush of doing because stillness feels unsafe – I see you. You’re not alone.
You’re human. Maybe hurt. Maybe healing.
But always worthy.
And there is a peace waiting for you. Not on the other side of more doing, but in the brave and tender act of being.
When Productivity Becomes a Distraction from Growth
There’s a kind of high I don’t often hear talked about. Not the kind that comes from reckless choices or drug-induced escapes. No, the high I am talking about is wrapped in over-functioning. It’s the need to fix, to do, to help, even when it’s not yours to carry. It’s the high of solving problems with precision, delivering under pressure, excelling and performing. It’s not productivity for achievement’s sake, but for the sake of feeling alive.
And if I’m being honest, I’m addicted to it.
Not in a way that looks destructive from the outside, but in the quiet way that makes slowing down feel like a threat. In the way that makes peace feel foreign. In the way that I chase intensity, not because I enjoy it, but because it’s the only space where I feel enough.
The Addiction to Doing
I’ve started to wonder: why do I equate stillness with emptiness? Why does rest make me feel like I’m falling behind, or worse – invisible? Somewhere along the way, I internalized the belief that I must do in order to be seen. That achievement is a prerequisite for attention. That productivity is proof of worth.
There’s a rush I get when I’m in motion. When I’m solving ten problems at once, meeting deadlines, managing chaos, and making things happen. I feel powerful. Needed. Visible.
But the crash always comes. When the work ends. When the outcome doesn’t give me the dopamine hit I expected. When I’m left alone with the silence that no amount of performance can fill.
Is It Just the Way I’m Wired?
Sometimes I wonder if this constant striving is just how I’m wired from birth or if it’s something I was programmed to become as a child. Is there a younger version of me that learned comfort through performing? Did I grow up believing acceptance was something you earned, not something you simply deserved?
The more I trace the patterns, the more I see the connections: the way I recreate dynamics, hoping they’ll end differently this time. Hoping that this time, the high won’t crash. That I’ll be seen not for what I do, but for who I am underneath all the doing.
But the ending is always the same. The high fades. The void returns. And I begin again, chasing that feeling, afraid of the stillness, because stillness feels like abandonment. Like invisibility.
The Illusion of Control
High-functioning anxiety doesn’t look like chaos on the outside. It looks like color-coded calendars, inboxes at zero, goals on track. It looks like overachievement, ambition, and always saying “yes.”
But underneath it is a fear – not just of failure, but of what the quiet might reveal. If I slow down, what unhealed parts of me will I have to face? What grief still lives in my body? What old stories am I still reenacting?
So I stay in motion, not just for the thrill of it, but to outrun the shadows.
The Kind of Peace I Crave
And yet, I know there’s another way. A life that doesn’t revolve around the chase, but around alignment. A kind of peace that isn’t empty, but full. Full of presence. Full of breath. Full of grounded connections, boundaries that honor me, and actions that reflect my values.
This kind of peace doesn’t shout. It doesn’t perform. It doesn’t need to be earned.
It’s the peace that lets you wake up without anxiety, because you’re not running from yourself. It’s the peace that allows for joy in the small things -a walk in the sun, the quiet hum of your breath, or the way your heart softens when you’re truly seen.
The Practice of Coming Down
I’m learning slowly how to come down from the high. Not in a crash, but with compassion.
I’m learning that it’s okay to rest, not just because I’ve earned it, but because I deserve it. I’m learning to measure my worth by how honest I can be with myself, not by how much I can produce.
Most importantly I’m learning to fully feel the silence, the longing, the ache and the grief. Not to wallow, but to witness. To allow. To integrate.
Because healing isn’t about eliminating the need for highs. It’s about no longer needing them to feel alive.
Final Thoughts
If you, too, are someone who finds comfort in chaos, who chases the rush of doing because stillness feels unsafe – I see you. You’re not alone.
You’re human. Maybe hurt. Maybe healing.
But always worthy.
And there is a peace waiting for you. Not on the other side of more doing, but in the brave and tender act of being.
Latest Posts
A Millennial’s Journey in Designing Life
Read More »It Takes a Village: At Home and At Work
Read More »Magical woman
Read More »