Ding. Ding. Ding. Text messages. Calendar updates. Emails. Social media notifications. Somehow, the advancement of technology and our digitally-driven interconnectedness has tethered me to everyone and everything, all at once, until I can’t tell where my attention — or my peace — belongs.
It feels like the influx of things and people needing my attention never stops. My phone vibrates before I’ve even crawled out of bed, and somehow the day has already started without me. Between managing work, a busy household, parenting six kids, juggling sports practices, and the never-ending stream of digital pings, I’m living in a constant state of half-attention.
I feel like I’m part of the most exhausted generation. I know I’m burning out much faster than my own mother did.
I know it wasn’t easy, but it does seem like it was easier
When I think about my mother’s life, I realize she carried her own share of burdens — raising kids, managing a home, working hard — but she also had built-in margins that I don’t.
There was no expectation to respond instantly, no endless scroll of comparison waiting in her pocket. If someone needed her, they called. If she was busy, they left a message on the answering machine and waited. There was space in her days, uninterrupted minutes to think, breathe, and be.
Every minute of my day has a purpose
I, on the other hand, fill every gap. When the baby naps, I “catch up” on emails. When I fold laundry, I listen to a podcast about being more productive. Even rest has to multitask. The very moments that could refuel me are swallowed up by the pressure to do more, learn more, be more.
Sometimes I wonder if exhaustion has become a kind of badge, proof that I’m keeping up, that I’m contributing, that I’m not falling behind. I tell myself I’ll slow down when the kids are older, or when work lightens up, or when life finally feels manageable. But deep down, I know that “someday” will never really come.
I got a glimpse of a different life
A few weeks ago, my phone died unexpectedly in the middle of the day. At first, I panicked. What if someone needed me? What if I missed something important?
After the initial anxiety wore off, something surprising happened: quiet. Real, tangible quiet. I noticed the sound of birds outside. I made lunch without distraction. I played catch with my kids and didn’t check the time. For the first time in a while, I felt present, and it felt like life-giving oxygen.
That afternoon, I realized something: I can’t outsource my peace. It doesn’t come from deleting apps or setting stricter boundaries, though those things help. It comes from deciding, over and over again, that my worth isn’t tied to my productivity. That the world won’t fall apart if I rest. That it’s okay to be unavailable.
I’m making adjustments
I’m learning to slow down in small ways. I’m leaving my phone in another room, taking walks without earbuds, and sitting on my patio with a glass of sweet tea and no agenda. These aren’t big, life-altering shifts, but they’re gentle reminders that I don’t have to earn rest. I just have to allow it.
My mother didn’t have it easy, but she did have something I crave: presence. She lived in her moments instead of racing through them. Maybe that’s what I’m really chasing — not just rest, but a way of living that doesn’t demand I be everything, everywhere, all at once.
I don’t have all the answers, but I’m starting here with fewer dings, fewer distractions, and the quiet belief that exhaustion isn’t the only way to live.
Read the full article here
