Why Am I So Busy?
“I always say I want to travel, but my calendar is always full. Maybe I am not busy because I have to be. Maybe I am busy because I am afraid of what happens when I stop. This is a confession about my obsession with productivity.”
Lately, I have this persistent urge to travel.
It doesn’t have to be far. A sunny café in the suburbs or just somewhere where the wind blows would be enough. But strangely, before that desire can become reality, the list of things I need to finish floods my mind. It feels like there is no room for a spontaneous departure in my life these days.
I work four days a week, often leaving early in the morning and returning only when the sun sets. When work is done, I review everything immediately. If I don’t organize what I learned or did that day, I feel uneasy, as if I will forget it all. I pick up my pen with the thought, “This effort will make my future self a little less tired.”
Weekends are not much different. The weight of my responsibilities pushes me to open my notebook again, filling in the gaps of the week.
On top of that, I have side projects three days a week. Teaching and working is rewarding, but physically demanding. My days flow without a single break between main work and side hustles. Suddenly, I look at the calendar, and a month has already passed. Planning for next week, preparing for next month—travel is always pushed to “someday.”
Sometimes, I wonder.
Why am I so busy?
No one forced me to do this. I am the one making myself run constantly. If I stop, I feel anxious. If I rest, I feel empty. It’s not just a compulsion to live diligently; it’s a fear of the void that comes when the noise stops. So I fill myself endlessly with work. With studies, schedules, and goals.
People say “busyness” has become a virtue in this era. But being busy might not always be proof of living well. Perhaps, like me, it is just a way to mask the anxiety of living in a fast-paced world. Still, I felt like I had to keep moving forward.
At least while I am moving, I know for a fact that I haven’t stopped.
There are times when my reflection in the subway window looks exceptionally tired. Outside, I see people dragging suitcases. Their steps are light, their expressions relaxed. I envy them. Yet, even with these thoughts, I still cannot leave. For me, travel remains a vague longing. I dream of leisure and new experiences, but perhaps I still lack the courage to actually enjoy that leisure.
Lately, I find myself reading articles about slow living.
The practice of slowing down, the courage to stop for a moment. The idea that choosing imperfect rest over a perfect plan is not just romanticism, but a way to sustain oneself for the long run. On Sunday afternoons, when I finish all my reviews, I sometimes think, “This time is an investment for the future, but maybe resting is also an investment for myself.” But then, the fear creeps in—if I push my tasks back by a week, it feels like everything will collapse.
Still, I cannot easily let go. There are too many things to do, and anxiety whispers in the corner of my mind: “Is it really okay to stop like this?”
If I am like this now, what will happen in a few years when I have even more responsibilities? It will probably get more intense, more busy.
So, for this coming season, I want to live a little differently.
Instead of learning something new, I want to learn how to play. Instead of filling the void, I want to learn how to be comfortable in it.
That might just be the start of the real journey I have been postponing for so long.
