Work
hard, play hard—that's how many of us live today. But it turns out that our
supercharged lives aren’t so great for us, and fitness experts and doctors are
now emphasizing restorative practices and rest to improve performance and
overall health.
getting
dark when I hit the first riffle of my trip down Utah’s Green River in a canoe.
My plan was to set out while it was cool and log some mileage before nightfall,
but dusk came on quicker than I thought. Because I’d been in a rush to launch,
my gear wasn’t tied down very well. I had trouble reading the water in the
fading light, hit some shoals, and barely came out upright. Shaking, I pulled
over to camp on a scruffy pile of gravel near the highway for a night of bad
sleep and excoriating self-recrimination.
It all
seemed a fitting metaphor for the way I’d been hurtling through life. In the
previous two years, I’d written
a book, recorded a dozen podcast
episodes, zombie-marched through a 14-city book tour, gotten sick a few
times, and missed more of my kids’ dance recitals and cross-country meets than
I care to remember. Hoping for recovery and insight, I’d embarked on an
ambitious vacation: a 120-mile solo paddle with a tight deadline for a resupply
and another tight deadline for a water taxi to pick me up at the end. A
vacation with deadlines! The insight, at least, was becoming obvious: what I
really needed was to slow down.
I’m not
alone in my overreach. Most of us have a hard time refusing to set goals. In
this age of 5G hyperconnectivity, performative workaholism, personalized
coaching, biohacking, Strava posturing, and supplement swilling, we’ve
internalized the imperative to optimize every aspect of our lives. We feel lost
without a plan, guilty for slouching, regretful of every injury, scuttled
workout, and to-do item left unticked. Even our so-called leisure activities
require frantic preparations and logistical ops reminiscent of Caesar’s army.
We
don’t just have fear of missing out, we have dread of slacking off. It’s
telling that so many of us push to the edge of our endurance in order to feel
good about ourselves. We’ve equated recreational difficulty and social-media
posts of summits with self-worth, and that’s a precarious and unsustainable
place to be.
So how
is putting our heads down and suffering in the name of glory working out for
us? Not so great. Americans are, by and large, fried. Depression and anxiety rates are soaring,
we’re experiencing high levels
of loneliness, and we’re not engaged in as many community
activities as we used to be.
Anne
Helen Petersen, a 38-year-old journalist and
long-distance runner in Missoula, Montana, remembers the days when her college
pals graduated and became ski bums for a while or worked odd jobs in national
parks. Now, she says, that’s rare. Younger millennials and Gen Zers, anxious
over the gig economy and helicoptered by their parents, fear veering too far
off script into experiences that offer unquantifiable personal gains. The
result? Malaise, disaffection, disconnection.
Last
year the World Health Organization expanded its
entry on burnout in the International Classification of Diseases, defining it
as a syndrome resulting from “chronic workplace stress that has not been
successfully managed.” It is characterized by feeling depleted, cynical, and
unmotivated. Many experts also understand it as a concept of charging too hard
without adequate recovery in other spheres of life, including parenting,
exercise, and passion-based volunteering.
Leisure
pursuits used to be about, well, leisure. Running, for example, emerged as a recreational
pastime in the sixties and seventies largely as a way to bliss out, according
to Princeton historian Dylan Gottlieb. By the early eighties, though, “running,
and marathon training in particular, dovetailed with the same habits that
yuppies honed in their white-collar jobs. Personal discipline, delayed
gratification, obsessive time management, constant self-analysis, long-range
planning: they were just as vital to race training as they were to arbitrage or
corporate litigation,” Gottlieb writes in Public Seminar magazine.
The
alpha-dog self-optimization trend has now permeated youth sports, too. Some
coaches admit that they’re complicit in creating burnout. “For many sports,
there is no longer an off-season, no time off, competitions all year long,
nonstop, and that’s trickled down to kids,” says Ken Vick, the CEO of Velocity
Sports Performance. “The demands are ridiculous.”
Millennials
are helping us understand burnout in a new way, because they’re insisting—in
their insistently millennial fashion—that we recognize its impact and the
urgency of learning how to back off, both in the workplace and in the rest of
our lives. For many of them, years of working hard has failed to
deliver measurable gains in wages, affordable real estate, or even job
security. And they are not happy about that. In an
article that went viral last year on Buzzfeed News, Petersen
wrote, “Burnout and the behaviors and weight that accompany it aren’t, in
fact, something we can cure by going on vacation. It’s not limited to workers
in acutely high-stress environments. And it’s not a temporary affliction: It’s
the millennial condition. It’s our base temperature. It’s our background music.
It’s the way things are.”
Of
course, every recent generation is at least passingly familiar with burnout.
The sometimes inspiring, sometimes soul-sucking rally toward achievement, self-reliance,
and optimal efficiency has been dogging us since the dawn of industrialization.
As early as 1807, Wordsworth lamented,
“The world is too much with us.” He preferred to leave it behind, walking some
180,000 miles in his lifetime across alp, glade, field, and fen.
The
overburdening of the individual can exact a real cost on both physical and
emotional health. As sports psychologist Michael Gervais bluntly puts it: “The
way the human organism responds to chronic stress is fatigue, staleness, and
even death.” He points to the effects of the stress hormone cortisol, a
get-up-and-go neuropeptide that is adaptive in spurts but should not remain
elevated all day.
When
we’re pushing hard for an extended period of time, we do indeed get stuff done.
We pass the test, win the race, meet our deadlines, make money for
shareholders. But as scientists are now learning,
those who are exposed to prolonged stress are more likely to develop dense
arteries, cellular inflammation, and unraveling of
the telomeres, those protective casings at the end of a cell’s chromosomes.
Even if
we’re incredibly fit, we can inflict collateral damage on two of our most
health-promoting systems, sleep and relationships, warns Rob Kent de Grey, a
social neuroscientist at the University of Utah. “One way or another, there’s
a cost to overdoing it,” he says. “You’ll eventually suffer performance
decrements, and you don’t always get to choose where the decrements are.”
The
relentless pursuit of achievement is also counterproductive to many of our
values, says Christie Aschwanden, a former nordic ski racer and the author
of Good
to Go: What the Athlete in All of Us Can Learn from the Strange Science of Recovery. “High-achieving
people almost uniformly don’t prioritize sleep,” she says, “and they are
kidding themselves, because that’s the single most important thing you need to
be good at anything.” Researchers at Harvard demonstrated that
adequate nighttime sleep significantly improves motor-skills learning and
memory consolidation. And a 2014 review of 113 studies found that sleep
deprivation likely reduces motivation and endurance, while a study from
Australia found that a lack of shut-eye increases tension and worsens mood
before competition.
A 2014
report from researchers in Sweden concluded that
people experiencing symptoms of burnout had poorer neural connections between
their brain’s amygdala—or threat center—and the anterior cingulate cortex,
which helps regulate emotions. Translation: they let stressful events get the
best of them. Another study from
Sweden, published in 2015, found that chronic occupational stress accelerated
aging in the medial prefrontal cortex, whose function is critical for
decision-making, judgment, and self-concept.
To put
it simply, we’re becoming jerks and prematurely aging ourselves. Burnout and
exhaustion, Aschwanden says, prevent us from being present, tuning into the
needs of our own bodies, and enjoying the people around us. Relying on
technology like sleep-tracking apps may only stress us out more. “You’ll become
one of those people road-raging on the way to yoga class,” she says.
The
good news is that while elite coaching may have contributed to the burnout
epidemic, it also points to a solution. “We spend more time now talking about
recovery,” says Gervais, who has coached amateurs, Olympians, and,
increasingly, burned-out executives. “To go the distance, to do extraordinary
things, nobody does it alone, and nobody does it when deeply fatigued.” It’s
easier to prevent burnout than to treat it, he says. But we shouldn’t be stress
avoidant, because it’s stress that drives us to perform and to excel. The trick
is to toggle between what Gervais calls “running to the edge of our capacity”
and recovering on a daily basis, with emphasis on the daily.
Two-time
Olympic volleyball silver medalist Nicole Davis learned this the hard way.
After the London Olympics, as she was training for the 2013 professional
season, she says, “I would take stress home with me and bring it to others.”
After a poor practice session, she was more impatient, grumpier, and quicker to
anger. Ultimately, she had to acknowledge that her emotional state affected her
performance back on the court.
“Fear
and anxiety are a wet blanket for passion,” she says. So she worked with
Gervais to “decouple my identity from just being an athlete” and to reexamine
her core values, including her relationship with the sport. It made her realize
that attitude is a big component of stress. “We are firing on a lot of
cylinders all the time,” she says. “Fatigue is inevitable. Burnout is not.”
Both
Gervais and Davis, who now coach together, believe that mindfulness meditation
can play a major role in daily recuperation, along with sleep, nutrition, and
hydration. A combination of these basics, they say, can apply to anyone at risk
for depletion in work or sport. “Meditation,” Davis says, “creates more
presence and a lengthened perception of time.”
Who
doesn’t want a more expanded sense of time? In fact, it appears that for many
of us there’s an inverse relationship between scheduled productivity and bliss.
Not that we can’t be in a flow state at work or while exercising, but it
happens despite the striving, not because of it. Bliss occurs when we are
emotionally at ease, in the moment, and well rested.
But it
wasn’t until I read How
to Do Nothing: Resisting the Attention Economy, by another
disaffected millennial, Jenny Odell, that I realized that perhaps the recovery
experts are asking only part of the question. Rather than attending to our own
optimization, what would happen if we attended to something else
altogether—say, each other? Or the natural world? Thoreau suggested as much in
his famous
essay “Walking”: “But the walking of which I speak has nothing in it
akin to taking exercise … as the Swinging of dumb-bells or chairs; but is
itself the enterprise and adventure of the day.”
Reorienting
in a meaningful way requires a fairly radical upending of capitalist norms, not
to mention our relationship with social media and information itself, but
Odell, a Bay Area artist and an art and art-history lecturer at Stanford
University, says it’s worth it. Even simply loafing about outdoors, with no
goals in mind, is “an act of political resistance,” she writes. “I’m suggesting
that we fiercely protect our human animality against all technologies that
actively ignore and disdain the body, the bodies of other beings, and the body
of the landscape that we inhabit.”
Odell
says she does this by wandering around and looking, slowly, at birds and plants
she’s learning to identify. It’s not that she isn’t busy, and she hasn’t sworn
off Twitter, but she also takes three-day retreats several times a year—by
herself and unplugged—to minimalist rental cabins in the mountains. “I call
them hermit trips,” she says. “The whole point is that they help me maintain a
sense of interiority.” The deep thinking that follows can help drive her
creativity. She finds it funny that apps like AllTrails rate spots by scenery
over natural history, biodiversity, and general loafability. “I like to look
for metaphors in nature, and those are not in an AllTrails review,” she says.
(For more on how Odell does nothing, see this story.)
After
sustaining a couple of injuries from overtraining, runner Anne Helen Petersen
no longer clocks her workouts or races, although she still enjoys participating
in organized events. “I’ll track distance, but not while I’m running,” she says.
Without her Garmin, she says, she’s gotten better at sensing how her body
feels, and she’s stronger because of it. She takes her earbuds out and listens
to the sounds of the mountains instead.
There
are lessons that don’t come easily for many of us raised in late-stage
industrialism. One day last spring at an artist retreat, my neighbor, Robbie Q.
Telfer, asked me if I wanted to join him for a short hike near Georgia’s
Chattahoochee Hills. I glanced from my computer screen to the pulsing burst of
springtime outside. I considered the number of pages I had left to write and
the number of days I had left to write them. I sighed and turned him down.
Telfer,
whose performance poetry often centers on the natural world, came back many
hours later looking very pleased with himself. On the trail, he’d stopped to
study a map when a retired schoolteacher sidled up to him and asked, “Would you
like to see a pond full of baby salamanders?” Uhhh, OK? The pond turned out to
be full of amphibians of all kinds, and there were sci-fi carnivorous plants
and two killdeer having sex. He was giddy recounting all this to me. When I
asked how far he walked, Telfer looked wounded: “I don’t consciously record my
mileage. My main rules are to let the experience unfold and don’t get lost.” He
and the teacher have since become pen pals.
Science
tells us that harnessing a spirit of play helps us bounce back from life’s
stressors and put disappointments into manageable perspective.
“We
take ourselves so seriously,” says Lynn Barnett-Morris, associate professor
in the department of recreation, sports, and tourism at the University of
Illinois. “Playful people have more resilience”—because they know how to find
amusement, defuse stressors, and solve problems creatively. “We think
playfulness can be an antidote to burnout,” she says. “Things roll off you.”
As
Telfer, a fan of nonlinear creativity, explained it to me, “If I see a path
going off, I’ll take it.”
I
decided I needed to go look for some nonlinearity. So a few weeks after my trip
on the Green River, I asked social neuroscientist Rob Kent de Grey to join me
for a relaxed hike in Utah’s Wasatch foothills. The 34-year-old postdoc knows a
thing or two about the trade-offs we make, sometimes subconsciously, in the
push to achieve. He spent his graduate-school years in thrall to a looming
corkboard in his office, on which he tabulated the 30 research projects he was
working on in various stages of completion. While collecting data, publishing,
and studying for his exams, his immune system fizzed out, his relationships
faltered, and the only time he could find for pleasure reading was while
brushing his teeth.
For a
full sensory wake-up, we decided to start our hike in Red Butte Garden and
gradually make our way toward the Bonneville Shoreline Trail. A sign on the
arboretum’s Floral Walk reminded us to notice microclimates by paying attention
to how the trail’s sunny spots felt on our skin. In the cool fall morning, they
felt great. That made me breathe more deeply. The toads and birds were riotous,
including a hummingbird that darted around a red yucca. We leaned over to
inhale a silver sands lavender shrub and admire blue globe thistles as tall as
our armpits.
But as
two people often do when they’re out for a hike, we soon forgot to smell things
and landed deep in conversation. And that’s OK, Kent de Grey assured me. Social
connection is perhaps the most important factor for happiness. He was geeking
out explaining what he’s learned about how psychosocial factors influence
health and disease. The upshot is that when we allow ourselves to wander a bit,
we become better at aligning our everyday actions with who we are and who we
want to be, and we boost our cellular health at the same time.
“Shall
we sit for a bit?” I asked, feeling a desire to shore up my telomeres.
“Yes!”
he said. The bench was high off the ground, and we swung our legs like little
kids. A hawk circled overhead. The scent of sage wafted from the hot slopes. I
felt like I was sitting in the sweet spot of stimulation, not too much and not
too little.
Kent de
Grey passed me a water bottle and adjusted his Ute Proud cap.
“We’re
not built for unrelenting stressors,” he said. “What the science points to is
this: the very act of doing nothing is important.”
We
stood up, stretched, and started out again, in a random direction. I was liking
it. I could see what Wordsworth and Thoreau knew, and what millennials like
Odell are rediscovering—that cruising around at the pace of human locomotion
may be the perfect riposte to modern life.
When we
want to feel powerful, it’s good to remember that humans are the only striding
bipedal mammals in the world.
This,
right here, is our superpower.
Contributing
editor Florence Williams is the author of The
Nature Fix: Why Nature Makes Us Happier, Healthier, and More Creative.
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