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Productivity Is for Robots

*Productivity Is for Robots* by Corey McComb presents wisdom from the contemplative traditions.

Corey McComb · book · Entry

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Author: [[Corey McComb]] Full Title: Productivity Is for Robots Category: #books introduction Between working full-time, planning a wedding, and stealing any extra moments to write, I was spread thin. Luckily, I had devoured plenty of productivity protocols and work/life balance hacks. I was well versed in the proverbs of “millionaire mindsets” and knew how important it was to hustle now so I could relax later. My chronic state of busy left me anxious, but how could I complain? The pieces of the life I’d dreamed of were swirling around me. Money, success, security—the freedom I’d craved for so long was there for the taking. I wasn’t going to let it get away. I began making bargains with myself. “More money now will mean more time to write later. You can do it all. You just need better systems. It won’t always be this hectic, just keep going.” It’s true that I could have managed everything with better systems, more intention, and a little more “balance.” But that wasn’t the real problem. The problem was that no matter what I did or didn’t do, I remained driven by an insidious feeling that I wasn’t doing enough. Before I knew it, my underlying anxiety swelled into waves of overwhelm—crashing over my head each morning, prying my eyes awake. My work bled into all areas of my life until both could only be described as “frantic.” My writing became infrequent, despite the constant guilt I felt for not writing more. By this time, I was spending 80 hours a week in front of a computer or a smartphone—juggling the riptide of emails, commitments, and self-imposed deadlines. I’d peer over my screen with a bloodshot gaze and see my fiancé’s worried face. My bosses, friends, and family all told me to slow down, but I just couldn’t stop. The long hours, mental anguish, and physical tension wreaked havoc on my body. I developed tendonitis in my arms, knots in my neck, and a sour stomach from gallons of caffeinated stress. Each day, I’d wake up and compete on the battlefield of productivity and go to sleep on what felt like a bed of hot knives—haunted by the things I didn’t get to, who I may have let down, and the countless ways I was letting myself down. I could no longer deny what I’d done to myself. I’d become a burnt-out zombie with a Wi-Fi connection—sprinting through quicksand, repeating the mantra: If you’re not stressed, you’re just not doing enough. We fill our calendars with more. We stay on the fast track. And we hold our opinions tighter and with more fervor—as if they were programmed into us. In our ongoing quest to become limitless beings, we’ve shifted our envious eyes away from the gods and toward something more quantifiable: output. If the entrepreneur is the modern-day rock star, then optimization, scale, and efficiency are the new sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll. We want the hacks. The SMART pills. Anything to squeeze out that last drop of focus. Where there was once time to savor, now there is no time to waste. The mental wanderings, afternoons spent without agenda, hobbies that have yet to become “side-hustles,” where have they gone? Technology was meant to set us free. Instead, we’ve chosen to imitate it.

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Productivity Is for Robots by Corey McComb presents wisdom from the contemplative traditions.

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