In our relentless pursuit of productivity, we’ve developed a peculiar relationship with time—measuring it, optimizing it, lamenting its scarcity. “He’s such a hard worker,” we say, or “she’s always the first to arrive and the last to leave.” What emotions arise when you encounter such phrases? Some might identify with them proudly, while others, like myself, experience something closer to an eye roll. Yet these expressions persist as compliments, albeit sometimes ambivalent ones, in our evaluation of work and workers.
Perhaps more unsettling is how we’ve internalized these metrics socially. Statements like “I’m so busy,” “I don’t have time for anything,” or wishing days had 48 hours aren’t just accepted—they’re proclaimed with a kind of suffering pride. When we make such declarations, we’re essentially boasting, though it appears we’re complaining1. This phenomenon suggests that quantity of time has become a measure of self-worth, not just work value.
the paradox of time: diagnosis
Our relationship with time harbors a dangerous fallacy: that time dedicated equals work quality and competence. This blatant untruth continues to be nourished by business schools and their celebrated management “theorists” who reinforce paradigms where urgency, speed, and scarcity reign supreme: do more, faster, with less2. Organizations perpetually cycle through wellness initiatives—from workplace happiness to employee wellbeing, from psychological safety to mental health—not as ends in themselves, but as instruments to ensure people spend more time working and thinking about work, albeit under more appealing banners.
These “dead ideas” of management aren’t solely responsible for our distorted relationship with time. Our obsessions with productivity and efficiency commonly intrude, contributing to experiencing time as linear and finite—something that’s running out, something we’re losing3. Every moment becomes measured by what we believe we’re producing. All time spent in the office carries the expectation—from ourselves and others—that it must be useful time, time spent creating and producing.
This demand to produce something useful with our time deprives us of the possibility to engage with things that are useless yet important, perhaps even fundamental4. This thinking has become so pervasive that we now plan our leisure and vacation time using the same paradigms and tools—like Excel, to-do lists, and project management apps—we employ while working. “If I have limited vacation time, much less than my working hours, I must plan it well to maximize enjoyment.” Does this statement not strike you as strange and paradoxical?
the origins of productivity obsession: etiology
How did we arrive at this condition where even our leisure must be optimized? The origins lie partly in the industrial revolution’s mechanization of time. When the factory whistle replaced the natural rhythms of sunrise and sunset, human activity became measurable, standardized, and commodified. Time transformed from an experience into a resource—something to be spent, saved, or wasted.
The English poet John Keats offered a prescient antidote to this utilitarian conception of time in his notion of “negative capability”—the capacity to remain in uncertainty and doubt without irritably reaching for facts and certainty. This state of receptive openness, of being rather than doing, has largely vanished from our achievement-oriented culture. We’ve lost the ability to value what appears useless precisely because it doesn’t conform to productivity metrics.
