Escaping Optimization Hell
The Flawed Pursuit of a Productive Life
It was 4:50AM when I stepped into the shower, groggy. I was worn out and half awake– at least, until icy water erupted from the shower head. As the freezing stream touched my skin, shock set off throughout my nervous system. This went on for a few seconds, which did not feel like a few seconds, before numbness took over.
“Why am I doing this?” I asked, shivering. Nobody answered.
I’ve been on the internet long enough to know that for every conceivable human problem, there also arrives an endless stream of paid solutions. Solutions for every demographic, any insecurity, and fleeting desire. Podcasters and social media influencers peddle sketchy pills and supplements with religious fervor while hustle culture and “productivity” influencers co-opt things like biohacking for financial gain.
If you exist, your psychographics are likely stored on a server somewhere, ready for advertisers to weaponize. There are entire industries predicated on self-optimization. After all, there’s money to be made. A report from Grand View Research claims the global personal development market was valued at $48.4 billion in 2024 and is projected to grow at a compound annual growth rate (CAGR) of 5.7% from 2025 to 2030. More and more players are entering the market.
There’s just so much noise. How did we get here?
Our cultural DNA rewards work as a moral virtue. People who work long hours and don’t sleep well, trudging through their days with coffees and teas, are lauded for being “go-getters,” sacrificing rest for the sake of ambition. It’s not surprising then, that such context makes it possible for such optimization-obsession culture to flourish.
The U.S. was especially primed for it. The ill-named “Protestant work ethic,” dubbed by sociologist Max Weber, with its focus on work, diligence, discipline and deferred gratification has been a driving force for much of modernization. That line of thinking came with the idea that efficiency was not just value, but virtue. An individual’s personal worth became inseparable from how materially productive they were. So when technologies emerged to help quantify self-improvement, to measure sleep, productivity, step counts and happiness–they found a welcoming audience.
The “quantified self” movement, popularized Gary Wolf in 2007, offered something simple to people in this demographic. Track your life, optimize the variables, and live all the better for it. I was one of these people.
I found myself part of a growing trend of individuals that, for decades, pursued salvation through transformation into this optimized self. It wasn’t vanity that drove us, but a legitimate desire to live better in whatever measurable aspects of life. It meant having control over something that used to be obtuse.
In High Output Management, former Intel CEO Andy Grove mentions the importance of picking good “indicators” when it comes to monitoring productivity. With the right indicators and metrics, one could get an accurate read of how things were going in an organization’s operation. If these systemic teachings could be applied to business operations to great effect, surely, it could extend to body and mind?
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Another night flashes into view.
Sleep is important. Sleep is good, I’d think. I'd do my little wind down ritual at the end of the day in a bid to get to bed a consistent time. Shutting my eyes, I hoped for sleep to come. It didn’t. My mind kept gripping to the sensory details of my empty apartment, the drunken footsteps of people back from a night on the town, and building creaks and moans and skitters. I began worrying. “Oh no, I’m not asleep yet.” I checked the time. Minutes passed. I calculated how much sleep I’d get as a result. I closed my eyes again, less hopeful. Every noise was magnified. Even the brightness of the lights that softly diffused from the buildings across the street into my apartment felt like a rude intrusion. In my wish for better sleep, I’d become sensitized to everything I felt was keeping me from it. I had given myself a bout of sleep anxiety, which if you can believe it is another very real condition for people like me who’ve managed to overthink a task as fundamentally human as sleeping. I sighed as I stared at my uninterested ceiling. It’s going to be a long night.
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At first, the optimization felt refreshing. With the measurements and data I was collecting, self-improvement felt like a solvable problem. I wore a smartwatch to bed every night to get sleep scores in the morning. I had trouble feeling like I had worked out if I didn’t have an electronic device on my person that could testify on my behalf that yes, I had done the work.
With this renewed sense of being, I slept longer, worked out more, and ate more mindfully. Everything that could be measured, could be managed. Yet, as time went on, how I related to the same achievements now felt unsatisfactory. What was once a reason for joy now felt like fulfilling another obligation. If my sleep score told me I had a bad night of sleep, it didn’t matter how I initially felt, I’d feel tiredness sink into me. If my step count seemed to be behind “pace” for the day, anxiety would creep into my view, nudging me to think of a way to somehow get the remaining 1,240 steps to hit a nice, round 10,000. The control I sought with optimization now seemed to control me.
In The Quantified Self in Self in Precarity, Phoebe Moore explores a critique of the quantified self movement through the lens of labor. Self-tracking technologies, she mentions, can be used in the workplace, which blurs the lines between personal and professional. What implications does this have for privacy, and our personal autonomy? As I read Phoebe’s words, I became uncomfortable. I hadn’t needed an organization or a manager to impose these surveillances. I had done it to myself, voluntarily. In my treatment of myself, I had been complicit in my own smothering surveillance.
Trying to eke out gains everywhere seemed promising but after a while of doing it, it just felt burdensome and tedious. This was not the path to a life well-lived.
As the numbers got better and better, I subjectively felt worse and worse. Everything looked good on paper. There wasn’t a doubt about it. So what gives? Pursuing perfection of my chosen metrics was exacting a toll. I had built an automaton in my image and replaced myself with it. Every day, with every checkbox, I was going through the motions. I had driven the joy out of my pursuits with my discipline. I had cut the air off from my flame, so it went out.
The steps I took, the calories I ate, the hours I slept–all of those were indicators that were supposed to be loosely held and lightly watched. Somewhere along the way, that core got lost. That’s what made me feel so low for a long time.
Optimization has its place. If we aim to be 1% better every day, that type of small change compounds dramatically. However, you can’t compound if you’re bankrupt or if you consistently withdraw more than you deposit. I pivoted hard from optimization. I wanted something simpler, more sustainable. Something lasting. Intensity can be great for growth but nobody thrives at 100% intensity all the time. After months of optimization, I finally arrived at a philosophy I could live with. I wanted to feel capable performing for life, not just for six weeks or six months. This helped me close the scope. I started thinking of simple habits over everything else. What was the tiniest possible viable “thing?”
The base habits I started with were ones that felt like brushing my teeth, showering, or eating–unquestionable and obvious. It wasn’t a question of “If I have time for this” or “I’m too tired for this.” With these in place, I could then really focus my intensity in bursts where I actually needed it. After a few weeks, life started to feel like it was truly mine again. No longer was it a joyless tuning of metrics, but an invigorating pursuit of being. Thank goodness for that.
Have a great week,
Eashan