For most of my twenties, I have lived in a constant haze of self-stimulation. Constantly reaching for my phone, constantly trying to fill every gap — a new YouTube video, podcasts, doom scrolling on Instagram or Twitter, watching movies while eating, listening to music while taking a walk, or constantly needing to talk to someone, almost like some sort of addiction.
Even while performing tasks I should otherwise be focused on, there is rarely a moment where my brain isn’t being dosed with something or craving more stimulation. It feels normal, natural even. It creates the illusion of being productive and busy, while in reality, nothing meaningful is getting done.
In a way, we have optimised away boredom. We actively fill every space with stimulation, constantly engaging in different activities to avoid silence or stillness. I started to question whether my thoughts were really my own anymore. Maybe they were just things I heard from a movie, a tweet, a podcast, or a YouTube video.
I don’t know if I have original thoughts anymore — thoughts that aren’t borrowed conclusions formed by other people’s opinions. Reviews of movies I had seen before I had enough time to sit with my own feelings. Perspectives handed to me before I could internalise and fully form my own.
Recently, I began noticing how allergic my brain had become to boredom. I became impatient with slow tasks and wanted rapid answers for everything. Instead of allowing myself to experience time, I wanted to consume it constantly.
“All of humanity’s problems stem from man’s inability to sit quietly in a room alone.” — Blaise Pascal
I came across that quote, and I decided to let myself be bored.
Going on walks without my phone. Working without music. Sitting in silence and allowing myself to experience the discomfort of mundane moments instead of immediately escaping them. At first, the silence feels unbearable. Your brain revolts against it. There’s this constant urge to fill the emptiness with noise, stimulation, distraction — anything.
But something strange started happening.
I began connecting ideas better. The mental fog slowly reduced. I became clearer in my thinking and more focused during tasks. I got more done in less time. I could describe problems more clearly and think through solutions without immediately outsourcing every thought to AI or external validation. I started noticing mistakes that would normally slip past me. Even creativity slowly returned — I had forgotten how to come up with things on my own.
Boredom is a muscle. If you never use it, it atrophies. Eventually, you lose the patience and ability to simply sit with your own thoughts. Your mind begins to revolt against stillness.
By allowing myself to become bored again, I started reconnecting with my own feelings and thoughts. It reminded me of being a child when my mother would force me to sit down and do homework or chores. Those moments felt painfully boring back then, but they were often more productive than endlessly consuming entertainment or pretending to multitask.
Maybe that’s why some of our clearest thoughts happen in the shower, or during those brief moments when our phones die. For a second, the noise disappears — and clarity slips through.
The Danish philosopher Søren Kierkegaard once wrote in Either/Or:
“Boredom is the root of all evil — and also the root of all great deeds.”
I think I finally understand what he meant.
Boredom is not the enemy. It is something we should learn to value and intentionally incorporate into our lives again. This doesn’t mean we should live in boredom — but we should occasionally allow ourselves the space to experience it.
To walk without music.
To eat without watching something.
To sit in silence without immediately reaching for stimulation.
Because sometimes, boredom is where we reconnect with ourselves again.