One thing I’ve realised about myself over the years is that observing people has always been part of who I am. Even as a child, I remember quietly sitting somewhere and watching people talk, laugh, react, disagree, or simply go about their day. At that time, I didn’t know there was a name for it. It was just something I naturally enjoyed. Today, as a counselling psychologist, that same habit has become much more conscious, and honestly, I still find it fascinating. Every place I visit feels like a collection of stories waiting to be noticed.
Sometimes I sit at an airport instead of scrolling through my phone and simply watch people. Sometimes it’s a café, a shopping mall, a park or even a waiting area. One thing I’ve been noticing more and more over the last few years is how much faster life seems to be moving. Everyone appears to be rushing somewhere. Someone is walking while attending a work call. Someone is eating lunch while replying to emails. A family is sitting together, yet everyone is occupied with a different screen. Parents are checking office messages, children are watching videos, someone is recording a reel, someone is replying to WhatsApp. Everyone is busy, but very few people seem fully present.
What fascinates me is how quickly all these changes have happened. It hasn’t taken generations. Many of them have happened right in front of us. Every two or three years, the world seems to reinvent itself. The way we communicate, the way we work, the way we relax, the way we celebrate, even the way we build relationships keeps changing. It’s exciting in many ways, but if I’m honest, it also feels overwhelming sometimes.
These days, there’s always something new we’re expected to keep up with. A new app, another AI tool, another productivity method, another course, another skill. Sometimes I feel tired simply hearing about everything we’re supposed to learn. I often wonder whether we’re the first generation that’s constantly trying to catch up with change instead of simply living through it.
In my therapy room, people rarely say they’re trapped in hustle culture. Instead, they say things like, “I don’t know why I’m so tired,” or “Even on Sundays I can’t relax,” or “I feel guilty if I’m doing nothing,” or “I have everything I wanted, but something still feels missing.” Those conversations stay with me because I don’t think people are only exhausted from working hard. I think many are exhausted from constantly feeling like they should always be doing more.
Somewhere along the way, being busy became something we proudly say about ourselves. Ask someone how life is going, and the answer is usually, “Busy.” Almost as though being busy has become proof that we’re successful or important. I often wonder when peace stopped sounding like an achievement.
One thing I genuinely miss from my childhood is having time to do absolutely nothing. We could spend an afternoon talking nonsense, watching the rain, visiting relatives without planning weeks in advance, or simply sitting together without feeling the need to be productive. Interestingly, those ordinary moments are the ones I remember most. Not the busy days, but the quiet ones.
I’m not against ambition. I meet inspiring people every day who genuinely love what they do, and I admire that. But I also keep asking myself one question. If we’re spending so much time building a good life, are we remembering to actually live it? Maybe that’s the question observation has slowly taught me over the years—not as a psychologist, but simply as someone who has always enjoyed watching people.
Are we collecting achievements, or are we collecting moments?
When I think about my own childhood, I don’t remember who was the busiest person around me. I remember who laughed the loudest, who made time for us, who sat with us over tea, who wasn’t always looking at the clock. Those are the people who stayed in my memory.
The more people I meet, the more I realise that life is far too complex for easy answers. But one thing I do believe is that the human mind needs pauses, just like music needs silence between notes. Without those pauses, everything slowly becomes noise.
Maybe the next time you find yourself with ten free minutes, don’t rush to fill them. Sit quietly. Watch the people around you. Drink your tea while it’s still warm. Call someone you’ve been meaning to speak to. Or simply do nothing. It might feel uncomfortable at first, but you may also realise that some of life’s most meaningful moments happen when we’re not rushing anywhere at all.
Perhaps we’ve never forgotten how to work. Maybe we’ve simply forgotten how to pause.
