Always On: The Silent Cost of Constant Availability

There is a reason I keep going back to Auroville.

It sits quietly between Pondicherry and the rest of the world, as if it has politely refused to hurry. Red mud roads, filtered sunlight through thick trees, bicycles moving without urgency, people walking as though they have nowhere else to be. Even the air feels unbothered. It doesn’t rush into your lungs. It settles.

The place I usually stay is tucked deep inside, almost hidden. A natural garden surrounds it — not decorative, not manicured in the strict city sense — just alive. Plants growing the way they want. Pathways curving without straight-line discipline. The staff move gently. They smile without overdoing it. You don’t feel observed. You don’t feel evaluated. You feel allowed.

Early morning there has its own personality. The light is soft and slightly golden. The ground still holds the night’s coolness. Birds are already at work. Somewhere, someone is watering plants with complete seriousness. My wife was still sitting inside that morning, slowly waking into the day. I stepped out for what I thought would be a ten-minute walk.

Ten minutes became two hours.

I started with leaves. Different shades of green that no corporate presentation slide has ever captured. Some thin and sharp. Some round and generous. Some with edges like tiny architecture. The roots of a nearby tree had pushed up the soil in a pattern that looked like they were designing their own city. I stood there studying it as though I had an exam the next day.

There was a small pond near the garden. Quiet, almost pretending to be invisible. I leaned closer and noticed something I would normally have missed. A small tortoise was resting near the edge, so still that it looked like a stone that had changed its mind about being a stone. Tiny fishes were moving in coordinated confusion, coming up to the surface for air, creating bubbles that popped with unnecessary elegance. They would maneuver around each other with zero meetings, zero hierarchy, zero performance reviews.

A couple of cats were doing their slow, entitled walk across the compound. Dogs, already awake, were wagging their tails as if the morning had personally invited them. No one seemed in a hurry to become anything. Everything was already itself.

At some point I found myself with a cup of coffee in hand. I don’t even remember ordering it. I just remember sitting there, sipping slowly, watching light shift across the garden.

And then, around eight or nine, it hit me.

My phone.

I had left it in the room.

For a second, I felt a small jolt. What if someone had called? What if there were missed calls from the office? What if Jai had tried to reach me? What if some urgent mail was sitting there, growing impatient?

In that moment, the peace I had enjoyed for two hours started shrinking because of a device that wasn’t even in my hand.

I stood there and laughed at myself.

For nearly two hours, I had been fully present. I had seen a tortoise I would never have noticed on a normal day. I had observed fish bubbles like they were performing a meditation routine. I had appreciated dogs wagging their tails with Olympic commitment. All of it happened because I had accidentally forgotten my phone.

If that phone had been in my pocket, even silent, I would have checked it “just once.” That one glance would have led to another. A message would have pulled my mind somewhere else. A notification would have inserted urgency into a morning that did not ask for it. The garden would have been background. The tortoise would have remained a stone. The fish would have been invisible. The coffee would have been just coffee.

Those two hours were not special because Auroville is magical. They were special because I was unavailable.

And that is where this blog begins.

When Rest Feels Like Guilt

A few countries quietly conducted an experiment that unsettled the global work culture without shouting about it.

In Iceland, employees worked around 35–36 hours a week instead of the traditional longer hours. Pay remained unchanged. The result surprised many observers: productivity held steady and in several cases improved. Stress levels dropped. Burnout reduced. Work-life satisfaction rose. The economy remained stable and even competitive across Europe. A country known for volcanoes demonstrated something far more explosive — time boundaries increase clarity.

The United Kingdom followed with a six-month trial involving dozens of companies. Nearly all participating organisations chose to continue the shorter week after the trial ended. Employees reported better focus, stronger engagement, and improved mental health. Revenue figures did not collapse. Work continued. Life expanded.

New Zealand, Spain, Canada, parts of Germany, even Japan — conversations began everywhere. Fewer days. Tighter focus. Stronger boundaries.

Then there was the story of an Indian professional working abroad who received an email after office hours. The next morning her manager apologised for disturbing her personal time and clarified that evening communication fell outside company culture. She described feeling stunned. The apology felt foreign. In many places, late-night pings are interpreted as dedication. In that environment, protected time was treated as dignity.

These stories reveal something deeper than policy. Work often expands to fill available space. Urgency grows where availability exists. When access becomes unlimited, expectations follow.

If multiple economies can thrive within defined limits, the belief that every waking hour must remain reachable deserves re-examination.

Somewhere along the way, constant availability transformed into a badge of commitment. Rest began carrying a subtle layer of guilt. Productivity shifted into pressure.

Pressure is a fragile foundation for a life.

Your Nervous System Was Never Meant to Stay “On”

Human physiology evolved around rhythm.

For most of history, threat appeared physically and occasionally. A sudden movement in the bushes. A raised voice. A visible confrontation. The body reacted swiftly — heart rate up, muscles primed, attention sharpened. After resolution, the system returned to baseline.

Activation followed by recovery.

Recovery completes the cycle.

Circadian rhythm governs energy and rest. Cortisol rises in the morning to initiate alertness and gradually tapers as evening approaches. Parasympathetic processes take over to repair tissue, consolidate memory, regulate hormones.

Enter the smartphone.

A notification carries unpredictability. The brain reads unpredictability as potential demand. The demand may be minor, yet the system prepares.

Robert Sapolsky’s work on stress shows that anticipation activates stress circuits as reliably as the event itself. A possible interruption is sufficient stimulus. “Who messaged?” “Is it urgent?” “Did something go wrong?” That question mark triggers preparation.

Preparation involves cortisol and adrenaline. Heart rate shifts. Muscles engage slightly. Attention narrows.

The event resolves quickly. Then another notification appears.

A pattern forms.

Instead of occasional activation, the sympathetic nervous system begins hovering at low intensity throughout the day. A subtle hum. No dramatic spike. Just sustained readiness.

Parasympathetic recovery receives less uninterrupted time. Deep restoration requires extended calm. Fragmented calm yields shallow repair.

Many people describe feeling tired yet wired. That phrase captures the physiology perfectly.

Dopamine adds another layer. In Dopamine Nation, Anna Lembke explains that dopamine tracks anticipation rather than pleasure itself. Variable reward schedules create strong reinforcement. Social media platforms operate on unpredictability — sometimes meaningful content appears, sometimes trivial content appears. The unpredictability strengthens the checking behaviour.

Each scroll resembles a slot machine pull.

Then comes the Zeigarnik effect. Incomplete tasks occupy mental bandwidth longer than completed ones. Unread messages remain cognitively active. Even without conscious thought, the brain tracks unfinished loops.

Multiply this across dozens of micro-interactions daily. The mental desk fills with scattered files.

Daniel Kahneman observed that whatever captures attention feels disproportionately important. Notifications exploit this attentional narrowing. A single message dominates mental space until addressed.

The body reacts first. Interpretation follows.

Over time, baseline shifts. Sleep depth decreases. Irritability increases. Sugar cravings rise because stressed systems seek quick glucose. Reaction speed outruns reflection speed.

Nothing dramatic collapses. Functioning continues. Subtle tension becomes normal.

The human nervous system thrives on oscillation — engagement followed by withdrawal, effort followed by rest. Continuous alertness compresses that rhythm.

The brain learns from repetition. Repeated alertness trains vigilance.

The Symptoms People Call “Busy”

The most interesting aspect of chronic availability lies in how ordinary it feels.

Morning begins with a thumb movement before full consciousness. Overnight updates receive priority over sunlight. Within minutes, the system has engaged in cognitive processing.

By afternoon, patience shortens. A minor delay carries disproportionate weight. Later reflection brings mild embarrassment. The nervous system had already consumed its quota of micro-activations.

Evenings introduce a different comedy. You sit to relax and pick up the phone for entertainment. Dopamine loops resume. Thirty minutes pass unnoticed. Fatigue increases. Stimulation continues.

Sleep arrives. Depth negotiates. A small awakening at 2:43 a.m. feels random. An unfinished email drifts into awareness. The brain remains lightly vigilant.

Weekends promise relief. The device rests within arm’s reach. Silence feels temporary. Attention remains partially allocated toward potential interruption.

Culturally, this state receives applause. Responsiveness equals dedication. Quick replies equal professionalism. Continuous reachability equals reliability.

Meanwhile, physiology adapts quietly. Heart rate variability reduces slightly. Shoulder muscles hold tension. Jaw tightens. Irritation rises easily. Calm requires effort.

The condition masquerades as adulthood.

A culture that collectively hums at low-grade alertness begins mistaking tension for ambition.

The cost accumulates slowly.

Designing Recovery Instead of Hoping for It

Repair requires structure.

Willpower fades with decision fatigue. Design conserves energy.

Offline windows offer a starting point. One hour after waking without digital input stabilises cortisol rhythm. One hour before sleep allows parasympathetic processes to dominate without interruption. The phone can live in another room during these windows. Physical distance reduces behavioural friction.

Notification pruning matters. Every app need not demand real-time access to your nervous system. Essential communications remain. Peripheral alerts disappear.

Batching responses creates cognitive order. Checking at defined intervals reduces scattered attention. Colleagues adapt quickly when expectations shift consistently.

The bedroom functions best as a restoration zone. Associating the bed with scrolling conditions the brain toward stimulation. A basic alarm clock restores the bed’s original purpose.

Micro-rituals signal safety. A ten-minute walk after work without devices. A cup of tea consumed without screens. Three minutes of slow breathing before opening email. Repetition builds neural association between these cues and calm states.

A weekly low-stimulus period recalibrates baseline. Fewer apps. More sensory engagement with physical surroundings. Sports, cooking, reading paper books, conversation without devices.

James Clear emphasises in Atomic Habits that environment shapes behaviour more reliably than motivation. Adjust the environment and behaviour follows naturally.

The goal involves rhythm restoration. Engagement when required. Withdrawal when complete.

Recovery supports performance.

Boundaries protect clarity.

Ten Years From Now

Imagine yourself ten years ahead.

You sit somewhere quiet. The noise of the present has softened into memory. The targets that once felt urgent have become lines in old reports. Thousands of messages have dissolved into digital dust. Entire WhatsApp conversations that once felt critical are impossible to even recall.

Which notification shaped your destiny?

Which late-night email deserved the tightening of your jaw?

Which quarterly target outperformed your heartbeat?

Time has a way of exposing exaggerations. What felt immediate shrinks. What felt overwhelming becomes anecdote. What felt “urgent” turns out to have been loud rather than important.

Health, however, compounds. So does strain.

A nervous system that lives in permanent readiness carries that readiness into the next decade. Into the next argument. Into the next illness. Into the next relationship. The body remembers every cycle of alertness. It also remembers every cycle of recovery.

Availability has value when chosen. It loses dignity when automatic. A life built on reflex slowly forgets how to breathe deeply.

There is something profoundly strong about a person who can work intensely and then switch off completely. Who can answer decisively and then rest without guilt. Who can step into urgency when required and step out of it with equal grace.

That movement — between engagement and ease — creates steadiness. And steadiness creates longevity.

The mind that knows how to return to calm becomes powerful in ways busyness can never imitate.

When alertness and rest coexist consciously, flow begins.

And flow feels lighter than constant readiness.

Choose when to be available.

Choose when to be still.

Your nervous system will thank you for decades.