Joy is a form of self-care

Summer is in full swing and with it comes the urge to get out into the countryside, go somewhere and put your smartphone away. So, quickly, you need to wrap up those lingering tasks and extricate yourself from meetings that drag on forever. Responding immediately, juggling dozens of daily demands, no longer really acting but mostly reacting, and surviving the daily pressure to be present and perform well because we’re afraid of missing something. Since we can’t go on holiday as often as we’d like, we live our lives as if in an airport corridor. Between two departures, two screens and two moments of breathlessness. 

We thus ‘imperialise’ time. That is to say, the now, right this moment becomes an authoritarian ruler, a dominant force that overshadows all other possible forms of time (the long term, hindsight, maturation…). And indeed, the moment takes precedence over duration: we prioritise responsiveness at the expense of continuity ; we want answers and results immediately. Empty moments are disappearing. This culture of urgency, which scorns and eliminates moments of renewal, condemns us to a state of continuous hypervigilance, deepening ever further our difficulty in thinking clearly or experiencing genuine joy.

Everything is urgent, then, except self-care, which is relegated to the back burner. This is even more true for women, who feel more guilty than men about allowing themselves time or leisure. Women have 5 hours less leisure time per week than men – that’s around 10 full days a year. Self-care takes time, and so does joy. And we no longer have the time. Our bodies grow weary even as we live in a society obsessed with extending life expectancy.

In this culture of urgency (which, incidentally, is not a culture at all but an escape), there is no self-care and therefore no joy either. Joy requires care. Not immediate pleasure, the dopamine rush of a task completed, a message received, a ‘like’ earned – no. I am talking about true joy, which takes root lasting in our presence with ourselves, with others and with the beauty of the world. Without care, there are no bonds, no trust, no shared memory. Care is needed to love, to think.

Our times demand it all: efficiency, productivity, growth – with happiness thrown in as a bonus. To achieve this, they fragment our attention, squeeze our time, privatise our breathing, and sell distraction as a necessity and urgency as a lifestyle. As a result, joy is fading away. The void, which we have forgotten how to embrace, terrifies us, and inaction brings shame. 

The frenzy of urgency comes at a cost. Chronic stress continuously triggers the production of cortisol, the stress hormone. In small doses, it is true, it stimulates, but in high doses and over time, it exhausts the nervous system, prevents restorative sleep, weakens the immune system, exacerbates irritability and accentuates a loss of bearings. I cope with stress very well. That’s all very well, but it’s taking its toll on you too. 

A cascade of effects also sweeps through working life. The time to step back disappears and professional diligence becomes a struggle. Because we never have time to do things properly, we get used to doing things quickly. And what of thought? It atrophies. Creativity needs space, silence and detours. In other words, it needs time. It flourishes when the mind is free to wander. The more we react, the less we invent. Managers know this well: the more rushed we are, the less we think strategically. 

To grasp joy, we would no doubt need to recognise and rehabilitate vulnerability. We need to temper the phenomenon of busyness (the art of always being busy) as both a social imperative and a social posture. But also, and perhaps above all, we must destigmatise rest and stop glorifying the idea of ‘doing something at any cost, all the time’. Care takes time. It forces us to slow down, to look, to listen. To not know everything straight away. I know this is unbearable in an age that confuses decision-making with haste, authority with brutality, and performance with panic. 

Care is also political in that it resists productivity and the dictates of a fantasised future, because it recognises that a society which neglects care becomes a grinding machine. Care thrives on deliberate deceleration and the restoration of our intimate sense of time.

So what should we do when everything seems to be conspiring to rush us? We must dare to take that pause before saying ‘yes’, before clicking, before replying to an email. A pause that brings us back to life: I have the right to wait . To reconnect with our own rhythm, rather than that of others. Breathe, listen, walk aimlessly, without pressure to perform and without your phone. Setting aside an hour of slowness, at home or at work, is a form of self-care.

To those in management: stop confusing speed with urgency. Most things can wait until tomorrow. No, an evening email is not a sign of commitment; it is an intrusion, an excess of zeal that takes a heavy toll on our collective mental health. Let’s teach ourselves to prioritise, because kindness is not the enemy of high standards but the very condition that makes them possible in the long term. We need clear boundaries, as we now know: a clear separation between work and life. The freedom not to reply straight away and, above all, a right to emptiness – in the sense that emptiness is not nothing but the space that makes connection possible.

We shouldn’t make care a private matter. Care is a public and political matter. Whilst more and more carers are taking their own lives under the weight of never having enough and a lack of resources, care is everything that enables a human being to stand on their own two feet. These resources include decent holiday entitlement, parental leave and support services. Financial and symbolic recognition for those who care for others – our elderly, our children and our planet. That is the very heart of a nation that does not become cynical.

We have been taught to be ashamed of our flaws, to hide our vulnerabilities behind our achievements. This is a mistake. Vulnerability is not a shortcoming but, on the contrary, the very basis of connection. It enables intimacy, empathy and solidarity. In fact, it is a gift. As Cynthia Fleury writes, ‘our vulnerability is a source of strength’.

But it also requires attention and availability. It arises when the body is no longer on the defensive and when the mind is not overburdened. It needs irregularity, the unexpected and a little shade. When everything becomes urgent, nothing is truly alive anymore. Joy, as a collective need, requires rested bodies and moments of silence. 

Where there is joy, there is connection. Where there is connection, there is still a little bit of humanity. In these times of urgency, we must relearn how to distinguish between what is urgent and what is essential. Joy is essential.

Warm regards,

Inès Leonarduzzi.