Recently, whenever I ask friends — across ages, industries and cities — how they are doing, the answer is almost always the same: It has been so hectic lately.

It is that word — lately — that lingers. As if what was meant to be temporary has quietly become the norm. And if we are honest, what does an average day look like? A morning run. Coffee with an Instagram friend. Calls, calls, calls. An evening date. One more urgent task before bed. Then scroll, scroll, scroll.

No wonder our nervous systems feel overloaded. When you are constantly moving — physically or digitally — when are you meant to switch off? And why would your body allow it, when it has been trained to expect the next notification, the next demand, the next shift?

So this is where we begin: not only asking how we ended up here, but how we return to a place of calm and depth.

Disclaimer: This material was first published in the special print issue of The Sandy Times Newspaper, created for House of Porsche. This digital version has been adapted for online publication.

A few years ago, we used to say that time was the most valuable currency. We scheduled 30-minute meetings to “give time”, to show we cared, to prove we were present. We stretched 24-hour days into what felt like 48, then 72 — convinced that productivity equalled value.

And yet, the faster we moved, the less we truly immersed ourselves in anything.

We eat while scrolling Instagram. Sit with friends while replying to emails. Watch a series together while drifting elsewhere in our own thoughts. We give time — but not attention.

And that is the shift. Time is no longer the currency we are short of. Attention is.

ADHD has almost become a cultural condition we collectively inhabit. How many times do you interrupt your work to check a notification? How often do you begin one task, switch to another, then another — only to forget what you were doing in the first place?

One of the most frequently quoted statistics suggests that the human attention span has fallen to eight seconds — shorter than that of a goldfish. What is even more striking is that diagnosed attention disorders are reported far more frequently in highly developed, highly educated countries. In many lower-income nations, prevalence appears significantly lower.

The more connected, educated and digitally immersed a society becomes, the more fragmented attention seems to be.

And this is where the economic layer enters.

If you are educated, digitally active, and economically capable, you are valuable. Brands compete for your attention. Platforms are engineered to capture it. Entire business models are built around harvesting your focus. The system depends on it.

And so, almost without noticing, we find ourselves inside a structure designed to fragment us — spending six or sometimes even more hours a day on screens, while feeling anxious without fully understanding why.

We understand one part of the problem: why our attention is being pulled apart from the outside. There are economic forces behind it — clicks, replies, notifications, visibility. Everyone wants a piece of our focus.

But what happens inside us? Why can we keep going for a while, then suddenly reach a point where we collapse — and can’t return to the speed life keeps asking from us?

Here is the chain, step by step.

And as one trigger leads to another, the body gradually shifts into a constant state of alertness. Cortisol rises to help us cope, but after a while the feeling starts resembling too much coffee — energised, yet wired, restless, and stressed at the same time.

Short periods of overwhelm are completely normal. The body activates its stress response, deals with the situation, and eventually settles back down. The real problem begins when the cycle repeats without enough recovery in between. The nervous system stops fully resetting. Stress hormones remain elevated more often, and the pressure quietly starts building in the background.

Over time, this creates what psychologists call allostatic load — the cumulative wear and tear caused by chronic stress. And eventually it begins affecting everything: sleep, mood, focus, immunity, emotional regulation.

But if constant stimulation and noise are exhausting us this much, why does slowing down sometimes feel almost uncomfortable — or even slightly threatening?

It has probably happened to you too — and even if it hasn’t, here is my version of it.

You finally slow down, sit alone with your thoughts, and for a brief moment it feels almost comforting. Quiet, at last. And then the thoughts arrive all at once, almost like an ambush. Is this really the life I want? Why does time suddenly feel like it is moving so fast? And sometimes the thoughts are even harsher in their simplicity: I am lazy. I am behind. I am wasting my time.

Somewhere along the way, we started treating speed as proof of progress. If we are moving fast, we must be doing well. We are active — even proactive. We are available. We are needed. And, perhaps most importantly, we feel as though we are in control. Because if we let go for a second, where would life drift?

That is why those precious moments of silence are so often replaced with a loud YouTube voice, or a reel we don’t stay with for more than five seconds. Not because we love the noise, but because the noise protects us from what comes up when it disappears.

There is a neurobiological response behind this, too. If you live for long enough in a state of heightened arousal, calm starts to feel unfamiliar — almost suspicious. When you slow down, stimulation drops, and the nervous system can respond with anxiety, irritability, or a strange sense of emptiness.

And then there is the social layer. The market rewards not only results, but the performance of busyness — availability. Being “always on” is often treated as professionalism. In that kind of system, slowing down doesn’t feel like rest; it feels like breaking an unspoken contract.

Speed feels safe and valuable. Slowness can feel like failure — even like stress. So should we choose speed over slowing down? Not really.

There is one simple answer to why we need to slow down: no matter what society, our inbox, or the economy demands, when we are stuck in the race, we aren't really in control. Cortisol takes the wheel. The brain shifts into survival mode. Small fears grow louder and more convincing. And it is no longer us making decisions — it is the nervous system trying to cope.

Under chronic overwhelm, the first thing that begins to suffer is regulation. We become more reactive — even to the pressures and triggers we create ourselves. The body feels heavy. You move through the day as though operating at 50%, with a battery that no longer holds charge, while life still keeps demanding 80%.

So what actually helps?

Start small and physical. Slow down in ways your nervous system can actually accept: shorten your to-do list, create pockets of quiet, reduce stimulation (especially notifications), and give your body a few moments each day to reset — even if it is only a short walk, a long exhale, or ten minutes without a screen. The aim isn’t to do less out of guilt; it is to regain control from the stress response and return to a pace that your system can sustain.