What does it mean to be productive? We often associate productivity with accomplishment, efficiency, and measurable output. We evaluate our days according to what we've completed, the goals we've achieved, and whether we've used our time effectively. But what happens when this same logic begins to shape how we engage with our hobbies, relationships, and interests?
In a recent TED conversation, "How to Escape Your Obsession With Productivity," Catherine Price and Rebecca McMackin challenge our cultural obsession with productivity and invite us to reconsider what makes our experiences meaningful.
Price asks: If we spend an afternoon having a meaningful conversation with a friend, why isn't that considered productive?
The question reveals how we've come to understand the value of our time. Within a neoliberal framework, we increasingly evaluate human activities by their economic utility. We are encouraged to optimize our schedules, develop marketable skills, and transform our interests into opportunities for financial advancement.
Even leisure has become something we feel compelled to justify.
When Making Music Isn't Enough
One part of the conversation particularly resonated with me. Price describes her love of playing music and the difficulty of finding other adults who want to make music simply for the experience itself. There often seems to be an expectation that playing together must lead somewhere, whether that's a performance, a recording, or some other tangible outcome.
This reminded me of conversations I've had with musicians I've played with over the years.
One guitarist once raised an interesting question: Would we still make music if nobody could ever hear it? What if we couldn't record anything, release an album, or share what we created with others?
It's a compelling question because sharing music with others can be deeply meaningful. Creating something together, expressing ourselves, and connecting with an audience are all legitimate reasons to make music.
But it also raises another question: If we remove the possibility of producing something for others, does the act of creating lose its value?
Another guitarist I played with approached music from a different perspective. He was reluctant to spend time creating music with us because of the opportunity cost. He wanted to dedicate his time to activities that could eventually generate income.
I found both perspectives interesting, particularly because I recognize elements of them in myself.
I often catch myself evaluating activities by their potential economic value. Is this worth my time? Could I be doing something more productive? Should I turn this interest into something that generates income?
It's difficult to escape the sense that our time needs to be justified economically, even when we're doing something we genuinely enjoy.
And I wonder what we lose when that becomes our default way of thinking.
The Neoliberalization of Our Hobbies
These experiences reflect a broader cultural phenomenon in which our hobbies and interests are increasingly treated as potential economic resources.
We are encouraged to turn our passions into careers, monetize our creativity, build personal brands, and develop side hustles. Activities that once existed primarily for enjoyment become opportunities for entrepreneurship.
Someone who enjoys painting is encouraged to sell their artwork. Someone who loves gaming might be told to start streaming. Someone who enjoys writing might be encouraged to build an audience or find ways to generate revenue.
None of these pursuits are inherently problematic. Sharing our work, developing skills, and earning income through something we enjoy can be meaningful.
The problem emerges when economic productivity becomes the primary measure of whether an activity is worthwhile. Within this framework, leisure is no longer just leisure.
Even rest is often justified by its productivity benefits. We are encouraged to take breaks so we can return to work more focused, practice mindfulness to improve performance, or pursue hobbies because they make us more efficient.
In other words, even our attempts to escape productivity culture can become organized around productivity.
Neurodivergence and the Value of Special Interests
This is a conversation that comes up frequently in counseling sessions with neurodivergent people.
For many autistic and ADHD people, hobbies, passions, and special interests can provide enjoyment, emotional regulation, opportunities for exploration, and a sense of identity. Yet people often evaluate these activities through conventional expectations of productivity and usefulness. For instance, an autistic person who spends hours researching a particular topic might be encouraged to pursue a career related to that interest. These suggestions rest on the assumption that an interest becomes more valuable when it produces something beyond the experience itself.
But why should that be necessary?
An autistic person's special interest doesn't need to become a career. Someone can spend hours learning about a subject, collecting objects, playing games, or making music without needing to justify the activity through its practical applications.
The experience itself can be valuable.
For individuals who have spent much of their lives masking, suppressing their interests, or adapting to external expectations, reclaiming the freedom to engage in activities without a productive purpose can be particularly meaningful.
Reclaiming Play for Its Own Sake
Throughout their conversation, Price and McMackin explore how play, gardening, creativity, and connection offer alternatives to our obsession with measurable outcomes.
Price describes fun as an experience involving playfulness, connection, and flow. Rather than something that requires elaborate plans or accomplishments, fun can emerge when we let ourselves become absorbed in an activity without worrying about what it will produce.
McMackin describes gardening as an opportunity to reconnect with nature and participate in something larger than ourselves. The experience doesn't need to be justified by the size of the harvest or the garden’s appearance.
Both invite us to reconsider our relationship with control, achievement, and expectations.
One of the more interesting ideas in their conversation is that playfulness can involve a kind of rebellion against the expectations of responsible adulthood. Perhaps there is something quietly subversive about doing something simply because we enjoy it, particularly within a culture that continuously encourages us to optimize our time.
But even here, I think we need to be careful. If we begin promoting play primarily because it reduces burnout, improves emotional regulation, or makes us more productive, we risk reproducing the very framework we're trying to challenge.
What Do We Lose When Everything Has to Be Useful?
Returning to my experiences with music, the question isn't whether creating an album or sharing music with others is worthwhile. Of course it can be. Rather, what happens when we can no longer imagine participating in something without an external outcome?
I even notice this language within my profession. Therapists frequently describe their fees as an "investment in yourself" or an "investment in your mental health." While well-intentioned, this framing reflects how deeply economic language has permeated our understanding of personal growth. Even therapy becomes something expected to generate a return, with progress measured through outcomes and self-improvement.
These expectations are embedded in broader economic and social structures. But not everything needs to be an investment in our future. Some things are valuable simply because we experience them.
Can’t the experience itself be enough?