The cost of the five-second rush
When we rush, we are not just likely to be less efficient; we are less empathetic.
Now I’m semi-retired - by which I mean I don’t have an actual job, but I can’t afford to go galivanting around the world without earning at least some income - my diary is chalk and cheese from before.
Back when I led my tech company, I used to describe my diary as a homicide scene. Packed full of meetings, reminders, events and travel bookings. 50 flights a year was normal, given we have customers all over Australia and the world.
Today, there are tumbleweeds blowing through my calendar. The regular appointments are my twice-weekly pilates classes and various social engagements. An occasional work-related one pops up.
I also don’t have young kids at home anymore - two are in their twenties and have flown the coop, and my youngest (late teens) is only with me alternating weeks. Thankfully, endless taxiing of youngsters to sports and extracurricular activities is long gone.
It’s led to a different approach to time management.
In today’s world, there’s a sense of endlessly rushing that seems to pervade our weeks. Whether at work, at home, or both, so many people seem tied to “time urgency”. We feel like we need to go fast to ensure we get everything done. Hurrying is a default setting. One untoward event - a flat battery - can throw the whole week into chaos. Life can seem like a series of obstacles to be overcome; we feel like we are climbing Everest every day.
Psychologically, constant time pressure pushes the brain out of its deliberative, prefrontal mode and into a faster, instinctive, emotion-driven state. Your nervous system engages, your cortisol rises, and your world narrows.
In 1973, psychologists John Darley and Daniel Batson conducted a study on seminarians inspired by the parable of the Good Samaritan. They found that the best predictor of whether a student would stop to help was not personality or religious belief, but simply how hurried they felt. As later summaries put it, “the best predictor of whether a student would stop to help was how hurried they felt.”
When we rush, we are not just likely to be less efficient; we are less empathetic. We become less likely to notice someone struggling with a pram, less likely to offer a genuine smile, and less likely to listen to the subtext in a partner’s voice. We prioritise speed over synthesis, and convenience over craftsmanship.
We also eliminate “liminal space“—the quiet, “dead” time spent waiting or wandering. These moments used to be where our brains processed the day and allowed us to daydream. Now, we fill every ten-second gap with a phone screen, terrified of the stillness that might catch up to us if we slow down.
Living well isn’t about ditching the clock or moving to the bush to grow organic kale - although I’m drawn more and more to a tiny house on a bush block with a veggie patch. It is about recognising that the “efficiency paradox“ is real: the more we optimise our lives to save time, the more time-poor we feel because we simply fill the vacuum with more tasks.
Perhaps the goal is to stop performing “busyness” as a badge of status. We can choose to reclaim the five-second rush. We can decide that the person in front of us is not an obstacle, and that the time spent between point A and point B is not “lost” time, but the very stuff life is made of.
Are we actually short on time, or have we just forgotten how to be still?