If there’s one expression that captures the state of our minds these days, it might just be this: brain rot. Not only because 37000 people voted it as the Oxford word of the year 2024, but because it describes us better than we’d like to admit. Mental fatigue, wandering thoughts, that quiet dread of having turned our brain into a lukewarm omelet. Or maybe something even worse: a playlist of thoughts we didn’t choose, a browser with too many tabs open, a background hum that never really stops.
We’ve all been there. Doomscrolling social media, watching one more video that leads to twenty-seven more, sitting on the couch with a vague sense of disconnection, time passing without leaving any real trace. And then there’s the aftertaste: that strange mix of shame, tiredness, and the silent question: what am I even doing? I have a poster in my office with a quote from Gandalf, the wise wizard from The Lord of the Rings: “All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.” The problem is that we’ve forgotten how to decide. Or maybe we’ve just outsourced the decision to whatever app is flashing in front of us.
There’s something I’ve started noticing, not only in myself but around me. We underestimate, massively, that our brains were never designed for this kind of environment. They’re not built for blinking lights, constant alerts, algorithmic traps, open tabs multiplying like bacteria, or the endless stream of data we now consume like dehydrated travellers in a desert. We’re not wired for this kind of attention economy, and yet we keep feeding it. Even worse, we still don’t fully understand the long-term effects of all this. What is this doing to us – not just to our concentration, but to our sense of self?
There is one thing we do know. The dopamine cycles triggered by our devices, that slot-machine-style stimulation (because yes, we are all gamblers now), hit especially hard on neurodivergent minds. For them, the pull is stronger, the fatigue more intense, the spiral faster. And for many, this isn’t just distraction anymore. It’s addiction, and not the kind you can solve with a productivity app or a weekend in the countryside.
The good news is that there’s a way out. The bad news is that it’s harder than we want it to be. Rewiring takes time. Effort. Compassion. It requires us to forgive ourselves when we fall back into the scroll. It asks us to re-learn the value of silence. To rediscover what boredom really is: something neutral, not a crisis to be fixed. To sit with discomfort, without instantly medicating it with a notification.
Because addiction isn’t always loud. Often, it seeps in quietly, unnoticed. It builds itself into our routine, tap by tap, swipe by swipe, until we can no longer tell whether we’re choosing or reacting.
And yet, noticing it is already a form of resistance. Naming it is a small rebellion. Choosing to disconnect, even for a few minutes, is the beginning of a return. A return to focus. To agency. To that older, slower version of ourselves that still exists – buried maybe, but not erased.
Our brains are tired. But they’re not beyond repair. They’re just waiting for us to remember how to use them differently
