A few weeks ago, after a disastrous day, I had cereal for dinner.
Not because I wanted it or believed that it was a nourishing choice, but because it was simply the best that I could do. I had run out of groceries and willpower, and succumbed to the first ‘meal’ I learned to make as a child. Back then, I used to drink the milk from the bowl with satisfaction, but now, as an adult, it feels like a symbol of unraveling. As the flakes grew soggy, I looked down at my bowl, exhausted, and felt an odd sense of shame.
Shame for eating gluten-free corn flakes on a Wednesday at 8pm.
I thought of the many things that were wrong with the cereal: its lack of nutritional value, its unaesthetic, beige nature, and most notably, its direct correlation to what felt like my incompetence. Maybe if I had been more organized, woken up earlier, prepared a meal in advance, written a detailed weekly grocery list, or had the discipline to cook despite my exhaustion, I would have felt better about myself. But no. I lamented the person that I wished I was — the type of person who has a weekly grocery planner.
I couldn’t help but wonder why I felt so ashamed of the cereal. It certainly was not my first time eating corn flakes as a main course. I thought of the many times before, the many shameless human experiences I had had over a bowl of cereal; late night crying to my dad about my math homework, rushing out the door, milk dripping down my chin, after realizing I’d set my alarm for 7pm instead of 7am, and the special occasions of my childhood where we were allowed to have sugary cereal and savoured every bite. I used to accept those moments exactly as they were; messy yet comforting, endearingly honest.
I used to be able to bask in my imperfect humanness, but that night, I felt like a broken down piece of machinery, sparking and smoking.
So what changed?
How was my once soft acceptance of imperfection replaced by the hard edge of constant progression?
After consuming one too many “5am-9am before my 9am-5pm” routine videos, I realized that I, like so many people in our generation, have started to measure my value in what I’ve done, what I’m doing, and how well I’m doing it. I have become a doer, concerned with productivity, optimization, and task-based success. In many ways, I feel as though I’ve become a machine. Instead of laughing mid-sentence or napping mid-reading, I am checking boxes, fixing bugs, and constantly trying to update my systems — a mentality that is certainly not conducive to eating cereal for dinner, among other things.
While the desire to optimize ourselves is not new, it has become significantly more prominent in today’s media and culture. This cultural shift has traded in our innate humanness — our sensitivity, humility, and desire to have a sweet treat — for shiny, machine-like vessels for doing. Perhaps that is why the first thing we ask someone is “What do you do?” instead of “Who are you?”
In many ways, it is in our nature — to progress, to evolve, to advance. It is this doing that allows us to explore beyond the boundaries we have created for ourselves. It shows us what we are capable of doing, who we are capable of becoming, and allows us to achieve it. But now, we are not only the vessels for doing, but for doing as quickly, efficiently, and masterfully as possible. Running has become marathon training. Crocheting has become an independent business opportunity. Reading has become a means of self-improvement. And worst of all, we have curated 5am to 9am routines to optimize our mornings, before the workday even begins.
All in pursuit of our most optimized selves. In pursuit of reaching the very edges of our potential.
However, the relentless pursuit of self-optimization is unsustainable. It becomes overwhelming and unyielding, putting us at risk of reaching burnout along the way. It also heightens feelings of anxiety or guilt. As it has been noted, “the quest for achieving peak productivity is now akin to a religion,” and falling behind can make individuals feel as though they are letting themselves, or others, down. Even worse, it can distort our sense of self. When we place our value solely in our progress, we lose sight of the many other things that make us who we are — the things that hold our true worth.
We are overtaken by our doer-brain, constantly scanning for what’s next.
Hence, my tragic bowl of cereal, which suddenly made me feel as though I had never accomplished anything, ever.
The will to tirelessly progress can also trap us in a cycle of suppression and dissatisfaction. As we focus on what seems important, we are able to distract ourselves from what actually is. We lose ourselves in pursuit of who we are becoming, neglecting the tangible world around us and our connections to others. However, what we bury will always surface. The things we lose ourselves trying to forget often return, and the satisfaction of progression is clouded by the weight of all that is still unresolved.
If natural self-improvement is a wave, 2025’s desire to over-optimize everything is a tsunami.
Yet, we trudge forward, blinders on, neglecting the simplicity of existing. We treat ourselves as machines, running progress into the ground, and lose pieces of our humanity along the way. Long gone are the days of frolicking, meandering, or basking in the fading light.
But what if I want to bask?
What if, for once, I want to do something as slowly as possible — to enjoy the process instead of chasing the outcome? To focus more on fulfillment, and less on productivity? What if I just want to have cereal for dinner?
Perhaps it begins with returning to ourselves— to our humanness. The way that we feel deeply, break down and reboot, stall in the wake of pressure. The way that we linger at the doorway, wander the aisles, let the song play out, circle the block one more time, or maybe even come to a full stop.
If we devalue progress as a means of success, maybe we can find a new way to recognize our worth. Rather than focusing on how far we have come, we can choose to focus on who we met, how we felt, and the lessons we learned along the way. If we allow imperfection instead to be deemed normal, maybe we won’t suffocate under the pressure of trying to be perfect. We can still do the hobby that we love, and do it poorly, knowing that the value exists in doing it at all. Self-optimization often disguises itself as self-help, but maybe we should focus a little bit more on the self, and less on the help.
So, instead of trudging forward, I’m taking a moment to exist in the now — the best of it and worst of it alike. I’m returning to my own humanness, softening at the edges, and centring myself among the things that truly matter to me. I am not training for a marathon, starting a small business, or reading any self-help books. But I did buy a weekly grocery planner, and gluten-free corn flakes are at the top of the list — just in case.
