The Intermediation of Experience

An antidote for those of us who are chronically online: do the damn thing.

Tulips my son and I hand-picked at a tulip farm last Saturday. I left my phone (and headphones) in the car.

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For months now my mind has been attempting to make sense of a chaotic jumble of disparate but interconnected topics—burnout, productivity, financial security, recommendation culture, social media addiction, distraction, consumption, culture, and art. As an attempt at processing some of my feelings about all of the above, I sat down to write a personal essay about burnout but my brain kept glitching on this question: why do I feel strongly about recommendation culture when I am not an influencer, of any kind?

The answer: my attention—and yours—is inherently valuable. And recommendation culture robs us of (necessary) experience.

From 2015 through April of last year, I worked 60-80 hour weeks quite regularly and not infrequently, 100 hour weeks. This, in and of itself, is not an unusual fact (though perhaps it should be) in America’s ultra capitalist society. Exacerbating my situation, however, was the almost complete lack of autonomy over my own time.

The culture of BigLaw is very much: the client says jump, and the firm says, how high. I could write endlessly about the ways in which I experienced this (and the degrees to which I did) but given that I still don’t have any brilliant ideas on how to more humanely deliver excellent client service in an increasingly commoditized space—I won’t.

Describing the days on end where I was sleeping 4-5 hours a night, skipping meals, and not leaving my house even for a short walk are, I think, still too painful to rehash. However, one constant, during that period was the endless and repetitive search for distraction.

Like so many of my colleagues, I would lie on the floor, in five minute increments, wedged between a marathon of conference calls, and I would scroll through picture after picture of chef-prepared meals on Instagram or listen to snippets of podcasts on “wellness.”

Anything to avoid thinking about the thousands of words I would have to draft later that evening. Or, worse, admitting to myself how enmeshed my self-worth had become in financial security (and therefore my productivity). I was so afraid to be alone with my thoughts that I always had at least one headphone popped in one ear at all times, a bop or podcast cued up for any moment of silence or rest.

I remember when a fellow associate saw a copy of Burnout: The Secret to Unlocking the Stress Cycle by Emily and Amelia Nagosaki on my desk and the book whipped through the lawyer-mother cohort of my old firm like wildfire. We all made time to read at least parts of the book but did we (could we?) put any of its recommendations into practice?

I also remember a two-year period where I struggled with adult onset acne and I felt deeply insecure about my skin but I didn’t actually make the time (have the time?) to leave the office to see a dermatologist. Instead, I endlessly scrolled the glossy feeds of beauty influencers and hit purchase on products that didn’t help and quite often, made things worse. I remember when a beautifully packaged product actually peeled off a good chunk of my sensitive skin. I always told myself I had two minutes to scroll and hit buy but I did not have the two hours a dermatologist visit would take.

I was financially secure but time poor. And rather than taking the limited time I had available to tune into myself and what I actually needed, I kept looking to the internet for answers. And of course, it wasn’t all so bleak. There were times where I set appropriate boundaries and took breaks. And how did I learn to set those appropriate boundaries? Candidly (and with some shame), a combination of therapy and TikTok.

But still, I tried so hard to believe that everything would be fixed if I could just find enough meal prep hacks, and the right supplement.

This morning, I reached the bottom of the jar of an extremely overpriced body lotion I bought at the height of my overwork (and at the recommendation of an influencer). The satisfaction I felt at tossing the empty container in the bin is hard to capture. Part of it is that I actually used an extremely overpriced thing and didn’t let it go to waste. Part of it is that I took the time to slather this rich cream onto my damp body each day, even when there were other demands on my time. Part of it was sticking with something long enough to know, definitively, that for me, the lotion is not worth it. This is not to say another overpriced thing won’t bring me joy. It is just that this particular lotion wasn’t it. In short, I actually had the experience of the lotion rather than the experience of reading about someone’s experience of the lotion.

Nothing I have shared thus far is revelatory. In fact, I’m not really sure that I can improve on the

The Honest Broker

’s observations (which include the point that art has devolved into entertainment, which has further devolved into distraction):

“[t]he fastest growing sector of the culture economy is distraction. Or call it scrolling or swiping or wasting time or whatever you want. But it’s not art or entertainment, just ceaseless activity.

The key is that each stimulus only lasts a few seconds, and must be repeated.

It’s a huge business, and will soon be larger than arts and entertainment combined. . . . .This is more than just the hot trend of 2024. It can last forever—because it’s based on body chemistry, not fashion or aesthetics.

Our brain rewards these brief bursts of distraction. The neurochemical dopamine is released, and this makes us feel good—so we want to repeat the stimulus. . . .This is a familiar model for addiction.

Only now it is getting applied to culture and the creative world—and billions of people. They are unwitting volunteers in the largest social engineering experiment in human history.

Here’s the future cultural food chain—pursued aggressively by tech platforms that now dominate every aspect of our lives. The tech platforms aren’t like the Medici in Florence, or those other rich patrons of the arts. They don’t want to find the next Michelangelo or Mozart. They want to create a world of junkies—because they will be the dealers.

Addiction is the goal.”

I would argue that, for me, and anyone else trying to numb themselves through difficult times this phenomenon has been around for some time. In fact, it is pervasive. In industries like law, which have long been hotbeds for other types of addiction, tech addiction is increasingly prevalent. Lawyers may be particularly susceptible to this, because, at least a subset of us, are expected to be yoked to our devices. And we’re rewarded handsomely for it.¹

More tulips.

So where does recommendation culture fit in to all of this? Is it not different from influencer culture?² If no one is trying to peddle us more stuff or pummel us to death with affiliate links, but rather share their hard-fought wisdom authentically, is there a problem?³ Yes. The problem is the intermediation of the experience.

Here’s the thing, creating something is hard. Consuming it (really, engaging with it) should also be hard. Letting a TV show wash over you for a few days and then dropping a link to it is not hard. Creating that same TV show? Very hard. Thoughtfully critiquing it? Also hard. [That is why people have PhDs in topics such as literary criticism.]

Skimming an article that is vaguely about a problem a friend is having and texting it to them is not hard. Going on an hour-long walk with them and hashing it out is hard.

If you take the time to write a comment on an article (even if no one responds to it), you’ve read it closely enough to have a complete thought or feeling about it. You are actually experiencing the thing! If you are able to watch a TV show, without picking up your phone countless times, you are, my friend, ahead of the curve.

I am more guilty of consuming, rather than engaging, than anyone else I know. I love cooking and over the past ~10 years, I have saved 1000s of recipes in my e-mail, on my Notes app, in Pages, on my literal pinboard and on, and on, and on. I have saved so many recipes that I am quite confident that even given a lifetime of cooking 21 family meals a week, I wouldn’t get through them. I need to stop saving recipes (and recipe videos) and actually cook something. And I have. Since leaving BigLaw my family has sat down to dozens, if not hundreds, of family meals, and we’re all happier for it.⁴

There is a time and place for recommendations but so many of them just act as a barrier to true experience. My personal Instagram account is so chaotic that I wish I could physically set fire to it. At the same time, it is a twisted shrine to every new fad or trend I’ve toyed with from intermittent fasting to cross-stitching. And while I’m absolutely sure cross-stitching restored some influencer’s mental health circa 2021, I’m equally sure it made my eyesight worse and aggravated my chronic shoulder pain.

That’s the thing about recommendations, unless you have the time to do (or use) the recommended thing it is totally useless to you. And sometimes, even if the recommendation is absolutely spot on, it is robbing you of the ability to curate your own life. It is taking from you the development of your own taste and preferences. It is exacerbating group think and accelerating the flattening of our culture.

Every algorithm on every platform is trying to amplify the copycat version of the one video or photo or article that went viral. But the original piece probably went viral because it was original.

We all know our attention is valuable. We are all trying to scroll less, or quit social media. As I was in the midst of writing this very post, The New Yorker sent me a push notification about an article titled, “The Dumbphone Boom Is Real,” with the subheading “A burgeoning cottage industry caters to beleaguered smartphone users desperate to escape their screens.”

I could prescribe a media diet for you, or I could direct you to the countless, excellent books that have covered all of this and more, but then I would be a part of the problem. And I actually think it boils down to something very simple. Stop consuming and engaging with the things that intermediate your experience of life.

Don’t save the pilates workout because the lady on your screen has mesmerized you with her perfect abs. Save the workout because you’re going to try it, that very day, or within the week. Before you get on a plane to Paris, don’t spend hours researching the best everything. Ask a friend, pick one internet person you trust, and do what they say, and move on. Or, *gasp,* just figure it out when you get there.

If you’re looking for the perfect white tee shirt (is there such a thing) instead of listening to an influencer who may look completely different from you, why not just stroll in to a store and buy a top that makes you feel fantastic? If you put together a smashing outfit, take a picture of it, and send it to all your friends—you have the right to be creative, that experience is not reserved to the parts of the internet that have a wider audience.

Stop engaging with people who only research and aggregate and start engaging with creators and artists—people with a point of view, people who are trying to do or say something. And, maybe, create for yourself.

Because, at the end of the day, here’s the thing, whether you enjoy a particular meal has so little to do with whether you’ve plumbed the depths of the internet to find the perfect bistro and so much more to do with the fact that you’re enjoying the company of the person sitting across from you (and that your feet don’t hurt).

Your time and attention are inherently valuable and finite. Maybe I’m acutely attuned to this because for years my time was sold to the highest bidder in six-minute increments at eye watering amounts (bill baby bill, the unofficial motto of BigLaw, I’m sure). But I think its applicable to all of us. If whatever you’re clicking on isn’t making you think or feel, maybe its not worth clicking on at all. You can, and probably should, find your own restaurants, and tee shirts, and articles.

And if you’re trying to avoid a negative emotion or distract yourself from something difficult, I get it, I really and truly do, but I think there are many options that are less pernicious (including the entire Real Housewives universe) than mindlessly scrolling and giving your attention away to something (or someone) that isn’t worthy of it.

I wish we lived in a world where we had Medicis to support our Michelangelos and Mozarts because that would mean more artists and creators could experiment freely instead of desperately trying to go viral (or sell us stuff they didn’t create or want to create) to make money. But we don’t. So we need to start valuing our own time and attention properly and spending it wisely.

Autonomy over your time and attention is, after all, the ultimate privilege. Step away from your devices, if you can afford to.

If you stuck around until the end of this essay, phew, I am grateful. Thank you, as always, for your time and attention.

If you’re here for the bookish content, several roundups (but not recommendations) are in the works.

1. I am in no way an addiction specialist or medical expert. If you’re struggling in any way, please seek professional help.

2. This is somewhat of a tangent because most of my friends and family have little to no online presence but I imagine influencers feel the exhaustion of being chronically online more than anyone else. We must stop expecting immediate engagement and consistency from them. In order to put anything of value into the world, they need time offline as well. And maybe that’s not on us, the consumers, but it is definitely on the platforms (and algorithms).

3. I love how

Elle Sundberg

wrote about consumption culture in a post titled, “Consuming Ourselves to Death,” she says (with emphasis added by me):

“[c]onsumption has been weighing heavily on my mind. I feel like I was in the dark on this topic for so long, but now the light has been turned on and I can’t help but notice the wastefulness everywhere I look. I am so exhausted from being influenced and uninfluenced. From empty promises that a product can change my life. From ‘dupes’ that I had to try 10 of before I caved and got the real thing. From pressure to keep up with trends that move along faster than express shipping can arrive.

What I long for is a shift from greed to gratitude. From frivolousity to intention. From consumption to creation.

4. Funnily enough, the only recipes I ever needed were inside a cookbook I read cover-to-cover when I was pregnant—

Jenny Rosenstrach

's Dinner: A Love Story.

In addition to the recipe hoarding, I own dozens of cookbooks—it is a problem, potentially. Or is it just deliciously analog?