Why We're Obsessed with Overconsumption

How the dopamine economy rewired our brains—and how to find your rhythm again

You ever open your phone just to check one thing—maybe a message, a notification—and somehow, an hour or two disappears? Your thumb's moving, your brain's half-asleep, and you can't even remember what you were looking for in the first place.

Then you look up—and it's quiet. Too quiet. That quiet almost hurts. So you go back in.

Because the scrolling feels easier than the silence. The wanting feels safer than the stillness.

And here's what took me way too long to realize: you're not "just relaxing"—you're being played.

Literally.

The system has learned how to keep you in rhythm: Tap. Swipe. Scroll. Repeat. Every new post or "only 3 left!" notification—that's another beat in the song that runs the world right now.

We live in what I call the dopamine economy. An entire system built on rhythm and reward—anticipation, climax, release—over and over, until you can't tell the difference between excitement and exhaustion.

And the wildest part? This isn't new. The age of "too much" really began in the 1800s—the dawn of mass production. For the first time, ordinary people had access to what looked like endless choice... but it was never real freedom. It was the illusion of choice—curated, controlled, and sold back to us as progress. Only now the volume has been turned way up.

So let's talk about how we got here—why this rhythm feels so irresistible, and how to finally step out of the song without guilt or extremes. You don't need to delete everything or move to a cabin in the woods. You just need to learn to hear the music that's been playing underneath it all.

How We Got Here: A Brief History of Being Overwhelmed

It's the 1890s. You're an ordinary person—maybe a schoolteacher, a typist, or a shop clerk—living a modest life of muted tones and routine practicality. But when you step into one of the grand department stores of the city, everything changes.

These stores aren't new anymore, but what they've become is. They're palaces of possibility. The scent of roses and varnished wood. Electric lights shimmer on glass counters piled high with things you never knew you wanted. Maybe there's a pianist over by the grand staircase—you have the latest fashion, glistening lights, perfumes, and music all colliding in a kind of beautiful chaos.

It's overwhelming.

Doctors and moralists began warning of a new kind of nervous disorder, especially among women: "shopping madness." They claimed it struck those too susceptible to temptation, too fragile to resist the shimmer of abundance.

But underneath that moral panic was something deeper—fear. Fear of who was doing the shopping.

Industrialization had blurred class lines, giving ordinary people access to beauty once reserved for the elite. So when women filled these glittering halls, they weren't just shopping—they were crossing social boundaries.

And the truth is, women became—and remain—the most powerful force in the marketplace. The largest contributors to spending, the most targeted demographic, and the ones whose emotions advertisers learned to manipulate first. Back then, it was perfumes and silks. Now it's algorithms and curated feeds. But the method hasn't changed—only the medium.

We went from occasional stimulation—something you sought out—to constant stimulation—something that's aggressively seeking you out.

And here's the real danger: our brains never evolved past that same threshold. Neuroscientists call it hedonic adaptation—the more we get, the less we feel. Each high fades, so we chase another, and another, until the wanting itself becomes the point.

Consumer culture doesn't just give us too much—it teaches us to feel nothing unless we're getting more.

That's why so many people feel empty even when surrounded by abundance. It's not greed. It's not ingratitude. It's biology meeting design. We were never meant to live in this much sensory traffic.

How the System Keeps Us Hooked: The Rhythm of Wanting

The system isn't new. It wasn't built in a boardroom or born in Silicon Valley. It's something older—an organism that's been evolving for centuries. Every era and generation just fine-tunes it, adds another instrument, adjusts the tempo.

The modern economy runs on rhythm—not coins or code—rhythm. Repetition. Predictability. Pulse. And the rhythm isn't random; it's what keeps the system alive.

Think of your favorite song: there's always a pattern. Tension builds, the drop hits, then release.

Now think of the way we engage online.

You scroll—tension.You see something you want—anticipation."Only 3 left in stock"—the drop.You click "buy"—release.

It feels spontaneous, but it's the same composition playing through new instruments: once pipe organs and perfume counters, now push notifications and countdown timers.

The system learned long ago that human attention follows rhythm. Once we internalize that rhythm, it no longer needs to force us—we move to it instinctively. That's the genius of it: the illusion of free movement inside a pre-written score.

And this isn't about malicious intent. No one's sitting behind a curtain pulling strings—it's just momentum. Commerce, psychology, and technology layered over each other until the pattern became self-sustaining. Every innovation was another beat added to the loop.

In today's dopamine economy, your attention is the current that powers it. Every scroll, every pause, every tiny flick of curiosity keeps the rhythm alive. Your data becomes the echo that teaches the system how to play you back to yourself.

That's why the feed never ends; it doesn't need to. You've already become part of the composition.

When the Plot Gets Lost: Holiday Marketing Run Amok

Holiday marketing is proof the plot's been lost entirely. The story that once made it all feel magical has dissolved into background noise.

Christmas starts showing up before we've even made it remotely close to Halloween—tinsel and fake snow shoved in our faces while the pumpkins are still fresh. Then come the invented micro-holidays—"Summerween," "Galentine's Day," "Small Business Saturday"—each one carving out another reason to buy.

And look, some of these are charming in theory. But accepting these micro-holidays opens the floodgates to who knows what... Winterween? Snoween? Haunted Hearts Day? Earthmas, where you buy only organic or locally sourced gifts? You get it.

We're not even allowed to be in a season anymore. Before we can sink into the warmth of one moment, we're being nudged toward the next.

There's always more to buy: "boo baskets," "early Black Friday events," twelve rounds of "gift guides you didn't ask for." Mind you, a bunch of it is copy-and-paste gift lists that cost hundreds or sometimes thousands of dollars.

Nothing feels special anymore. Even nostalgia's been commodified—marketed back to us as something you can buy, but never actually feel. Nostalgia's been kidnapped—bottled up, scented, and sold back to us at a premium. But all that curated coziness can't recreate the visceral feeling of living in those beautiful moments as a core memory is being born.

"The loop stretches forward anyway, feeding on its own motion. If the rhythm ever quieted, even for a breath, we'd hear what's underneath—silence. And silence makes people remember."

So the system continues—centuries in the making, endlessly remixed. Not controlled by a villain, just perfected by repetition.

The Aftermath: Aesthetic Fatigue and Emotional Emptiness

At first, it feels good. That dopamine rush, that sense of discovery, that thrill of creating a "beautiful" life.

But then, the crash.

Everything starts looking the same. The same beige aesthetics, the same "cores," the same filters and fonts. We're drowning in content but starving for meaning.

This is aesthetic fatigue—when constant stimulation dulls your ability to feel inspired. You scroll past something beautiful and feel... nothing. Not because it isn't beautiful—but because you've seen seventeen versions of it this week.

I don't think beauty has lost its power—it's gotten industrialized and, dare I say, weaponized.

Even rebellion is monetized now. Sustainability has a product line. And peace has a price tag.

I'll be honest—I've fallen for it too. I've added things to my cart because I wanted to feel something again. Not because I needed the item—but because I missed the feeling of being excited.

That's the real trap: we're not chasing possessions; we're chasing emotion. We're trying to buy our way back into the feeling of being alive.

The Exit: Discernment Over Denial

Here's the good part—the empowering part.

Because you don't need to burn it all down. You just need to wake up to the rhythm.

Awareness doesn't mean quitting. It means choosing. It means knowing when you're acting from autopilot—and when you're acting from alignment.

The next time that familiar pull shows up, don't fight it—just watch it.

Feel how it starts—that little flutter of want. Notice how your brain immediately reaches for a reason: "I deserve this," "It's on sale," "I'll actually use it this time."

That's the rhythm doing what it was designed to do. You don't have to shame yourself. You just notice it. Like watching a wave come in.

Sometimes, the wanting itself is the whole experience. And that's totally fine—you don't need to buy it to feel it.

Three Questions to Ask Yourself

Before you click "add to cart," pause and ask:

1. Do I actually want this, or am I chasing the feeling of wanting?

2. Does this feed me, or just fill me?

3. What am I trying to feel right now—and is there another way to get there?

The goal isn't to quit the proverbial dance. It's to change the tempo. To move with intention instead of impulse. To remember that you set the rhythm—not the system.

Finding Your Rhythm Again

There's nothing necessarily wrong with wanting more. You're human—wired to seek, explore, and create.

But we weren't meant to do it all the time, at full volume. Overconsumption isn't about greed—it's about overstimulation. And sometimes the most radical thing you can do in a world built on noise is to pause.

To let yourself be bored. To sit in the quiet and see what rises up when you stop filling every space with stuff—literally and metaphorically.

Because once you find your rhythm again—your real one—you stop buying meaning. And you start living it.

That's when awareness stops being a trend you perform—and starts becoming the way you move through the world.

What's your relationship with consumption like right now? Have you noticed yourself moving to someone else's rhythm? I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments below.