I once became obsessed with the Pomodoro Technique. 25 minutes of work, 5 minutes of rest, then a longer break after four cycles. I installed the app on my phone, set the timer, and recorded how many pomodoros I completed each day.

My record was 16 pomodoros in one day. I took a screenshot and posted it to my Instagram story with the caption: “Productivity off the charts today.”

Looking back now, that screenshot was the most absurd part of the whole thing. I wasn’t just monitoring my own efficiency—I was showcasing the results of this monitoring. I was simultaneously the worker, the supervisor, and the PR department.

Byung-Chul Han would say: this is a typical symptom of achievement society.

From Discipline to Self-Exploitation

Han makes a very precise distinction in “Burnout Society.”

The “disciplinary society” that Foucault described—prisons, factories, schools, controlling people through external discipline and surveillance—is no longer the primary operating mode of our era. It has been replaced by “achievement society.”

In achievement society, the oppressor isn’t outside—it’s inside.

No one holds a whip to force you to work overtime. You feel that if you don’t work overtime, you’ll fall behind. No one requires you to respond to messages on weekends. You’re afraid of missing opportunities. No one mandates that you must manage a personal brand. You believe that not managing one means not existing.

Han uses a term I find remarkably apt: violence of positivity. This violence isn’t like traditional violence with a clear perpetrator. It’s self-inflicted, disguised as “ambition” and “self-realization.”

You’re not being oppressed—you’re “pursuing your dreams.” You’re not being exploited—you’re “investing in yourself.” You’re not burning out—you’re “giving it your all.”

The linguistic packaging is so perfect that you don’t even know you’re suffering.

The Shackles of Being Seen

Social media has pushed this problem to its extreme.

Han points out that achievement society subjects constantly display themselves, seeking to be seen and validated. This display isn’t incidental but structural—platforms are designed to make you continuously produce, continuously expose yourself, continuously be evaluated.

Having managed social media content myself, I feel this deeply. After writing and publishing an article, the first thought isn’t “Did I articulate my ideas clearly?” but “Will this get good engagement?” When reach becomes the metric for measuring value, your attention shifts from “What do I want to say?” to “What will be seen?”

Then even rest becomes performance. If you share photos of “relaxing today” on social media, those photos enter the economy of being seen and get evaluated. Relaxation must be quality, travel must be tasteful, even daydreaming must look philosophical. If relaxation doesn’t express elegance and quality on social media, it becomes slacking.

In the cycle of “being seen, being liked, being followed,” we package ourselves as commodities, displayed under others’ gazes. We’re simultaneously performer, audience, and our own agent.

In “The Life You Envy is Someone Else’s Miracle,” I discussed the trap of social media comparison. But “Burnout Society” showed me a deeper layer: the problem isn’t just “comparison,” but that the entire social structure has made “being seen” a prerequisite for existence. If you’re not seen, you don’t exist.

Efficiency as a Tool of Self-Imprisonment

Back to the Pomodoro Technique.

Han would probably analyze my Pomodoro experience like this: You think you’re managing time, but actually time is managing you. Every timer ring is a command—commanding you to return to the efficiency track. You’re not using a tool; you’re obeying a surveillance system you built yourself.

This analysis seemed like over-interpretation when I first read it. But then I noticed something: when the Pomodoro timer rang, what did I do during those five-minute breaks? Scroll through my phone, check notifications, reply to messages. My “rest” wasn’t rest at all—just switching from one form of attention consumption to another.

The entire system—Pomodoro timers, to-do lists, calendars, various productivity apps—constitutes a sophisticated apparatus of self-imprisonment. Most paradoxically, we voluntarily walked into it and even paid monthly fees.

This isn’t just an individual problem. In startup culture, “I work 14 hours a day” isn’t a complaint—it’s a badge of honor. “I haven’t taken a vacation in three years” isn’t a warning sign—it’s commitment. “I reply to emails on planes” isn’t pathological—it’s professionalism.

Who’s demanding you do this? Nobody. You’re your own boss. But you’re also your own cruelest oppressor.

The Entrepreneur’s Achievement Trap

I must admit, as an entrepreneur, I’m trapped deeper in achievement society’s snares than most people.

Because entrepreneurship itself is a structure that rationalizes self-exploitation to the extreme. You’re not working for someone else—you’re “realizing your own vision.” So overtime isn’t overtime—it’s “dedication.” No vacation isn’t no vacation—it’s “sense of mission.” Physical problems aren’t warning signs—they’re “sacrificing for the cause.”

I remember a period when I went to bed at 2 AM and woke up at 6 AM almost every day. Not because there was genuinely too much work to finish, but because stopping made me anxious. Anxious about what? Anxious that “others are working harder than me while I sleep.”

Han precisely describes this state: achievement subjects transform “can” into “must.” You can do more, therefore you must do more. Boundaries disappear. Not because someone removed the boundaries, but because you treated boundaries as symbols of cowardice and tore them down yourself.

Boredom as Antidote

Han’s proposed solution sounds absurd: We need to relearn how to be bored.

In achievement society, everyone is forced to continuously produce, continuously act—anxiety emerges the moment they stop. But Han believes boredom is an undervalued capacity. It’s not emptiness, but a prerequisite for “deep attention”—only in boredom can thinking settle and generate genuine creativity.

I later had an experience that helped me understand what he meant.

One weekend, I deliberately did nothing. No phone, no computer, no podcasts. The first two hours were excruciating—my brain kept generating voices saying “you’re wasting time.” But by the third hour, a strange quiet emerged. My thoughts began wandering freely, thinking about things I hadn’t considered in a long time, watching clouds move outside the window, suddenly finding their shapes interesting.

I didn’t produce anything that afternoon. But in the week that followed, I wrote the best article of that month.

Boredom isn’t the opposite of productivity. It’s productivity’s groundwater—you can’t see it, but without it, surface prosperity will eventually wither.

Can’t Keep Going, Can’t Lie Down

“Can’t keep going, can’t lie down”—these six words precisely describe our generation’s predicament.

Can’t keep going because you’ve reached your physical and psychological limits. Can’t lie down because achievement society’s internalization has penetrated to the bone, making even rest feel guilty.

Han’s answer isn’t to lie down, nor to try harder. His answer is: rediscover the capacity for “contemplation.”

This resonates with what I’ve learned in faith. Christian spiritual tradition has a concept called “sabbath”—not doing nothing, but finding a conscious rhythm between doing and not doing. You stop not because you’re tired, but because stopping itself has value.

Feeling the world anew in blankness and silence—this isn’t escape, but a deeper form of participation. It requires not willpower, but courage. Because in an era when everyone is running, stopping is harder than accelerating.

Freedom isn’t about being able to do more. Freedom is about being able to not do. And being able to not do, in this era, is the scarcest capacity.