On what we spend without ever checking the balance

I’ve been noticing how tired people are — not just physically, but attentively.
Conversations trail off. Listening feels partial. Care is offered quickly, then withdrawn just as fast. And yet, everyone insists they are doing their best.

It made me wonder whether we are not exhausted from doing too much, but from spending without awareness.

Attention and care, I’ve come to see, function very much like currency. They are finite. They accumulate slowly. And once spent, they need time to regenerate. Yet unlike money, we rarely budget them. We give them impulsively, out of habit, obligation, or guilt — and then wonder why we feel depleted.

Modern life encourages this imbalance.

We are rewarded for responsiveness. For being available. For reacting quickly. For staying connected, informed, reachable. Attention is constantly demanded, but rarely respected. Care is expected, but seldom replenished.

Over time, this creates a strange economy — one where attention is fragmented and care is rationed, even in places where it should flow freely.

I’ve noticed how often we give our best attention to what is loud, urgent, or transactional — emails, notifications, responsibilities — while offering only leftovers to what actually sustains us: meaningful conversations, quiet reflection, relationships that ask for presence rather than performance.

Care, too, becomes distorted. We learn to provide it efficiently rather than sincerely. We check in, but don’t stay. We listen, but while preparing to respond. We offer support, but with one foot already turned away.

This is not because we are unkind.
It is because our inner economy is overstretched.

The problem is not generosity. It is unexamined generosity.

When attention is spent everywhere, it settles nowhere. When care is offered without discernment, it begins to feel obligatory rather than nourishing. And eventually, we start confusing exhaustion with virtue.

A healthier economy begins with awareness.

Not every demand deserves immediate attention.
Not every relationship warrants equal care.
Not every moment needs your emotional investment.

This is not selfishness. It is sustainability.

When we start allocating attention consciously, something interesting happens. Depth returns. Conversations slow down. Care becomes more intentional — less frequent perhaps, but more real. We stop trying to be everywhere, and begin to be somewhere again.

This shift also changes relationships. Some fade — especially those sustained by convenience or constant availability. Others strengthen, precisely because care is no longer automatic, but chosen.

There is dignity in choosing where your attention goes.
There is wisdom in protecting your capacity to care.

Perhaps one of the quiet skills of authentic living is learning to ask a simple, uncomfortable question before giving more of yourself:

Is this a wise use of my attention and care — or just a familiar expense?

When we begin to live with that awareness, we don’t become distant.
We become present — in places that truly matter.

And slowly, life feels less like a drain
and more like an exchange worth sustaining.

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Letters for the Inner Journey by Pushkar