Trade Self-Improvement for a More Absorbing Life
Stop trying to turn yourself into a better person; focus on leading a more absorbing life. — Oliver Burkeman
—What lingers after this line?
One-minute reflection
What's one small action this suggests?
The Provocation Behind ‘Stop Trying’
Oliver Burkeman’s line sounds like a rebuke to the entire self-help industry, but its force is more surgical than cynical. He’s not arguing for apathy or moral decline; he’s questioning the modern habit of treating life as a continuous renovation project, where the “real” living begins only after we’ve fixed ourselves. From that angle, “stop trying to turn yourself into a better person” points to how improvement can become a delaying tactic—a way to remain preoccupied with plans, metrics, and identity upgrades instead of committing to the messy, present-tense experience of living. The quote opens a door to a different priority: depth of attention over perfection of the self.
Self-Improvement as a Subtle Form of Avoidance
Once you accept Burkeman’s premise, the next question is why improvement can feel so compelling. Self-improvement offers clarity: there are goals, routines, and benchmarks, which can be comforting compared to the uncertainty of relationships, creative work, or difficult choices. In practice, “working on yourself” can become an elegant way to postpone vulnerability—always preparing, never arriving. Burkeman develops this theme in works like *Four Thousand Weeks* (2021), where he argues that attempts to master life often amplify anxiety because they collide with finitude. In that light, constant self-optimization can function like procrastination dressed as virtue: you stay busy, but you don’t necessarily become more engaged with the life you already have.
What an ‘Absorbing Life’ Actually Means
Shifting away from self-improvement only makes sense if “absorbing” is more than hedonism or distraction. An absorbing life is one that captures your attention in a meaningful way—through commitment, craft, service, curiosity, or relationships—so thoroughly that self-monitoring recedes. It resembles what psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi called “flow” in *Flow* (1990): a state of deep involvement where action and awareness merge. Importantly, absorption isn’t the same as numbing out. Scrolling, bingeing, or busyness can swallow time without enriching it. Burkeman’s contrast suggests a life that pulls you outward—toward projects and people—rather than inward toward endless self-auditing.
From Character Polishing to Value-Driven Choices
If the goal is absorption, the practical pivot is to ask not “How do I become better?” but “What is worth doing even if I never perfect myself?” This reframes growth as a side effect of participation rather than a prerequisite. You may become more patient, brave, or generous, but those traits emerge from living in contact with demanding realities, not from obsessively rehearsing a future self. There’s a quiet kinship here with Aristotle’s *Nicomachean Ethics* (4th century BC), where virtue is developed through habitual action within a community, not through abstract self-contemplation alone. Burkeman’s modern twist is that you don’t need to finish the project of “becoming someone” before you start inhabiting your days.
Letting Imperfection Ride Along
An absorbing life doesn’t eliminate flaws; it stops making them the central agenda. That shift can feel risky because it means tolerating the discomfort of being unfinished in public—writing while still insecure, loving while still defensive, contributing while still imperfect. Yet this tolerance is often what unlocks fuller engagement. A small anecdote captures it: someone waits years to join a local choir until they “get better,” then finally joins and discovers the real reward isn’t vocal excellence but weekly belonging and challenge. Their voice improves, but more importantly, their evenings become vivid. Burkeman’s point lands here: life expands when you choose participation over self-curation.
A Practical Ethic: Choose Depth Over Optimization
To live more absorbingly, you don’t need to renounce improvement; you need to demote it. Begin with a concrete commitment that can hold your attention—volunteering every Saturday, taking on a difficult project at work, apprenticing to an art, hosting friends regularly—and then let self-development occur as incidental evidence that you’re living, not as the reason you’re allowed to. Finally, Burkeman’s admonition can be read as an ethic of attention: spend less time managing the story of who you are and more time entering situations that demand your presence. In that reorientation, “better” becomes less a personal brand and more a byproduct of a life that feels real.