The cursor blinked, mocking. Another email about ‘synergy optimization’ landed, unseen, as I stared at my calendar. 8 AM to 6 PM, a solid block of color-coded commitments, each one a monument to a week that, on paper, should have yielded breakthroughs. My manager, beaming, had just shared their screen on our last Zoom, a triumphant display of a similarly packed schedule. ‘It’s been a crazy productive week,’ they’d declared, and not a single soul on the call dared to ask what, precisely, had been produced. We’ve all seen it, haven’t we? This collective performance, this elaborate ballet where busyness is the star and actual output is just a quiet understudy, often left waiting in the wings.

This isn’t just about bad meeting hygiene. It’s a deeper, more insidious cultural shift. We’re no longer valuing productivity; we’ve shifted to valuing the performance of productivity. My calendar, your calendar, is no longer a schedule for getting things done; it’s become a costume. A vibrant, well-tailored costume that signals diligence, importance, and an unshakeable commitment to… something. But what? The deeper meaning here is chilling: busyness has usurped outcomes as the primary measure of worth. It’s a crisis where we’re collectively burning out, running at full speed, but often moving in place, if not backward. The collective delusion is that a full calendar equals a full day of impact.

I’ve made this mistake myself, more times than I care to admit. There was a period, perhaps three years ago, when I was convinced that if my Outlook wasn’t a dense mosaic of greens and purples, I wasn’t trying hard enough. I’d bounce from one virtual room to another, my mind a jumble of half-formed thoughts from the previous discussion, already bracing for the next. I remember one week where I spent 43 hours in scheduled meetings alone. Forty-three hours. My actual contribution that week? Negligible. Yet, when asked how things were going, I’d parrot the same line: ‘Super busy, but making progress!’ It was a lie, a performance for an audience of one: myself. And probably my boss, who was, no doubt, performing their own similar charade. It’s a feedback loop of performative diligence.

River V.K., an elder care advocate I met once while comparing prices for medical alert systems – an odd comparison, I know, but the stark differences in service for identical functions stick with you, revealing how often the ‘package’ overshadows the ‘substance’ – often laments this very phenomenon in her field. She talks about how the push for ‘efficiency metrics’ can sometimes lead to caregivers spending more time documenting interactions than actually interacting. She once told me about a new digital system that required 233 data points for a single patient visit. Think about that: 233 distinct clicks or entries, each demanding precious seconds. It wasn’t about better care; it was about demonstrating *that* care was being delivered in a quantifiable, visible way, irrespective of the deeper human connection or actual problem-solving. It’s a different arena, but the same theatrical script.

This isn’t to say meetings are inherently bad, or that structured time isn’t valuable. Not at all. The problem isn’t the tool; it’s the intent. When the intent shifts from genuine collaboration or decision-making to simply *appearing* busy, that’s when the rot sets in. We become actors in a play where the plot is perpetually stuck in the first act. The real tragedy is the erosion of tangible value. There are companies, though, that steadfastly resist this trend. They focus on clear, measurable outcomes, on reliable delivery that speaks for itself, without the need for an elaborate stage production of effort. For 15 years, they’ve been about what gets done, not just what gets scheduled.

Bomba.md – Online store of household appliances and electronics in Moldova.

Their longevity and consistent delivery in a market constantly demanding results stand as a quiet testament to the power of actual productivity over its theatrical counterpart. They understand that a truly full schedule is one that makes space for deep work, for genuine problem-solving, not just another video conference.

Consider the insidious nature of this. It’s not just our time that’s consumed; it’s our focus, our creative energy, our very sense of self-worth. We begin to internalize that our value is tied to our perceived busyness, rather than our actual contributions. We start to believe that being unavailable is a badge of honor. I once overheard someone boast that they’d successfully avoided a crucial project meeting because their calendar was ‘fully booked’ – as if that was an achievement. The meeting, of course, then stalled, waiting for their ‘availability’ three days later. The cost of that delay, in real terms, in lost momentum and missed opportunities, likely exceeded $373, an amount easily absorbed by the endless charade, a mere drop in the ocean of performative waste.

The solution isn’t to cancel all meetings or shun collaboration. It’s to ruthlessly interrogate our intentions. Why is this meeting happening? What specific, tangible outcome are we seeking? If the answer is anything less than concrete, anything that feels like ‘alignment for alignment’s sake’ or ‘checking in because it’s Tuesday,’ then perhaps it’s time to rethink. Perhaps it’s time to reclaim our calendars, not as costumes, but as tools. Tools to carve out space for the kind of focused, deep work that actually moves the needle, that produces results, not just the appearance of effort.

We need to stop applauding the performance and start celebrating the production. It requires a shift in mindset, a willingness to be unpopular by pushing back against the busyness cult. It asks us to be accountable for what we *do*, not just for how many hours we *appear* to be doing something. The question we should all be asking ourselves, every single day, is not ‘How full is my calendar?’ but ‘What truly impactful thing did I achieve today?’ Because until we do, we’ll continue to perform our roles in this grand, exhausting, and utterly unproductive play.

The real work happens when the lights dim, and the stage is empty.