In our multitasking culture, the specific moments of cognitive overload are rarely accurately described. It’s not dramatic. It’s not a feeling of panic. It’s more like being in an infinitely vast library, but the cataloging system has broken down, and your mind quietly loses the ability to properly “categorize” things.
You can walk down the aisles.
You can read the book titles.
But you can’t put labels on them.
The organizational function that usually keeps your work in order simply stops working effectively.
I know this feeling well because I’ve experienced it myself.
While building a journaling system, I hit severe neural fatigue. I started missing small, almost embarrassing errors—basic implementation mistakes I would normally catch instantly. Because something upstream had degraded: attention, sequencing, and the ability to hold context long enough to verify reality. That “upstream degradation” is what we need to name. Not to moralize it. Not to pathologize it. But to recognize what you’re actually experiencing. This is what cognitive overload looks like from the inside—and what we know about what’s happening underneath it.
Even after sleeping, the feeling of exhaustion didn’t go away.
I couldn’t sleep because my work wasn’t finished. And because my work wasn’t finished, I couldn’t shake off the fatigue.
Even in bed, I was mentally tracing the steps towards completing my tasks, one by one.
In modern knowledge workers with high performance, sustained concentration is increasingly hard to maintain.
Studies on interrupted work are consistent: interruptions raise stress and push people to work faster, often at the expense of accuracy and quality. Over time, many people notice the same shift—attention feels shorter and easier to break. That isn’t a personal shortcoming. It’s what happens when you spend your days in a fragmented environment. Gloria Mark’s research on attention and digital behavior has tracked this pattern for years. The core issue is structural. When a day is built around constant task switching, focus becomes intermittent by default. And intermittent focus has a price.
Context switching leaves residue.
Our brains can’t completely switch between tasks. Sophie Leroy’s research on attention residue clearly demonstrates what many people experience: when moving from one task to another, a portion of our attention remains focused on the previous task. Only the remaining attention can be directed to the next task.
This is why information overload leads to confusion. You might open a document, but you’re still mulling over the contents of the meeting. You try to write an email, but you can’t stop thinking about the emails you haven’t replied to. You start debugging, but other thoughts continue running in the background. From the outside, it might look like procrastination. But internally, you’re experiencing a feeling of being unable to fully concentrate because you haven’t completely detached yourself from the previous task.
Before blaming yourself, understanding this transition period to the next task can be helpful for your mind and brain.
The neuroscience view: Switching isn’t free. Your control systems pay for it.
In this state, task switching produces measurable behavioral costs, such as decreased reaction time and increased errors. In fact, this state is quite common these days. But let’s delve into what’s happening in the brain and mind.
You don’t need to memorize brain regions to understand what this means: Switching forces the brain to reconfigure what matters. What is the goal? What is relevant? What is noise? What is the next step?
When overload is chronic, your day becomes a repeated demand to reconfigure goals—without adequate recovery. Eventually, the system starts failing in predictable ways.
Decision fatigue is not just “too many choices.” It’s a cascade.
The shallow version: “We made too many decisions, so we’re depleted.” The accurate version is more sequential: Attention fragments Context becomes unstable Error-checking degrades More micro-decisions are required just to reorient Cognitive control becomes expensive You begin defaulting to whatever requires the least effort What this feels like internally is not simply “tired.” It feels like our mind starts choosing whatever requires the least cognitive negotiation. Not because we became careless. Because the cost of caring became too high.
“Spiritual depletion”: what people mean, and what may actually be happening
When the brain overloads, does something like spiritual exhaustion occur? If we define “spiritual” as the felt capacity for clarity, inner continuity, ethical orientation, and meaning—then yes. Overload often produces what people describe as spiritual depletion. But it’s not mystical. It’s mechanistic: When attention fragments, metacognition weakens. We lose the ability to notice what our mind is doing. When fatigue rises, self-regulation becomes costly, and reactivity becomes more likely. When context is unstable, meaning collapses into urgency. Everything becomes “next.” Nothing becomes “important.” Contemporary neuroscience increasingly frames fatigue not only as a “low battery,” but as a state where the perceived cost of cognitive control rises, shaping what we are willing—or able—to do.
So the “spiritual” symptom is often this: we stop feeling internally governed. We start feeling externally pushed. We begin to lose sight of our purpose in life. That is a loss of inner agency. Not moral.
A Buddhist lens: overload distorts perception before it distorts behavior
Buddhist epistemology helps because it doesn’t treat perception as a neutral recording. It treats knowing as conditional—shaped by causes, context, and internal state.
When those conditions shift—sleep debt, sensory overload, emotional strain, constant urgency—the mind doesn’t simply get “tired.” It starts seeing less cleanly. The same situation can look harsher, narrower, and more urgent than it actually is.
In Buddhist terms, the first consequence of overload isn’t that you make slightly worse choices. It’s that the world you’re choosing from changes.
- Narrower salience: Threats and demands become the top priority.
- Shorter time horizon: Only immediate relief feels rational.
- Stronger identification with the thought-stream: The misconception that I am my stress.
Threats and demands take up more space. The future compresses. Immediate relief starts to look like the only reasonable move. And the thought-stream becomes more adhesive: this stress is me.
That’s why overload can feel existential. It’s not only “too much work.” It’s a distortion of perception—and once you’re inside it, it’s easy to mistake that distortion for reality.
We all know the basics: getting enough sleep, exercising regularly, and eating a healthy diet. And most knowledge workers, whether they like it or not, find themselves in situations where they have to multitask. While we may not be able to change larger societal systems overnight, we can change how we interact with those systems. We can change the workplace of the future. We should start now, before it’s too late.
Why Vipassana matters here: it detects the moment the system begins to fail
Vipassana is often misunderstood as “calming down.” That’s not the core value. In overload, the first thing that goes isn’t intelligence. It’s perceptual resolution. Attention stops landing. our skim. our take in words without taking in meaning.
Then a familiar pattern kicks in: the urge to “fix it” shows up before we can even name what’s wrong. Self-critical voices become louder and more persuasive, creating interpretations that seem like facts. Thoughts like, “I’m falling behind,” “This is pointless,” or “I should switch to another task” run through the mind.
So we reach for substitute actions—checking messages, switching tabs, reorganizing, making lists—because our mind can’t hold the situation steady long enough to choose precisely.
At the same time, the inner commentary gets louder. It starts speaking in conclusions, not observations: I’m behind. This is pointless. I should switch tasks.
Vipassana practitioners learn to catch the turning point: I’m seeing my reaction to the task. It’s a small recognition, but it matters. It keeps you from treating a strained mental state as reality—and it reframes overload as a conditional process, not a verdict on your ability.
The intelligence that understands the mind
There is a form of intelligence that not only solves problems. It understands the mind that is solving them. You can call it metacognition. We can call it contemplative literacy. In Buddhist terms, it’s prajna—direct insight into the nature of mind and experience. Spiritual intelligence, grounded in observation, is the capacity to perceive internal experience clearly enough to avoid being unconsciously driven by it. Under overload, that capacity degrades first. Which is exactly why naming the mechanism—attention fragmentation, residue, fatigue cascades, perceptual distortion—is not a self-help tactic. It’s epistemic hygiene. Because once we can accurately recognize what you’re in, we stop making a secondary mistake: We stop treating a degraded cognitive state as a verdict on who we are.
Many people come to monasteries because they want their mind to rest. But by the time they arrive, they’ve already burned out—and they’ve often had to quit their job to make it happen. There’s something we can do before it gets that far.
