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Take the Stairs, and Not for the Cardio

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Neo W.
Author
Neo W.
Writing about things that intrigue me.
Table of Contents

Take the Stairs, and Not for the Cardio
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Only about 2% of people take the stairs when there’s a lift right next to them. That number isn’t really about fitness. It’s the share of people who pick the harder option when an easier one is sitting there, and it turns out that habit does something to you.

The frictionless life problem
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Picture a life engineered for comfort. Groceries delivered, dinner delivered, flat held at a constant temperature, lift to the third floor, vitamins instead of going outside.

By any external measure that’s fine. It also produces a low-grade restlessness that nothing seems to treat — functioning normally and quietly feeling terrible.

That’s the paradox worth sitting with, because almost every individual decision that built it was reasonable.

The stairs are a metaphor
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Notice where the stairs actually are. Behind a fire door, small sign, concrete, fluorescent light. The lift is in the middle of the lobby, well lit, with music and a mirror.

The building has already decided for you. And so has everything else:

  • Cooking, or delivery
  • Calling, or texting
  • Walking, or a car
  • Saying the difficult thing, or “I’m fine”
  • Reading the book, or asking for a summary
  • Actually contacting an old friend, or “we should get coffee sometime”

Every one of those is a staircase with a lift beside it. The loneliness a lot of people describe is, in large part, millions of people taking the lift — texting rather than calling, staying in, complaining about having no friends while never once reaching out to the ones they have.

Why our wiring struggles with this
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For nearly all of human history discomfort was just an ordinary Tuesday, and people were something like fourteen times more active. We removed the friction in a tiny sliver of that history and our nervous systems haven’t caught up.

There’s a related idea from the psychiatrist Anna Lembke — the phone as a modern hypodermic needle. Every scroll, snack and notification is a small hit, and the brain responds by quietly lowering its baseline. The floor for what registers as good drops over years.

That’s the thing to notice, because it doesn’t feel like an explanation. It feels like the coffee not tasting like much any more, and the walk not doing anything. Not broken. Just so stimulated that ordinary things stop landing.

Why the big plan doesn’t work
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Around 80% of new year’s resolutions are gone by February, and part of the reason is that announcing a goal is itself rewarding. The brain takes the announcement as partial credit and you’ve spent the payoff before doing anything.

The more useful distinction:

  • Goal-shaped — “I’ll lose ten pounds by January.” It has a deadline, and it expires.
  • Identity-shaped — “I’m someone who takes the stairs.” No deadline, nothing to expire.

You can fail a goal. You can’t really fail at being a kind of person — you can only stop being it, and you notice that immediately, which is what makes it self-correcting.

The once-a-year version
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There’s a companion idea called a misogi — one thing a year hard enough that you’ve got roughly a 50/50 chance of pulling it off. Two rules: genuinely difficult, and it won’t kill you.

The rule most people skip is the third one: you don’t post about it. The moment it becomes content it’s stopped being the thing.

And it only works if the small daily version is already in place. The big challenge is what becomes available afterwards, not a substitute for it.

A few small things to try
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  • Take the stairs once today, knowing it isn’t about the stairs
  • Call one person you’d normally text
  • Say the slightly harder true thing instead of “I’m fine”
  • Phrase the next thing you want to change as who you are, not what you’ll achieve by March
  • Do one difficult thing without telling anyone about it

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