A few months ago, I caught myself saying yes to an ask that every part of me wanted to decline. It was a small thing, an extra favor squeezed into an already overflowing week, but I agreed to do it reflexively. Doing so gave me a quick hit of “feel-good”—and maybe helped me avoid a bit of guilt or shame for not showing up, too.
Eight years after removing alcohol as my main point of escapism, I still see more subtle “dimmers,” as I now call them, occasionally creep into my life. This one—toxic generosity, or being helpful or generous as an escapist tactic—looks kind, helpful, and virtuous. But it dims me just the same, blurring inner signals and letting me avoid stillness, which often includes discomfort.
That’s the tricky part about dimmers: Once you shed one, another often steps up, dressed more acceptably, ready to take over the job of protecting us from what we don’t want to feel.
What exactly is a dimmer?
A dimmer is anything we use, often unconsciously, to soothe, numb, distract, or help bypass a feeling we’re not ready to experience. Some dimmers are obvious, like alcohol or overeating. Others are polished and socially “approved”: overworking, overgiving, perfectionism, multitasking, doomscrolling, saying yes when we mean no.
Dimmers aren’t failures. They are strategies. They help us soften difficult times when we think we don’t have better tools. But they also quietly disconnect us from ourselves, our intuition, our needs, and our sense of presence. Over time, they keep us from living in a way that feels fully ours.
Why we use dimmers
Most of us weren’t taught how to sit with discomfort. Instead, we learn how to dodge it from a young age. Tough day at school? Let’s go get an ice cream cone. Disturbed about something that happened with a friend? Let’s go watch a show. Sad about that breakup? How about a drink, dessert, or shopping spree?
When life feels overwhelming, stressful, or emotionally charged, our nervous systems push us toward whatever offers quick relief. Dimmers help us avoid the spike of tough feelings before a cry, the ache of loneliness, the fear of disappointing someone, or the exhaustion of an unsustainable pace. They smooth the edges. They help us postpone tough decisions. We think they buy us time. They offer a predictable, little escape. And so many are so socially sanctioned—even encouraged.
