Zen and the Art of the Hedonic Treadmill

We’re still reading and writing poetry for all the reasons humanity ever has. It seems, though, in times of distress, when our minds have trouble focusing yet still desire to be transported, we particularly turn to poetry. The isolation of the pandemic drives a yearning to communicate and express. Political angst and social change are opening doors and sparking demand for poetry that amplifies voices that have been historically dismissed or intentionally silenced. As a result, an unprecedented number of new poetry websites, journals, and anthologies have been launched globally in 2020.

For years I felt that one of my life goals would be seeing my writing published. A predicted future source of happiness, pride, and accomplishment. I started writing at PsychologyToday.com and found that my goal threshold then bumped up to seeing my name in print. Print, as in ink on paper. I tried my hand at poetry and, with so many opportunities this year in publishing, my name managed to find its way into poetry anthologies among esteemed poets. But then, the threshold bumped up again. It seemed I wouldn’t be satisfied until I had my own book published. Maybe a novel this time?

This is an example of the psychological phenomenon of “hedonic adaptation” (aka the hedonic treadmill), and one can see how it could both drive us to higher levels of excellence and new heights of neuroses. Psychologist Sonja Lyubomirsky defines hedonic adaptation as “the psychological process by which people become accustomed to a positive or negative stimulus, such that the emotional effects of that stimulus are attenuated over time … The “stimulus” can be a circumstance (new mansion in the hills), a single event (a pink slip), or a recurring event (thrice-weekly dialysis), and it must be constant or repeated for adaptation to occur.” She goes on to explain that, “Hedonic adaptation occurs in response to both positive and negative experiences.”

By understanding hedonic adaptation—maintaining a consciousness of it when setting life goals or catching ourselves pondering that ever-tricky pursuit of happiness—we may, perhaps, be kinder with ourselves when it comes to expectations, failures, and the desire for internal and external validation and acceptance.

Ask just about any poet and they will likely say they write because they feel strongly and deeply compelled. They’d probably say they wouldn’t stop writing, even if faced with never being published. And yet… Those acceptance letters. That name in print. Those books on the shelf. The possibilities of what could be next if we just keep raising the bar a little higher. A Guggenheim Fellowship? A spot on the NYT Best-sellers? It’s human nature to project onto the future the achievements and “acceptances” that might make us happier or grant us that next level of attainment. Sometimes these are intoxicating extrinsic motivators (money, peer pressure, fancy job titles) swaying us under the guise of personal growth and self-actualization.

By recognizing these tendencies, perhaps we can monitor our hedonic adaptation in concert with understanding what truly motivates us—what is fueling the engine of our seeking behavior. I haven’t been writing poetry long, but it’s clear that money and fame are not my motivation. The acceptance letters and name-in-print are not the motivators I perhaps predicted they would be. That is, unless, one correlates acceptance letters with a barometer of excellence. Is acceptance and publication some sort of proof that practice pays off in the artistic sense? Art and artistic excellence are things I’ve forever admired for their ability to cut through the chaff of life.

Yet, social psychologist Elizabeth Dunn tells NPR for this year’s installment of their annual Hidden Brain series: "Whatever we have, we tend to get used to it. So no matter how awesome our lives might be, or what wonderful things come into our lives, we tend to get used to them over time, and the pleasure that they provide gradually diminishes … It conveys this idea that we're sort of stuck. No matter how hard we try to get happier, we can't."

She makes a distinction between having material possessions and having experiences; explaining that the benefit of experiences comes afterwards, once we can reminisce about the story and recall its nostalgia. In a sense, that’s what I’m doing now—sharing with my readers my experience of becoming a writer. And I’m reliving all those rejection letters by reframing them in a way that generates a positive, a lesson, a story. If someone happens to come across one of my poems and finds value in it, that's great, but that poem is already in the past. The motivation to write it and the value I experienced in honing my craft at that moment in time are merely part of some greater purpose propelling me forward. And if someday I get to pull one of those dusty anthologies off the shelf and talk with friends and family about how I managed to get my name in its table of contents, then that moment is what creates a shared memory. It may explain, in part, why we brag: not necessarily because of how great we think we are, but because it allows us to relive and share an experience. To make a human connection.

As much as I might want all of my poetry submissions to yield acceptance letters, I recognize how that could make my poetry practice egoic, spoiled, or lazy. Occasional acceptances are a nice surprise and rejections keep me humble and challenge me to be better. It's an imperfect system by far, as rejection letters typically do not provide writers with deep feedback. Publications tend to defer to "publishable" poetry and gatekeep work that is experimental or controversial (Although, 2020 has made inroads on that front). Still, if one is receiving acceptances, it's one indicator that peers believe the work is speaking truth to something.

In Lyubomirsky’s findings, she relays how we can jump off the hedonic treadmill by consciously and actively practicing appreciation and gratitude for what we have and what we’ve already achieved. And one way we can sustain those positives in our lives is by tying them in with people whom we can share the positive experience with. Our peers, friends, and family. As I’ve written before about the traits of resilient people, it’s smart to surround ourselves with our champions. Those people who genuinely celebrate our achievements, serve as role models for gratitude and growth, and provide us with constructive feedback.

Interestingly, Lyubomirsky reported in 2010 “that attempts to understand and make sense of positive experiences facilitate hedonic adaptation by transforming such experiences from something novel, attention-grabbing, emotion-eliciting, and extraordinary to something pallid, predictable, and ordinary.” In other words, in this zen and the art of the hedonic treadmill, perhaps we should just enjoy the ride, let life have its mysteries, and release ourselves from examining the minutiae of its mechanics. As Betty MacDonald wrote in The Egg and I, "Too much scrubbing takes the life right out of things."

If we're going to examine, perhaps we can examine how we might give ourselves permission to write poetry or create art without the pressure of acceptance, without the relentless seeking of external validity; because, if it was worth creating, it was worth creating for the pleasure, the release, the catharsis, and the practice. I dare predict that few poets or artists, especially those who’ve been at it awhile, would claim that acceptance letters conjure a long-lasting thrill that’s anywhere near as pleasurable as those moments they know are coming, when they write that last line in a poem or set down a paintbrush and say, “There. There it is.” Feeling released to go about their day.