The other day I was chatting with a neighbor from the village (in Romania), a simple man, yet with a kind of quiet, natural wisdom. He was telling me, with a restrained sense of pride, about his son-in-law who works in Germany. “He’s got a great job!” he said. “His boss really trusts him. He opens and closes the company, handles the company vehicles, loads, unloads, delivers… he does everything.” He added with unexpected seriousness: “But the hardest thing is when he has to input data into the computer.” He paused, furrowed his brow with genuine concern, and repeated: “That’s the hardest part.” I laughed, thinking it was a good joke. But he was completely serious.
That comment stayed with me—not because it was absurd, but because behind it lies something deeply relevant today: a subtle yet profound shift in the way we perceive effort and work. Just a few generations ago, effort—whether physical or mental, whether in solving problems or facing challenges—was what gave life meaning.
I recently began reading (probably I will not finish it) There Is No Easy Job by Japanese author Kikuko Tsumura, a novel that explores this very phenomenon: how seemingly “easy” jobs—low-stress, low-responsibility roles—can become sources of anxiety, emptiness, and loss of purpose. The main character, after experiencing burnout, searches for jobs that won’t demand much of her—repetitive, low-stakes work. Yet in each of them, she feels a deep dissatisfaction, a kind of disconnection from life itself.
In contrast, more and more people today are choosing a different kind of life: moving to the countryside, buying land, raising animals, gardening. It’s not just a trendy “return to nature”—it’s a search for meaning, for rhythm, for belonging. I sometimes see these “neo-rurals” with calloused hands from digging and planting, but with a calm in their eyes that is often missing in office workers. What’s interesting is that lifelong villagers are puzzled: “What’s wrong with these people? Why would they come here to clean barns, dig, mow? Isn’t that hard work?” But hard for whom? And why?
Psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, one of the founders of positive psychology, began developing what we now call flow in the 1970s—that total absorption in an activity that makes us lose track of time and brings deep satisfaction. His early insights didn’t come from university labs, but from observing people in remote farming communities in the Italian Alps. In these hard-to-reach places, where people rise before dawn, work long physical hours, and have little contact with the “civilized” world, Csikszentmihalyi discovered something surprising: high levels of happiness, inner balance, and a sense of purpose.
According to his research, the flow state arises most often when an activity is clear, purposeful, offers immediate feedback, and presents just the right level of challenge—not too easy, not impossible. Cleaning stables, hoeing, mowing—these simple activities meet all the criteria. They’re repetitive yet demanding. They require presence, but allow the mind to breathe. The body works, the mind quiets.
In contrast, many modern jobs—especially office work—bring stress not because they’re physically difficult, but because they’re vague, fragmented, lacking in feedback, and often in meaning. Working with “data in the computer,” as my neighbor put it, may seem like minimal effort, but it’s often accompanied by constant pressure, deadlines, lack of movement, multitasking, and a diffuse sense of dissatisfaction.
Every day, in my therapy practice, I hear from people who are exhausted—not because they “work too much,” but because they no longer feel that their work matters. People who long for a break from digital noise, from sterile decisions, from responsibilities that are no longer tied to their values.
And I find myself asking more and more often: when did we, as a society, start believing that effort is a burden?
Modern psychology increasingly speaks about the benefits of contact with nature, of physical labor, of a simpler life. Horticultural therapy is now used to treat depression and anxiety. Repetitive tasks like sewing, knitting, or handcrafting are recommended to regulate the nervous system. There is an entire science behind what was, until recently, “just country work.”
Perhaps we need to relearn how to view work—especially work that requires effort—not as a burden, but as a way to anchor ourselves in reality. Maybe what exhausts us isn’t the work itself, but the lack of meaning. Maybe the real question isn’t whether the work is hard, but whether we still want to feel that we’re truly living.
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