In a world where you can Prime joy, subscribe to happiness, and schedule a dopamine hit between meetings, we’ve started treating pleasure like a productivity hack. But Anna Lembke—American psychiatrist, author of the bestselling Dopamine Nation, and expert on why we’re all low-key addicted to feeling good—says we’ve got it all wrong. “Real joy,” she says, over our email exchange, “doesn’t come with a notification. It shows up when you’re not trying so hard.” The best kind? The kind that sneaks up on you when your phone’s finally out of reach—not during your meticulously planned self-care Sunday.
Lembke has devoted her career to understanding what happens when pleasure turns pathological. “We’re living in a culture flooded with dopamine,” she explains. “Today’s indulgences—whether it’s binge-scrolling, impulsive shopping, or constant snacking—aren’t truly joyful. They’re often self-centred, short-lived, and deeply performative.” The irony? Our relentless pursuit of happiness might be the very thing making us miserable. “The chase for pleasure, unchecked, ends in pain,” she says. “It’s ancient wisdom—but now, neuroscience is catching up.”
In Dopamine Nation, Lembke explores how pleasure and pain are processed in the same part of the brain—and how overstimulating one inevitably triggers the other. “Our reward systems evolved for a world of scarcity, not the overstimulated reality we inhabit today,” she says. “If we continually flood our brains with rewards, our baseline resets. Soon, we require more extreme stimuli just to feel okay. Eventually, it’s not pleasure we’re chasing—it’s relief from discomfort.”
In chapter seven of Dopamine Nation, titled ‘Pressing on the Pain Side’, Lembke introduces a compelling metaphor: the pleasure-pain seesaw. Every time we indulge, the seesaw tips towards pleasure, but the brain pushes back with pain to restore equilibrium. Interestingly, the reverse holds true as well. When we willingly engage in mild discomforts—cold-water immersion, high-intensity workouts, intermittent fasting—we tilt the seesaw towards pain, prompting the brain to counter with feel-good chemicals like dopamine. This process, known as hormesis, suggests that short bursts of manageable stress can foster emotional and neurological resilience.
Today, dopamine detoxes and digital fasts are becoming increasingly popular, especially among Gen Z. Cold plunges, silent retreats, and “delayed gratification” challenges are trending across social media. But Lembke offers a cautionary note. “Even these discomforts can morph into their own compulsions,” she warns. “If taken to extremes, pain can tip the balance too far. The aim isn’t suffering—it’s restoration.” The key, she says, lies in moderation and mindful intention: using discomfort as a tool, not a crutch.
Her own relationship with joy has shifted over time. “I still believe that doing hard things is crucial in today’s convenience-saturated world,” she says. “But the older I get, the more I realise joy can’t be manufactured—it arrives in its own time. Our actions can create the space for it, but we can’t force it.” That’s why she champions small, deliberate acts of resistance against modern excess—cold showers, analogue mornings, no screens before noon. “It’s in those disciplined moments,” she says, “that joy sometimes slips in.”
Lembke is also wary of how the wellness industry has commercialised joy. “It’s become the new hustle,” she observes. “People turn to supplements and expensive routines branded as ‘self-care’ when material pleasures stop delivering. But I’m not convinced that’s where serenity lives. Letting go of the pursuit itself—that’s where I think true peace begins.”
Despite the cultural narrative around indulgence—pleasure as reward, as escape, as identity—Lembke believes that restraint might just be the radical act of our era. “By voluntarily engaging in effort and discomfort, we teach our brains to appreciate balance again. Joy and pain are entwined. If we constantly seek the highs, we dull our ability to feel anything meaningful.”
Real joy for her, increasingly, lives in the quiet. Walking. Cooking for her family. Tending to a garden. “It’s about realigning with our biology,” she says. “Reading a good book. Sitting in stillness. And when I feel overstimulated, I cut out all moving images—no videos, no reels, no news clips. That’s my go-to detox.”
So what does joy sound like to her? She says, “One of my kids playing the piano downstairs.” No filters. No metrics. Just presence.
Happiness, she insists, isn’t merely a feeling—it’s a discipline. “It’s a practice,” she says. “You can’t summon it on demand, but you can shape a life that’s awake and open enough to let it in. And that takes effort. Joy isn’t for slackers.” Her prescription for a world awash in stimulation? “Turn down the noise,” she says. “Don’t use your phone as your alarm. Wake up, move your body, eat breakfast, make your bed—then touch a screen.”
Of course, cultivating joy is one thing; holding on to it when life unravels is quite another. Is finding happiness then still possible in the harshest of circumstances? Her reply offers a truth worth holding on to: Even in moments of profound suffering, people are capable of experiencing joy. “That,” she writes, “has always amazed me.”
