Endless hours of polishing my résumé, refreshing Outlook and Gmail 30 times a day, scrolling through the infinite feed of LinkedIn and Handshake postings: searching, applying, refreshing again.

I’ve come to realize these habits aren’t just mine — they’re almost ritualistic among Duke students. As a school deeply ingrained in pre-professionalism and ensuring student success, it is no wonder we fall easily into the rabbit hole of “What will I do this summer?” Or “what am I doing after graduation?”

Even on a campus known for its energy and spirit, Duke students aren’t immune to the constant scrolling, texting, and dopamine hits that fill every spare moment. The difference? We’ve found a way to rationalize it — convincing ourselves it’s all in the name of our future.

Lately, my once high motivation for classes has vanished. My interest in the material is still alive; I continue to be challenged in different ways, yet the monotony of the semester has dulled the novelty of learning. So, as any burnt-out college student does, I distract myself.

These distractions, however, aren’t the socially nourishing ones, like spending time with friends, volunteering or pursuing a hobby, but something far more insidious: I entomb myself in the future.

At a school that almost sacrilegiously worships student outcomes, the LinkedIn obsession at first seemed like a Duke rite of passage. Expanding your network, finding jobs and curating your profile is, in a way, our generation’s introduction to the professional world. Meeting students with shared interests, sharing opportunities — undoubtedly valuable tools.

But somewhere along the way, the purpose shifted. Hitting the mark of 500-plus connections became a form of social currency. Competitive internships and scholarships stopped inspiring celebration and instead provoked a quiet, gnawing question: Why not me?

The cruel engine of social media has always been comparison. And lo and behold, the old adage holds true — comparison is the thief of joy. In many ways, the polished, prolific figures we follow on LinkedIn are simply the professional version of influencers on TikTok and Instagram.

And is that really harmless?

Frankly, no.

One night, I caught myself sitting in Perkins Library long after midnight — LinkedIn open, tabs upon tabs of applications half-finished. My coffee was cold, my mind numb. I wasn’t working anymore; I was performing productivity, convincing myself that my anxiety was ambition. The irony wasn’t lost on me: I was sacrificing my present to secure a version of the future that didn’t even exist yet.

Maybe what we call “investing in our future” is really just a way to feel in control. The moment we stop hustling, the stagnation gets uncomfortable. We start to ask questions we can’t answer — What if I fail? What if I’m not enough? It’s easier to search, apply and refresh.

In chasing these future ideals, we risk escaping the very experiences that make us the kind of people worth hiring in the first place. It’s easy to believe that our value lies in credentials, but a university is supposed to shape who we are, not just what we do. The most formative experiences —moments of curiosity, connection, even boredom — are right in front of us. Yet we spend them curating the image of a self we haven’t fully lived into yet.

Maybe that’s the paradox of being a student today: we’ve mastered how to optimize every moment except the present one. We know exactly what we should be doing, and yet we rarely stop long enough to ask why.

So maybe the question isn’t whether we’re investing in our future or avoiding the present. Maybe the two aren’t opposites at all. Maybe the truest investment in our future is learning how to be fully here, right now, before it all becomes another thing we scroll past.

Devyn Deschamps is a Trinity sophomore. Her pieces typically run on alternate Sundays.