The Things We’re Told to Want

Somewhere between a protein bar I couldn’t buy and a tote bag people line up for, I realized how easily I’m convinced something matters simply because everyone else is chasing it.

There’s a new protein bar making the rounds - it’s called David - the protein of a full meal, the calories of a snack, and apparently the availability of a Birkin. I’d never seen it in the wild until this past weekend, when I snagged one of the last boxes at a Target in New Jersey (of course! New Jersey, spiritually sponsored by protein powder and guidos).

Meanwhile, the Trader Joe’s tote scarcity continues. I handed my bags to the checker, who glanced at my new canvas tote with forest green straps and said, “I hope you make it out of here safely with that one.”

If you know, you know. If you don’t, congratulations on your inner peace.

Scarcity has become the ultimate marketing strategy. If it’s hard to get, it must be important. If everyone wants it, I probably should too. This logic governs our snacks, our status symbols, and increasingly… our lives.

And once you start noticing it, you see it everywhere.

Which brings me to something that genuinely stopped me this week: ChatGPT rolling out a version with ads.

Ads, for me, are the ultimate brand ick. Not because I don’t understand how businesses work - I do - but because ads fundamentally change the relationship. They interrupt. They redirect. They quietly turn attention into inventory.

What struck me wasn’t just that ads were coming, but who they were coming from. For past three years, the brand positioned itself as the opposite of that noise. Clean. Focused. Useful. Not constantly suggesting something I didn’t ask for.

So I found myself asking: is this really necessary to drive engagement? To reach a billion monthly users? Or is this a different kind of scarcity being created - the shrinking availability of spaces that aren’t constantly interrupted by something trying to sell you more?

Because suddenly, uninterrupted attention feels like a premium tier.

And once that thought lodged itself in my brain, I couldn’t stop seeing it elsewhere.

Specifically: in my own living room.

Walgreens has this aisle of cheap-and-cheerful things for kids. It’s quietly become part of our weekly routine - we stop in, see what they have, and surprise our daughter with something that reliably delivers a reaction wildly disproportionate to the price and thought that went into it.

There’s also a strange kind of scarcity at play. The toys we assume she won’t care about - the $0.99 afterthoughts - are always the ones she loves the most. And once she loves them, they are never to be found on a Walgreens shelf again.

I digress.

Over the holidays, there was a puzzle box sitting there. One big puzzle, four smaller ones. Needless to say, she’s now a full-fledged puzzle expert. We’ve since bought more puzzles she hasn’t mastered yet - though, admittedly, those came from Amazon, because of course they did.

Which is how Instagram decided that my entire personality is toddler puzzle dad.

Lately, my feed has been a steady stream of gentle-voiced millennial parent “experts” explaining how not to interrupt a child while they’re working through any activity that requires focus: puzzles, drawing, stacking blocks, literally existing.

The advice goes something like this: don’t praise every step. Don’t narrate the process. Don’t interrupt their concentration. Wait until the activity is complete. Too much commentary, apparently, conditions kids to seek external validation instead of developing internal satisfaction.

And suddenly, it clicked.

Every time I lean in mid-puzzle with “Good job!” or “You got it!” I’m not being supportive - I’m being an ad.

I’m interrupting her process. Redirecting her attention. Inserting myself where she didn’t ask for input. Turning her focus into a feedback loop.

On paper, this makes sense.

In practice, it feels like a brutal mirror.

Because how often do we do this to ourselves?

The more I hear this advice, the more familiar it sounds - not as parenting guidance, but as adult instruction.

I feel like I’m constantly trying to unlearn my need for validation. Catching myself wanting gold stars after every meeting, every email, every small win. Having to remind myself which moments actually deserve recognition and which are simply part of the process.

And if I’m honest, this is where something slightly uncomfortable creeps in.

It feels like I’m identifying the habits my upbringing left me with - around praise, attention, and approval - and then immediately trying to course-correct in my child. As if awareness alone equals wisdom.

Maybe that’s what this moment is: a generation trying to build something better, while quietly wondering if we’re overcorrecting.

I tell myself I want focus. I say I want deep work, flow, fewer interruptions. And yet I still feel that familiar itch when things go quiet… the urge to check in, to comment, to look for confirmation that I’m doing it right.

Sitting with that tension has been… clarifying.

Because once I noticed it in myself, I started to see how much of my life has been shaped by interruptions and by feedback loops I didn’t ask for but learned to crave anyway.

And once I framed it that way, the rest of my week started to snap into focus.

Which may explain why a certain fictional hockey rivalry - turned real-life Cinderella story - has had such a firm grip on my attention.

My ongoing, self-imposed chokehold of Heated Rivalry.

This isn’t escapism. It’s now a parallel universe - a controlled emotional lab where big questions about ambition, timing, validation, and identity play out safely, beautifully, and with significantly better lighting.

Watching Hudson (Shane) and Connor (Ilya) navigate their real-life careers - striking while the iron is hot, saying yes to everything, trying to build momentum without losing direction - has started to feel less like entertainment and more like a mirror I didn’t ask for. Especially now, as they’re being treated like global figures. Lighting the Olympic torch in Italy next month. Which is… objectively wild, considering they are not athletes. At least not outside the small screen.

And yet, here we are.

Their project doesn’t just have me in a chokehold - it feels like the world is actively deciding that these two twenty-something actors are important. Elevated. Symbolic. Loaded with meaning far beyond the work itself. Modern-day Cinderella story energy, bordering on Princess Diana–level projection.

Which is where the tension actually lives.

Because with that kind of attention comes endless opportunity and endless interruption. Every yes opens another door. Every moment of visibility creates pressure to stay visible. And somewhere in the middle of it all is the quiet, terrifying question of brand: Who do you actually want to be? What do you say no to? How do you maintain any sense of scarcity - not just for demand, but for yourself?

You can’t be in two places at once. Not physically. Not creatively. Not emotionally.

And suddenly, the protein bars, the ads, the parenting advice, and the fictional hockey players all collapse into the same question: how do you protect your focus when the world keeps interrupting you with what it thinks you should want?

How do you resist the illusion of opportunity long enough to choose direction?

Maybe adulthood isn’t about chasing what everyone else says matters. Maybe it’s about learning when not to clap after every puzzle piece. About knowing when to opt in, when to opt out, and when to sit with the uncomfortable truth that the thing you want might not come with the applause you expected.

So I guess the question I keep circling back to is this:

Is this it: choosing the thing that looks right… or choosing the thing that feels right?

The weekly section where I will call out a fraction: something that felt like progress this week (like a fraction forward) and a fiction: something that turned out to be a distraction or illusion. 

🎯 Fraction: Interruptions, But Make Them Optional

This week’s fraction forward came in the form of an interruption I actually enjoyed.

Netflix is experimenting with interactive voting during live events - playful, optional, and oddly nostalgic. It reminded me that not all interruptions are bad. Some invite you in… I can already see myself explaining to my daughter that there was a time when voting meant calling a phone number, listening for touch tones, and hoping your favorite American Idol contestant survived the night.

Progress doesn’t always mean less noise. Sometimes it just means better boundaries.

🎭 Fiction: TACO

And I’m not talking about the edible kind - the constant churn of speculation and urgency masquerading as insight. These interruptions don’t invite attention; they demand it, creating the illusion that this moment matters more than the last.

It’s noise dressed up as a signal. Distraction framed as importance. Some things are just fiction.

If this felt like a welcome non-distraction in your inbox or you know someone who would vibe with my ongoing obsessions (Trader Joe’s tote bags, Heated Rivalry, gentle parenting spirals, all of it) - consider sharing this. Post it, forward it to three friends, or drop a comment below. That’s how this little corner of the internet grows.

Until next Friday,

Chris

P.S. This newsletter doesn’t pay for itself. In a week about choosing which interruptions are worth it, this is one I’ll allow. AG1 is simple, efficient, and easy to evaluate. Click below for details 👇🏼 and to support the newsletter.

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