What Multitasking Is Doing To Your Brain

Concetta Cucchiarelli
November 15, 2024 | 3 min read

Today's world is becoming increasingly busy. Our to-do list grows every second.

There are three ways to deal with this never-ending growth.

  1. We can reduce the number of things to do.
  2. Increase the number of people working on the same list.
  3. Become faster at what we do.

Usually, we choose the last option, and we achieve it by doing more than one thing at a time. This is the definition of multitasking.

But did you know multitasking isn’t real? What we’re actually talking about is divided attention.

Multitasking Is a Lie

Most of us should know by now that multitasking isn’t real. Studies show that when “multitasking,” we are not actually processing multiple tasks simultaneously — we’re switching from one task or object to another very, very fast.

Imagine looking for a parking spot on a one-way street with parking on both sides. You have the illusion of seeing both left and right at the same time, but what you’re actually doing is turning your head to alternating sides.

The same happens with our attention. Professor Sophie Leroy defined the mental phenomenon of moving from one task to another as "attention residue." When you switch tasks, you’re bringing with you the last part, the residue, of what you were just doing — and vice versa.

Most of us should know by now that multitasking isn’t real. Studies show that when “multitasking,” we are not actually processing multiple tasks simultaneously — we’re switching from one task or object to another very, very fast.

It's like when you see a bright flash, and you can then only see black spots for a few moments. Your task switching is creating black spots that impair your “vision” when you move on to another task.

Of course, this is a very simplified version of the concept. Still, it's helpful to explain why switching our attention like this, or having divided attention, actually takes more time and energy, and results in more mistakes. This is known as “switching costs.”

In addition, we retain less information when multitasking. In fact, when we do two things at a time, we rely less on the part of the brain that lets us store and retrieve information, so we actually accumulate less knowledge.

That's why it's just an illusion that you can learn something by listening to a podcast while working. It's like watching just the highlights instead of the whole football match. And the number of details we collect determines how much we remember.

Switching our attention like this, or having divided attention, actually takes more time and energy, and results in more mistakes. 

It Gets Worse

Recent studies, focused in particular on a specific type of multitasking called multimedia tasking (multitasking on more than one device), showed that continually dividing our attention physically changes the structure of our brain, affecting intelligence, emotion control, anxiety, and overall social-emotional well-being.

Multimedia tasking ... physically changes the structure of our brain, affecting intelligence, emotion control, anxiety, and overall social-emotional well-being.

So, not only do we not save time and not retain information while multitasking, we are also damaging our brains.

Yet we keep doing it. Why?

So, not only do we not save time and not retain information while multitasking, we are also damaging our brains.

There are definitely some cognitive biases at work here. For example, we tend to consider ourselves better and more able than others, so we may think, "This may be true for ordinary people, but not me." We also often underestimate the time and effort actually required to do something.

In my experience as a strategist, I've seen many people multitask just to create a perceived sense of busyness, even if they know that it is just an illusion. Other people may want to avoid their thoughts — after all, thinking is the hardest task of all — so the busier, the better.

Knowing why you multitask can help you stop and choose one of the other options: work with more people and learn to delegate, or be more conscious about what to put on you to-do list.

[BACK TO “WHY FOCUS IS DYING”]

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I’ve spent years writing while secretly fearing that a single misplaced word would expose me — not just as a bad writer, but as a fraud.

My background is originally in photography, and I see it there, too. A photographer I know recently posted a before-and-after comparison of their editing from 2018 versus now, asking if we also saw changes in our own work over the years.

Naturally, we should. If our work is the same, years apart, have we really grown as artists?

So why is that the growing, the process of it, the daily grind of it, is so painful?

So why is that the growing, the process of it, the daily grind of it, is so painful?

The Haunting

Hitting “publish” on an essay or a blog always stirs up insecurity — the overthinking, the over-editing. The fear that someone will call me out for not being a real writer.

I initially hesitated to make writing part of my freelance work. My background is in photography and design. Writing was something I gravitated toward, but I had no degree to validate it. No official stamp of approval.

Like many writers, I started with zero confidence in my voice — agonizing over edits, drowning in research, second-guessing every word.

I even created a shield for myself: ghostwriting.

I even created a shield for myself: ghostwriting.

If my words weren’t my own, they couldn’t be wrong. Ghostwriting meant safety — no risk, no vulnerability, just words without ownership.

I still remember the feeling of scrolling to the bottom of an article I had written and seeing someone else’s name, their face beside words that had once been mine. It felt uncanny — like recognizing your handwriting but not remembering when or why you wrote those words. I knew it was mine, but it didn't feel like it belonged to me anymore.

The truth is, I always wanted to write. As a kid, I imagined it. Yet, I found myself handing over my work, letting someone else own it.

I told myself it didn’t matter. It was work. Getting paid to write should be enough.

But here’s the thing: I wasn’t just playing it safe — I was slowly erasing myself. Word by word. Edit by edit. And finally, in the by-line.

I wasn’t just playing it safe — I was slowly erasing myself. Word by word. Edit by edit. And finally, in the by-line.

The Disappearing Act

This was true when I was writing under my own name, too. The more I worried about getting it right, the less I sounded like me.

I worried. I worried about how long an essay was (“people will be bored”), finding endless examples as proof of my research (“no way my own opinion is valid on its own”), the title I gave a piece (“it has to be a hook”), or editing out personal touches (“better to be safe than be seen”).

I built a guardrail around my writing, adjusting, tweaking, over-correcting. Advice meant to help only locked me in. It created a sentence rewritten to sound smarter, an opinion softened to sound safer, a paragraph reshaped to sound acceptable.

I built a guardrail around my writing, adjusting, tweaking, over-correcting.

But playing it safe makes the work dull. Writing loses its edge.

It took deliberate effort to break this habit. I’m not perfect, but here’s what I know after a year of intentionally letting my writing sound like me:

My work is clearer. It moves with my own rhythm. It’s less shaped by external influence, by fear, by the constant need to smooth it into something more polished, more likable.

But playing it safe makes the work dull. Writing loses its edge.

Invisible Strings

The drive for acceptance is a slippery slope — one we don’t always realize we’re sliding down. It’s present in the small choices that pull us away from artistic integrity: checking how others did it first, tweaking our work to fit a mold, hesitating before saying what we actually mean.

And let’s be honest — this isn’t just about writing. It bleeds into everything.

It’s there when we stay silent in the face of wrongdoing, when we hold back our true way of being, when we choose work that feels “respectable,” whatever that means. It’s in every “yes” we say when we really want to say “no.”

If your self-expression is rooted in a need for acceptance, are you creating for yourself — or for others? Does your work help you explore your thoughts, your life? Does it add depth, energy, and meaning?

My work is clearer. It moves with my own rhythm. It’s less shaped by external influence, by fear, by the constant need to smooth it into something more polished, more likable.

I get it. We’re social creatures. Isolation isn’t the answer. Ignoring societal norms won’t make us better writers. Often, the most meaningful work is born from responding to or resisting those norms.

But knowing yourself well enough to recognize when acceptance is shaping your work brings clarity.

Am I doing this to be part of a community, to build connections, to learn and grow?

Or am I doing this to meet someone else’s expectations, dulling my voice just to fit in?

Owning the Words

Here’s what I know as I look back at my writing: I’m grateful for the years spent learning, for the times I sought acceptance with curiosity. But I’m in a different phase now.

I know who I am, and those who connect with my work reflect that back at me — in the messages they send, in the conversations we share.

I know who I am, and those who connect with my work reflect that back at me — in the messages they send, in the conversations we share.

It’s our differences that drive growth. I want to nurture these connections, to be challenged by difference, to keep writing in a way that feels like me. The me who isn’t afraid to show what I think and care about.

So, I ask you, as I ask myself now:

If no one was watching, if no one could judge, what would you write?

If no one was watching, if no one could judge, what would you write?

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