When Motivation Becomes a Silent Crisis

Walk into a school in Rajshahi, a factory in Gazipur or a glossy office in Dhaka, and the pattern is clear: people look tired, not just physically but emotionally. Teachers complain their students are not trying hard enough. Managers wonder why bonuses no longer boost productivity. Parents worry their children lack ambition. We keep asking, “What’s wrong with people these days?” But perhaps the better question is, “What are they carrying that we refuse to see?” Because more often than not, the issue is not laziness, it is emotional exhaustion. And no amount of pushing, praising or punishing can fix what has not first been heard and held.

In a culture that prizes endurance, people often suppress distress to meet expectations. From a young age, we are taught to be strong, stay silent and achieve at any cost. But when someone breaks down — whether a student, worker or family member, our institutions are ill-equipped to respond. We default to blaming individuals for disengagement, instead of examining the systems around them. Schools still treat low performance as a disciplinary problem, and workplaces interpret fatigue as a lack of loyalty. This mismatch has real consequences. In truth, people cannot give their best when they are constantly bracing against fear, judgment or invisibility. Motivation is not about managing people harder; it is about recognising what they need in order to feel safe and capable again.

What makes this crisis more complex is the weight of emotional legacies passed from one generation to another. Many young people grow up in homes where emotional expression is discouraged and performance is the only language of value. A parent who demands perfection may once have been a child who was denied comfort. A father who punishes failure may still be carrying his own unresolved shame. These are not just personal histories; they are social patterns shaped by decades of economic struggle, conflict and cultural silence. According to the Bangladesh National Mental Health Survey 2019, about 4.5% of children aged 7–17 years were found to have anxiety disorders, with higher prevalence reported in urban areas. Yet the majority of schools offer no mental health support, and most families lack the vocabulary to even name what children feel. We cannot talk about effort without acknowledging fear, and we cannot expect resilience from people who were never taught they are allowed to rest.

This conversation must also expand beyond urban middle-class settings. Emotional strain is just as present, if not more acute, in marginalised communities, where economic survival leaves little room for emotional care. A young woman working in a garment factory may be providing for an entire family but is rarely asked how she is coping. Her absenteeism may be marked down as negligence when it is, in fact, burnout. Similarly, a young man from a rural area who migrates to Dhaka for work faces isolation, job insecurity and intense pressure to succeed—all while navigating unfamiliar environments without social or emotional support. In both cases, the psychological toll remains invisible in policy and public discourse. Gender plays a critical role as well. Girls are often taught to suppress anger or sadness in the name of modesty, while boys are told to avoid vulnerability. These norms restrict both genders from developing emotional literacy. For women, the pressure to balance academic success, caregiving and societal expectations often leads to chronic stress. For men, the stigma around emotional expression leads to bottled-up frustrations that can surface as aggression or silence. These are not private struggles; they are public consequences of a culture that underinvests in emotional wellbeing.

If we are serious about human development, then emotional health must be integrated into every structure we rely on, starting with education and employment. Schools must include socio-emotional learning in their core curricula, not just as a side activity. Teachers need basic training in trauma awareness and mental health first aid. Likewise, workplaces—especially those employing young professionals—must create environments where mental health is not a private burden, but a shared responsibility. Introducing mental health policies, offering flexible hours and encouraging honest feedback are not luxuries; they are strategic necessities. And at the policy level, emotional wellness should be mainstreamed into national development planning, just as digital literacy or financial inclusion has been in recent years. To ignore it is to risk building on fragile foundations. Emotional wellbeing is not a side issue; it is central to how people learn, work and relate to one another.

Bangladesh does not need a louder generation; it needs a lighter one, one that knows it is okay to rest, to speak, to feel. This is not softness; it is sustainability. A nation cannot thrive if its people are emotionally depleted. We must stop managing people like machines and start caring for them as human beings. Until we recognise emotional neglect as a structural issue—not just a personal one—we will continue losing potential across classrooms, offices and families. The cost is already visible: in dropout rates, high employee turnover, quiet suffering in homes, and a growing disconnect between what people are expected to do and what they can emotionally afford to give. If we are serious about building a just, creative and resilient future, we must finally take emotional well-being as seriously as we take performance. Endurance without empathy is not a virtue; it is a wound we refuse to see.

_____________________________________

The writer is an Assistant Professor in the Department of Philosophy at IUBAT and pursuing a Masters in Human Rights and Multiculturalism at University of South Eastern Norway