The City That Never Sleeps—And Won’t Let You

17 Jul 2025

5 Min Read

Ruka Nakamatsu (Student Writer)

IN THIS ARTICLE

Explore how the design, pace, and everyday spaces of city life quietly influence our mental wellbeing—leaving us wired, weary, and worn down.

Flashing digital billboards and glowing neon signs light up the night. The low hum of traffic blends with the occasional honk of impatient drivers. Crowds shuffle past each other on narrow sidewalks—some walking briskly with earbuds in, others scrolling mindlessly through their phones, a few clutching takeaway dinners as they go. The city never stops.

For some, this energy feels electric. There’s always something to do, somewhere to be, someone new to meet. For others, the endless hustle and bustle can feel… overwhelming. But before we blame it all on our never-ending to-do lists or back-to-back deadlines, what if it’s not just us—what if it’s the city itself?

Here’s something we don’t think about: how we feel in a city isn’t just about our routines or the pressures we face—it’s also about the space around us. The way a city is designed—the buildings we pass, the streets we cross, the places we gather—quietly influences our mood, energy levels, and even mental health.

Living Life on Fast Forward

City life often feels like it’s stuck on fast-forward. From early morning meetings to late-night study sessions, there’s always something demanding our attention. Classes, work, and those constant notifications in between—it’s easy to feel like slowing down isn’t an option.

In cities like Kuala Lumpur, Tokyo, or New York City, the pace rarely lets up. Trains arrive by the minute, delivery riders rush against time, and convenience stores stay open around the clock. On the surface, it feels like momentum and excitement. But beneath it, many young people are experiencing rising levels of stress, anxiety, and burnout.

The constant noise, lights, and commotion create what psychologists call sensory overload—when our brains are flooded with more stimulation than they’re wired to handle. Over time, this can lead to decision fatigue, sleep disturbance, and emotional exhaustion.

The Architecture of Stress

Take a walk through any major city—Shanghai’s soaring high-rises or São Paulo’s sprawling high-density neighbourhoods—and you’ll notice one thing: an endless palette of grey, painted in concrete, steel, and glass. Skyscrapers loom overhead, shrinking the sky. Streets stretch on, often without a single tree in sight. Research shows that spending too much time in these ‘concrete jungles’ can negatively impact mental health.

A panoramic view of Hong Kong's dense skyline

In cities like Manila and Hong Kong, limited space means housing is compact and stacked ever higher. While this helps ease housing shortages, it often comes at a social cost. In these buildings, people are less likely to casually interact with neighbours—a trend also observed in Kuala Lumpur, where vertical living has been linked to increased social isolation.

Crowded public spaces add to the strain. Squeezing into packed trains during rush hour, weaving through narrow sidewalks, or crossing multi-lane roads with cars zooming past—all raise stress levels in ways we often overlook.

A night view of the Las Vegas Strip in Nevada, USA

Light and noise pollution play a role, too. Cities like Bangkok and Las Vegas are known for their bright nights and buzzing streets, but prolonged exposure to artificial light and noise disrupts our sleep and, in turn, our health.

Sometimes, it’s what’s missing that matters most. Too often, cities are designed for efficiency, not comfort or care. Few benches to rest. Fewer trees for shade. No quiet corners to just… exist.

The Loneliness Paradox

A sea of pedestrians crossing at the Shibuya Crossing in Tokyo, Japan

Cities bring people close, but not always closer. It’s strange, isn’t it? You can be surrounded by thousands and still feel completely alone. In many urban neighbourhoods, people live side by side for years without ever really getting to know each other. Some of it comes down to lifestyle. More of it comes down to how cities are designed.

Enclosed residential blocks, self-contained units, and a lack of shared spaces make it hard to connect. Even places supposedly built for connection have become anything but—from shopping malls where people flit from one store to the next, to gyms where everyone’s zoned into their own workouts, to cafés filled with more typing than talking.

Even city layouts subtly push us to keep moving, prioritising movement over moments. From bus stops with nowhere to sit, to sidewalks with no space to pause, to streets with no room for people, only cars. We’re always in transit, yet never arriving.

All of this can create a deep sense of isolation—or loneliness—especially for newcomers settling into city life for the first time. I felt this myself when I moved from Bali to Japan. Urban design doesn’t just shape our cities; it shapes how we connect, how we find belonging, and how we come to feel at home.

Building Better Cities—And Better Minds

Still, some cities move to a different rhythm—one that gives us space to slow down, reset, and reconnect with ourselves and those around us. Singapore embraces green planning, weaving parks, trees, and rooftop gardens into its urban fabric. Copenhagen puts people before cars, designing streets that prioritise pedestrians and cyclists, creating a city that feels safer and more serene. And in Seoul, an old highway was removed to restore the Cheonggyecheon Stream—a tranquil walkway lined with flowing water, greenery, and seating areas, where people gather to enjoy the outdoors.

A view of Cheonggyecheon Stream during sunset in Seoul, South Korea

These aren’t just aesthetic upgrades; they’re examples of human-centred design—spaces that support how people feel, not just how they move. Even small details can make a difference: a shaded bench where dappled light invites you to sit and slow down; a quiet library where silence wraps around you like a soft embrace; a neighbourhood park where winding paths turn strangers into neighbours.

Good design doesn’t always shout. Sometimes, it speaks softly: You’re welcome here. And this is where architecture steps in. It’s not just about drawing buildings or making things look cool. It’s about asking the bigger questions: How do people feel in this space? Does it meet their emotional and physical needs? And does it foster a sense of belonging—or simply offer somewhere to be?

Conclusion

Some cities rush us. Some overwhelm us. But some make space—for pause, for presence, for people. And those are the best ones.

Here’s the powerful part: none of it happens by accident. Every bench, every tree, every curve of a pathway was placed there by someone who made a choice—a choice to centre people, to soften the edges of city life.

What if, one day, that someone was you?

Because building a better city isn’t just about concrete and codes. It begins with empathy—with asking: How do we make people feel seen, safe, and invited to stay? Answer that, and you’re not just designing spaces. You’re shaping the way we live—together.

Many cities weren’t designed with mental wellbeing in mind. Start shifting that approach with our Foundation in Natural and Built Environments and, later, our programmes at the School of Architecture, Building and Design.

Ruka Nakamatsu is currently pursuing a Bachelor of Psychology (Honours) at Taylor's University. A voracious reader with an insatiable curiosity, she constantly delves into diverse topics, always on the lookout for the next great story to write.

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