I was sitting on my back porch the other day, just watching the way the light hit the leaves of the old oak tree in the yard. It was one of those rare moments where I didn’t have a phone in my hand, no music playing in my ears, and no immediate “to-do” list screaming for my attention. It felt weird. Honestly, it felt a little uncomfortable at first. My thumb actually twitched, looking for a screen to scroll through, even though there was nothing I actually needed to check. It made me realize just how much I’ve conditioned myself to be constantly “on.”
We live in this world that prizes speed above almost everything else. If you aren’t moving fast, you’re falling behind. If you aren’t productive every waking second, you’re wasting time. At least, that’s the story we’re told. But standing there, watching the shadows stretch across the grass, I started to wonder if maybe we’ve got it all backwards. Maybe the “wasted” time is actually the most important part of the day.
The Constant Hum of Modern Life
Have you ever noticed that there’s a sort of low-level hum in the back of your mind? It’s like a refrigerator running in another room—you don’t really notice it until it stops. That hum is the sound of our collective busyness. It’s the mental load of emails, texts, news updates, and the general feeling that we should be doing more, seeing more, and being more. It’s exhausting, yet we’ve become so used to it that silence feels heavy.
I think we’ve lost the art of just existing. We’ve traded depth for breadth. We know a little bit about a thousand things, but we rarely sit with one thing long enough to truly understand it. We skim articles, we watch ten-second clips, and we jump from one task to the next without ever really finishing the thought. It’s a shallow way to live, and I’m as guilty of it as anyone else. But lately, I’ve been trying to push back against that hum.
Slowing down isn’t about being lazy. It’s about being intentional. It’s about choosing what deserves your energy instead of letting the world dictate it for you. It’s a quiet rebellion, really. In a society that demands your attention at every turn, choosing to look at a tree for ten minutes is a radical act.
The Magic of Working with Your Hands
One of the ways I’ve been trying to reclaim my own time is through analog hobbies. There is something profoundly grounding about doing something that doesn’t involve a glowing rectangle. For me, it started with baking bread. There’s no “fast-forward” button on sourdough. You can’t make the yeast work faster by clicking a button or upgrading your internet speed. It takes as long as it takes.
The first time I tried it, I failed miserably. The loaf was a dense, floury brick that could have been used as a doorstop. But the process was what mattered. The feeling of the flour on my hands, the rhythmic kneading of the dough, the smell of the oven—it forced me to be present. You can’t check your messages when your hands are covered in sticky dough. You have to stay right there, in that moment, with that loaf of bread.
I think we need more of that. We need things that take time. We need things that can’t be optimized. Whether it’s gardening, woodworking, knitting, or even just writing a letter by hand, these tactile experiences connect us to the physical world in a way that digital experiences never can. They remind us that we are physical beings, not just brains floating in a sea of data.
Why It’s Okay to Be Truly Terrible at a Hobby
One of the biggest hurdles to starting something new is the pressure to be good at it right away. We see people on the internet showcasing their perfect “beginner” projects, and we feel like if our first attempt isn’t gallery-ready, we’ve failed. But that’s missing the point entirely. The joy of a hobby isn’t in the final product; it’s in the doing.
- It gives you permission to make mistakes without consequences.
- It humbles you in a way that’s actually quite refreshing.
- It reminds you that growth is a slow, messy process.
- It takes the focus off of “output” and puts it back on “experience.”
I’ve learned to love my ugly bread. I’ve learned to appreciate the garden beds that are half-overrun with weeds. Because in those moments, I wasn’t trying to impress anyone. I was just learning. I was just being.
The Forgotten Art of Waiting
Remember when you used to have to wait for things? You’d wait for a letter in the mail. You’d wait for a movie to come out on video. You’d wait for your photos to be developed at the pharmacy. There was a certain tension in that waiting, sure, but there was also anticipation. There was space for your imagination to fill in the gaps.
Now, everything is instant. We get annoyed if a webpage takes more than three seconds to load. We expect an answer to a text within minutes. We’ve lost the capacity for patience, and I think that’s a tragedy. Patience is a muscle, and if you don’t use it, it withers away. When we lose our patience, we lose our ability to deal with the complexities of life, because real life doesn’t happen at the speed of light.
I’ve started trying to reintroduce “waiting” back into my life. Sometimes I’ll leave my phone in the car when I go into a store. Sometimes I’ll sit in a waiting room and just look at the people around me instead of scrolling through my feed. It’s hard. It’s genuinely difficult to just sit there with your own thoughts. But once the initial itch to check your phone passes, something interesting happens. You start to notice things. You notice the way the light catches a dust mote, or the way two strangers are interacting, or a memory you haven’t thought about in years suddenly bubbles to the surface.
Reclaiming Your Attention Span
I’ve noticed that my attention span has been getting shorter over the years. I used to be able to sit down and read a book for hours. Lately, I find myself reaching for my phone after just a few pages. It’s like my brain is constantly looking for that next hit of dopamine, that next little spark of something new. It’s a hard habit to break.
But reading a physical book—the kind with paper pages that you actually have to turn—is one of the best ways I’ve found to retrain my brain. There’s something about the weight of it in your lap. There’s no back button. There are no notifications popping up in the margins. It’s just you and the words. If you get bored, you have to push through it. And usually, if you do push through that initial wall of boredom, you find a deeper level of engagement on the other side.
I think we need to be more protective of our attention. It’s the most valuable thing we have, yet we give it away so easily to anyone who asks for it. Every app, every advertisement, every “trending” topic is fighting for a piece of your mind. Learning to say “no” to that—learning to close the laptop and go for a walk instead—is how you get your life back.
Finding Balance in a Digital Age
Look, I’m not saying we should all move to the woods and live like hermits. I love technology as much as the next person. I like being able to look up a recipe in seconds or video call a friend who lives halfway across the world. The goal isn’t to delete our digital lives; it’s to find a balance where the digital doesn’t completely swallow the physical.
It’s about carving out little islands of “slow” in the middle of the fast-moving river. Maybe it’s thirty minutes in the morning without a screen. Maybe it’s a dedicated “no-phone” dinner with your family. Maybe it’s just taking the long way home once in a while. These small choices add up. They create space for reflection, for creativity, and for genuine rest.
Real rest isn’t just about stopping work. It’s about doing things that nourish your soul. Scrolling through a social media feed might feel like a break, but it rarely leaves you feeling refreshed. Usually, it leaves you feeling more drained than before. True rest often looks like doing something “unproductive” that you actually enjoy.
A Few Thoughts to Leave You With
If you’re feeling overwhelmed by the pace of everything, you’re not alone. We’re all trying to figure out how to navigate this world that never seems to sleep. But you don’t have to keep up with it. You’re allowed to move at your own pace. You’re allowed to take the slow route. You’re allowed to spend an afternoon doing absolutely nothing of “value” if it brings you peace.
I’ve realized that the moments I remember most fondly aren’t the ones where I was being efficient. They’re the moments where I was present. The long conversations that went late into the night. The afternoon spent trying to fix a leaky faucet. The morning spent wandering through a quiet park. These are the things that make a life feel full.
So, maybe today, try to find one thing you can do slowly. Don’t rush through it. Don’t try to multitask. Just do that one thing and see how it feels. You might find that the world doesn’t fall apart if you take your time. In fact, you might find that the world looks a whole lot better when you aren’t rushing past it.
Anyway, those are just some things I’ve been thinking about while I was supposed to be doing other things. It’s funny how that works. When we give ourselves permission to wander, we often end up exactly where we need to be.