I sat down this morning with a cup of coffee, the kind that’s actually hot for once because the house was finally quiet. The steam was curling up in that lazy, hypnotic way, and for about thirty seconds, I was just… there. I was present. And then, without even thinking about it, my hand started wandering across the wooden table, searching for my phone. It’s a reflex now, isn’t it? That strange, magnetic pull to check a screen the moment there’s a gap in the noise.
It got me thinking about how much of our lives we actually spend “in the room” versus how much we spend hovering somewhere in the digital ether. We talk a lot about being busy, but I’ve started to wonder if we’re actually busy or if we’re just over-stimulated. There is a massive difference between the two, though they feel suspiciously similar when you’re in the thick of it. One feels like progress; the other just feels like vibrating in place.
I’m not a minimalist or someone who lives in a cabin without electricity—though some days that sounds like a dream. I’m just a person who realized my attention span had become about as sturdy as a wet paper towel. And I don’t think I’m the only one. We’re living in this era where everything is designed to grab us by the lapels and scream for a second of our time, and quite frankly, it’s exhausting.
The Myth of Doing It All at Once
We’ve been sold this idea that multitasking is a skill. You see it on resumes, you hear people brag about it in coffee shops. “Oh, I’m a great multitasker.” But if we’re being honest with ourselves, it’s usually just a polite way of saying we’re doing five things poorly instead of one thing well. I’ve tried it. I’ve tried responding to an email while listening to a podcast while also making sure the pasta doesn’t boil over. You know what happens? The email is full of typos, I miss the point of the podcast, and the stove ends up covered in starchy water.
The human brain isn’t a dual-core processor. It’s more like a spotlight. When we try to shine that light on five different things at once, the light gets dim. It flickers. We think we’re being efficient, but we’re actually just putting ourselves through a constant state of “context switching.” Every time you jump from a task to a notification and back again, your brain takes a few minutes to truly settle back in. If you do that twenty times an hour, you never actually settle. You’re just skimming the surface of your own life.
I remember a time when I could sit with a book for three hours straight. No breaks, no checking the time, just deep in the story. Nowadays, if I go twenty minutes without a “ping,” I start to feel an itch. It’s a literal physical sensation. That’s not efficiency; that’s a conditioned response. We’ve been trained to expect a reward for looking away from the thing that actually matters.
Finding Solace in the Tangible World
Lately, I’ve been trying to do things that have no digital component. Last weekend, I decided to fix a loose hinge on the kitchen cabinet. It’s a small, inconsequential task. It took me forty minutes because I couldn’t find the right screwdriver and then I realized the screw hole was stripped. In the past, I would have been frustrated. I would have had the TV on in the background to “pass the time.”
But this time, I just did the work. I felt the weight of the screwdriver. I smelled the old wood. I listened to the sound of the metal turning. It was incredibly grounding. There’s something about working with your hands—whether it’s gardening, cooking a meal from scratch, or just folding laundry—that demands a different kind of presence. You can’t “scroll” through a garden bed. You have to be there, in the dirt, dealing with what’s in front of you.
I think we’ve lost a bit of that tactile satisfaction. Everything is so frictionless now. We click a button and food shows up. We swipe a screen and “socialize.” But friction is where the meaning lives. The resistance of the wood, the time it takes for dough to rise, the slow process of learning a new chord on a guitar—these things require us to slow down to their pace. They don’t speed up for us, and that’s why they’re so valuable.
The Beauty of Boredom
When was the last time you were truly bored? I mean, sitting at a bus stop or waiting for a friend without pulling out your phone? It feels like a lost art. We’ve become terrified of the silence in our own heads. But boredom is often where the best ideas come from. It’s the “waiting room” for creativity. When you fill every single gap with content—articles, videos, posts—you never give your own thoughts a chance to breathe.
I’ve started taking “nothing walks.” No headphones, no tracking my steps, no destination. Just walking. The first ten minutes are usually restless. My mind is racing, trying to find something to “do.” But eventually, it settles. I notice the way the light hits the bricks on the corner house. I notice the smell of the air after it rains. I start to think about things I haven’t thought about in years. It’s like clearing out a cluttered drawer in your mind. You didn’t even realize how much junk was in there until you stopped adding to it.
The Cost of “Staying Informed”
There’s this weird pressure to always know what’s happening in the world. We feel like we’re being irresponsible if we aren’t caught up on every headline, every trend, and every minor controversy. But I have to ask: at what cost? Most of the “news” we consume is designed to trigger an emotional response—usually anger or anxiety. It keeps us hooked because those are powerful feelings, but it rarely leaves us better off.
I’m not saying we should put our heads in the sand. But there is a middle ground between being a hermit and being plugged into the 24-hour outrage cycle. I’ve noticed that when I step back from the constant flow of information, I actually have more energy to care about the things that are actually within my circle of influence. I can be a better neighbor, a more present friend, and a more thoughtful worker. You can’t pour from an empty cup, and the digital world is very good at draining that cup dry.
- Try leaving your phone in another room for just one hour a day. It’s harder than it sounds.
- Find a hobby that requires both hands and no screens.
- Practice “single-tasking.” If you’re eating, just eat. If you’re talking to someone, just listen.
- Notice when you’re reaching for a device out of habit rather than necessity.
Rebuilding the Focus Muscle
It’s important to remember that focus is a muscle. If you haven’t used it in a while, it’s going to be weak. You can’t expect to sit down and focus for four hours if you’ve spent the last three years living in thirty-second increments. You have to train it. You start small. You commit to ten minutes of uninterrupted reading. Then fifteen. Then thirty.
It’s frustrating at first. You’ll feel that pull to check your notifications. You’ll feel the urge to “just look something up real quick.” Resist it. Not because some productivity guru told you to, but because you deserve to own your own mind. There is a specific kind of peace that comes from being fully immersed in a single activity. It’s what athletes call “flow,” and it’s one of the most satisfying states a human can experience. But you can’t get there if you’re constantly tethered to the outside world.
I’ve found that my best work—and my best memories—happen in those moments of deep focus. It’s the dinner conversation that lasts until the candles burn down. It’s the project that you get so lost in that you forget to check the time. These are the things that make life feel substantial. The rest is just noise.
A Final Thought on Being Human
At the end of the day, we aren’t machines. We aren’t meant to be “optimized.” We’re messy, slow-moving biological creatures who need rest, sunlight, and real connection. The world is going to keep moving faster and faster. The pings and notifications aren’t going away. But we have the power to decide how much of ourselves we give over to them.
I’m still working on it. Some days I’m great at it, and other days I realize I’ve spent two hours looking at photos of people I don’t know. And that’s okay. The goal isn’t perfection; it’s awareness. It’s about noticing when you’ve drifted off and gently bringing yourself back to the present. It’s about choosing the slow, difficult, beautiful reality over the fast, easy, hollow digital substitute.
Maybe tomorrow, instead of reaching for your phone the second you wake up, you’ll just sit there for a minute. Listen to the house. Breathe in the morning. It’s a small thing, but small things are usually where the big changes start. We only get so much time, and I’d like to be awake for as much of mine as possible.