A few weeks ago, I wrote about how I was leaning into intuition and listening to signals. Well, I’m reporting back with something that keeps popping up: an overwhelming sense that people are done with their digital lives.
Not just mildly irritated or temporarily exhausted. Properly, fundamentally, DUNZO.
This could be me projecting my own digital fatigue onto conversations. But the consistency is striking. The same sentiment repeats across different social circles, ages and professions – a longing for something more meaningful than moving pixels on a screen.
Hitting digital critical mass
One friend recently reminisced about university days when using the internet meant walking to a computer room, completing a task and then getting on with the rest of your life. The internet stayed in its designated place, like a tool you'd return to the shed after use rather than a joy-sucking presence looming ever large.
Another spoke about becoming internet intolerant – experiencing a visceral, almost allergic reaction to screen time. They described how even virtual catch-ups with loved ones now feel hollow compared to the in-person alternative, tainted by the medium itself.
I feel it too. The contrast between my screen-dominated workdays and my offline days (usually spent chasing after my toddler) is stark. Screen days bring brain fog, irritability and a weird bodily disconnection. Offline days in the physical world leave me calmer, more patient, grounded and genuinely happy.
The extraction machine
Could it be that collectively, we've simply had enough internet for one lifetime?
What once felt like a gateway to infinite possibility has revealed itself to be an extraction machine of unprecedented scale. With every single part of our lives becoming grist for the Silicon Valley tech mill.
It seems the harm now outweighs the good. Which leads to some uncomfortable questions, like: were we complacent when the bargain seemed fair? When it felt like a reasonable exchange for convenience and connection?
Now the transaction feels painfully one-sided. The societal consequences are harder to ignore. The manipulation is more transparent. The obscene wealth concentration is impossible to justify.
What happens if we leave?
What happens if we collectively begin to withdraw? If we deliberately step back and limit our exposure? Could we return to a more balanced and beneficial relationship with technology? One where digital tools are just tools and not all consuming?
For my part, I’m switching to a dumbphone this month and recreating the old-timey “computer room” in my house – digital devices will live in my office and nowhere else. When the urge to scroll strikes I’ll pick up a book. Or journal. Or craft. Or take a walk. Or listen to the birds. Or ask my partner about his day. Or stare at my baby and wonder how I made such a cool wee dude.
Obviously, we can't go back to the way things were. That's probably not even the right goal. And there are some things I love about the internet, like all the friends I've made around the world.
But I do believe we can move forward more consciously, more selectively and more humanly than we have been thus far.
A quiet rebellion sparked by small, deliberate choices. The rediscovery of what it feels like to be fully present somewhere, with someone, without the constant digital hum.
We've been told the digital juggernaut is unstoppable, but it runs on a surprisingly finite fuel: our willingness to engage.
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