Now before you get any ideas, I’m talking about the internet.
Call me old school, but I miss how we were before everything became content. Back when the only time you used the phone was when the clock hit the exact minute you told your friend you would call. You rehearsed what you were going to say. You hoped they picked up on the first ring and not their mom, dad, or older sibling. And if someone answered and yelled their name through the house, you waited, patient, staring at the wall, listening to life happening on the other end.
Our hearing was so sharp we could tell if someone quietly clicked into a three way call. One extra breath and you knew somebody was lurking. We were detectives without trying to be.
Outside felt endless. Sunrise to sunset. Running through neighborhoods like we owned them. Riding bikes with no destination. Playing catch a girl get a girl, which was one of the earliest social indicators of where you stood in the hierarchy of attraction. If you know, you know. Playing manhunt until 3am while our parents trusted the night more than we trust each other now.
Fun fact, I was the best manhunt player. A legend, really. They say I’m still hiding somewhere.
Looking back, we embraced human connection in a way that feels foreign now. If there was beef, you handled it. Sometimes with words. Sometimes with fists. Either way, it ended. You moved on. No screenshots. No subtweets. No digital archives of your worst moments.
You made playlists for the person you admired. limewire and risked it all. Burned CDs. Wrote their name in marker with a note on the cover. That was vulnerability. That was effort.
I love technology. I do. I love what it can do. I love the access, the reach, the opportunity. But I would be lying if I said we have not allowed it to reshape us in ways we barely question. We are out of control. And if history proves anything, it is that humans tend to misuse almost everything we are given control over.
Yesterday I was tagging along with my mom. She told me, again, how she knew I was different at three years old. She said she thought I was either a genius or completely out of my mind because what three year old rides a ten speed bike. I laughed at first because it sounded impossible. Then I remembered she is my mother. She lived it. She carried me. She raised me. If anyone would know, it would be her.
She went on to tell me stories I had never heard. Stories about little me. Stories about her own trials and tribulations as a young parent navigating life while raising someone she already sensed would not see the world like everyone else. In that moment I felt blessed. Blessed that she is still here to tell me who I was before the world told me who to be.
The smell of the free lunches at the community pool. The scent alone transported me. The cardboard tray inside the plastic bag. A cold sandwich. An apple. Your choice of chocolate milk or strawberry. That smell alone could make a painting. I hope I can translate it to canvas the way it lives in my head.
We used to walk blocks to that pool like we were The Goonies. No phones. No distractions. Just conversations the entire way there. Jokes. Arguments. Secrets. Real time bonding.
I remember the day my brother’s shoes got stolen while he was in the pool. He had to walk home barefoot on hot pavement, terrified to tell my mom. That memory rushed back today like it had been waiting for permission to return.
And then you blink and it’s 2026.
Everyone’s head is down. We pretend to communicate. We pretend to connect. Mostly online. We have been fed so many standards that people are paralyzed by them. Beauty standards. Status standards. Wealth standards. Highlight reels presented as reality. It cripples people. Quietly.
Adulting did not look like this in my imagination. Sometimes it feels like I am watching a mass psychosis unfold in real time. And no matter how much I try to fully participate, something in my body resists. It pushes back. It tells me this is not natural.
The consequence of that resistance is isolation. And I hate it.
Because the truth is, if you do not participate, you disappear. If you do not post, you are forgotten. If you do not engage, you are alone.
And that amazes me. It amazes me that we would rather reach for a device than make eye contact with the human in front of us. This is not everyone. But it is a mass produced problem. A quiet epidemic that no one wants to call by name.
So yes, I partake. I post. I scroll. I engage. Not as much as most, which means I am alone a lot. And running a business makes it even more complicated. It becomes harder to find friendships that are not transactional. Harder to know who sees you as a person and who sees you as an opportunity. An asset. A stepping stone. Competition disguised as connection.
As I continue to grow, I sometimes catch myself daydreaming about an alternate version of my life. What if everything were opposite. What if I loved it here. What if I thrived in it. What if I did not feel this constant tension between participation and preservation.
Then I snap back and remember the butterfly effect. Every small decision has led me here. Every refusal to conform. Every late night editing session. Every uncomfortable realization. This is the path I chose, consciously or not.
So let’s conclude this thought.
If you have made it this far, let this be your reminder. Time is the most valuable currency you have. Not followers. Not views. Not digital applause. Time.
Purposefully spend it with someone you love. Someone you care about. Even someone you just met. Sit across from them. Look at them. Listen to them. Build together. Laugh for real.
That will always be more valuable than a scroll filled with comparison, quiet depression, envy, and small hits of digital dopamine that fade before you even lock your screen.
I hate it here… but if I don’t, I’ll be alone.
Maybe the discipline is learning how to be here without letting it consume you.
Hope this helps,
-B
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