January 11th, 2026
Out of all my interactions with technology, too many leave me feeling more consumed than rewarded. Gawking at chaos in the morning; comparing careers at lunch; optimizing sleep by watching videos before bed.
Each has their own internal logic. To feel a part of things? Stay informed. To succeed professionally? Check in online. To feel better? Self-improve.
However, this reasoning is not the reason, but a post-hoc explanation. In deliberate self-reflection, I can reason about why. But most of the time, engaging with technology happens without conscious thought.
Though these aren’t all bad reasons, too many of my interactions with tech are not about acquiring or producing information. They’re about seeking relief from unexamined discomfort.
In 6th grade, I had pretty intense schoolaphobia. I benefitted a lot from a therapist helping me to name and reframe things. In high school, I stopped therapy and drifted a lot. In college, a very special therapist helped me put my life back together.
Structured talk therapy taught me how to poke holes in unconscious thought patterns. It made clear who in my life was only causing me pain, and who I was taking for granted. Therapy repeatedly brought me to the edge of my ability to put thoughts to words.
But when I matured into my mid-twenties, I often found myself at a loss for those words. Not because my vocabulary hadn’t advanced at pace with my capacity for self-insight. Rather, I’d reached a point in my journey where words failed. Sessions started to leave me more exhausted than relieved. I’d try assigning meaning to situations in life that would otherwise be benign. I was trying to name things that couldn’t be named, and drawing a blank almost every time.
The weight of discomfort that can’t be named hit around 27. I had stopped therapy and started journaling. I’d write a page every morning, analyzing the day before and declaring how I’ll treat the day ahead differently. I liked starting my day with a cup of coffee and a pen. But after a few Moleskines, I started falling into the same habits as before. Still white-knuckling life, ruminating on things that didn’t deserve second thoughts.
One morning, I was staring at my notebook, tired of recounting, repenting, and resetting. So I tried nothing. It wasn’t long before I began shifting in my chair, looking around, reaching for my pen, phone–anything. So uncomfortable, that I went back to writing.
I’m so uncomfortable that I don’t know what else to do other than write. I’m just writing to occupy the space.
A page of nothing, to avoid being.
My relationship with technology is complicated. I’m fortunate to be writing this on beautiful free software, with the expectation that someone I’ve never met is going to read it. But I still romanticize scenes in period pieces where a character looks longingly out of a window, unburdened by the option to look away.
Paying attention has become something I go in and out of practice with. When I go without training it, life quickly narrows and numbs; when I stay with it long enough, the discomfort slips away, revealing almost nothing but calmness and clarity.
For now, it means practicing small pockets of nothing, and noticing what remains when I don’t immediately reach for relief.