Have you ever paused to notice the breaks in life? Those few minutes when there is some sort of waiting involved, like when you’re waiting in line for your food, or waiting to get on the bus. But it almost feels like you’re snapping out of a trance and suddenly realizing you’re breathing.
The feelings of the cool breeze and the noise settling down, the sensation when you feel more awake than any cup of coffee—suddenly, the world isn’t just a flat screen in your hands anymore. Everything feels familiarly new, like when you were a kid and your only worry was when you could go out and play. You can hear the faintest noises: the distant conversation, the hum of a passing car.
You realize the art of noticing isn’t just something people talk about in indie-filtered Instagram reels. For a second, you realize you’re not just a digital consumer but a living, breathing part of life.
But these moments of clarity scare us. We drown out the silence by reaching for our phones in our pockets. When we reach for our phones, we aren’t just looking to fend off boredom; we are seeking an escape. We become so disconnected from reality, becoming so accustomed to finding this escape comfortable that we don’t realize not only are we drowning out the noise in the room, but we are also missing the people in it and the life around us.
We see it every day on a college campus. UCF, being such a big space filled with so many students, often has complaints from people ranting on Reddit about how connectivity is lost. Walk through any hallway or sit in any common room, and the silence almost feels heavy enough to crush any hope of a conversation. And it’s not the kind of silence that comes from people thinking or observing; it’s the silence of people hiding.
We often tuck ourselves away inside our phones, using the screens as shields. We find it challenging to engage in unplanned conversations and casual interactions due to the fear that our protective shields have created. These shields have become shackles around our minds. Our constant reliance on the digital world is damaging our social skills. Socializing can be a craft, much like crocheting or writing. Without practice, even our muscle memory can falter, making us stumble in conversations. We have been so out of practice that we are losing the ability to communicate effectively and are often misunderstood. By avoiding the discomfort of social interactions, we are becoming less and less human.
Humans are meant to be beautifully flawed. We are built to feel things naturally, to experience frustration and happiness, to feel overwhelmed, and especially to be curious. Our best ideas should not come from a set of algorithms; rather, we are meant to create and be inspired. AI doesn’t have bad days, nor does it experience joy or thoughts. It cannot hold the same compassion that a six-year-old might. It cannot teach us how to be human again after making us reliant on it to avoid the mundane tasks and processes of life.
We are losing our confidence in ourselves to do the work we can accomplish without it. We’re scared to see the flaws and to look foolish, and choosing not to face these challenges is making us lose our ability to simply exist. The algorithm successfully fulfills its purpose of connecting people and making our lives easier, but it also exposes us to the risks of misuse and overconsumption. We must remember that the comfort we seek on screens was always available before those screens took over our lives. We can exist without them—we used to do it every day. We are meant to connect, laugh, breathe, and create with curiosity. We shouldn’t allow that curiosity to be worn down by digital escapism.