ThoughtsI was reorganizing my bookshelf last week when it hit me – that familiar pang of missing something I can't quite name. My neighbor's kids were on the front lawn, each hunched over their phones despite being three feet apart. A couple walked by, both scrolling through their devices instead of talking to each other. And there I was, the only one actually present in the moment, wondering when we all became strangers walking through the same world.
It made me think about my childhood kitchen table, where my mom would make us sit for dinner – when Dad wasn't working evenings at the airline. His schedule as a flight dispatcher meant he was gone for dinner more often than not, tracking flights and coordinating crews while we ate without him. When he was home, he'd be a little grumpy from the shift work, but he'd still tell us stories about delayed flights and difficult pilots. My brother would tell us about his day, my three sisters would bicker about who got the last dinner roll, and I'd share whatever drama was unfolding in eighth grade. Managing five kids around that table was chaos, but we were together. Really together.
I still remember our kitchen phone – a harvest gold monstrosity that hung on the wall between the refrigerator and the spice rack. The cord was stretched and kinked from years of my teenage self pacing around it in the late '70s, whispering about crushes and weekend plans. My mom would sometimes escape to her part-time job at the greeting card store – her one refuge from managing five kids all day. When someone called during dinner, we let it ring. The world could wait.
Last month, I watched a young couple at the restaurant table next to mine spend their entire meal in silence, both scrolling through their phones. They barely looked at each other, let alone talked. When the waitress brought their check, the guy didn't even look up – just held out his credit card while continuing to scroll. I wanted to shake them and say, "Look at each other! Talk to each other! This is supposed to be a date!"
My grocery store cashier, Maria, has worked there for eight years. She knows I'm the guy who always forgets to buy milk and reminds me. She asks about my weekend plans, remembers when I mentioned my sister was visiting. But half the customers barely grunt at her, too busy staring at their phones to acknowledge she exists. These small moments of human connection – they're not small at all. They're what make us feel like we belong somewhere.
I'll never experience the particular torture and joy of waiting for your favorite song to come on the radio again, but I remember it vividly. The communal experience of everyone watching the same TV show at the same time and talking about it at work the next day. The anticipation of waiting months for a movie to come out on video, or the disappointment of arriving at Blockbuster to find every copy already rented.
Friday nights used to mean something. My friends and I would pile into someone's car, drive to the movie theater, and buy tickets for whatever was playing. We'd share popcorn, jump at the scary parts, and laugh at the same jokes. The whole experience was sacred – the darkened theater, the big screen, the collective gasp when the plot twisted.
Now I scroll through Netflix for twenty minutes, can't decide on anything, and end up watching The Office reruns while checking my phone. I've gained convenience and lost magic. Last week I watched Casablanca on my laptop – on my laptop! – and I nearly cried. Some things are meant to be experienced properly, with reverence, without distraction.
I miss Walter Cronkite. I miss the evening news being something we all watched together, a shared reality we could build our conversations around. My parents and I might have disagreed about politics, but we were at least operating from the same set of facts.
My uncle Bob – sweet, well-meaning Uncle Bob – now forwards me conspiracy theories about vaccines and stolen elections. He gets his news from Facebook and YouTube, trapped in an algorithm that feeds him increasingly extreme content. We can't even agree on basic facts anymore. Family gatherings have become minefields where we tiptoe around topics that used to be normal conversation. My three sisters and I exchange worried glances when he starts talking politics, and my brother just changes the subject.
During the 2020 election, I watched my neighbors become enemies. People who had borrowed each other's lawnmowers and shared holiday cookies suddenly viewed each other with suspicion and contempt. Social media had sorted us into tribes, and we forgot that the people on the other side of the screen were our actual neighbors, not abstract enemies.
March 2020 broke something in all of us. I don't just mean the lockdowns and the masks – though those were hard enough. I mean the way we learned to see each other as potential threats. The way we stopped hugging our friends, stopped gathering for birthdays, stopped living fully in our own lives.
Before COVID, I was a hugger. I hugged my friends hello and goodbye, I squeezed my coworkers when they got promoted, I embraced my chosen family with abandon. Physical touch was how I showed love. Then suddenly, that basic human need became dangerous. We learned to express affection from six feet away, to smile with our eyes because our mouths were covered.
My chosen family – the group of close friends who'd become my real family over the years – scattered to the wind. David moved back to his hometown during lockdown. Sarah couldn't handle the isolation and spiraled into depression. Marcus and I, who had been best friends for fifteen years, somehow lost touch during those long months of distance. We'd text occasionally, but it wasn't the same.
Even now, three years later, we're still learning how to be close again. Some of my friendships never recovered from that enforced distance. We learned to keep our distance during crucial years of human connection, and some part of us still expects other people to be dangerous.
I used to be bored. Really, genuinely bored. I'd lie on my couch, staring at the ceiling, letting my mind wander. Some of my best ideas came from those empty moments – stories I'd write, art projects I'd start, adventures I'd plan with my friends.
Now I'm never bored. The moment I feel even a flicker of unstimulated time, I reach for my phone. I don't know how to sit with discomfort, how to let my mind wander, how to create something from nothing. I'm addicted to stimulation, and in trying to give myself everything, I've taken away my ability to find magic in emptiness.
Last summer, I deliberately left my phone at home during a weekend cabin trip with friends. I complained for the first day, but by day two, something shifted. I started really listening to conversations, noticing the way light filtered through the trees, writing in a journal I'd brought on a whim. I remembered how to be creative. I remembered how to be present.
My corner store owner, Mr. Kim, knew me. He'd save the Sunday crossword puzzle for me, ask about my work projects, and always threw in a free piece of candy. When he retired, a chain store moved in with self-checkout machines and surly teenage employees who rotate every few months.
I miss having a mechanic who knew my car, a doctor who knew my medical history, a hairdresser who remembered how I liked my hair cut. These relationships took time to build but created a sense of belonging, of being known and cared for by my community.
Now everything is transactional. I swipe, I click, I rate my experience with stars, and I move on. The Amazon driver leaves packages on my porch without ever seeing my face. I order groceries online and have them delivered by someone who's working three gig jobs to make ends meet. I've gained efficiency and lost humanity.
The dating apps have turned romance into a video game. I spend hours swiping through hundreds of potential matches, constantly looking for someone better, someone more perfect, someone who checks all the boxes on my ever-growing list of requirements. I'm 62 and have never been in a relationship longer than two years.
When I was younger, I met guys through friends, at bookstores, at coffee shops. We got to know each other slowly, in person, through shared experiences and long conversations. We fell in love with each other's imperfections, not despite them. We didn't have hundreds of other options a swipe away. Coming out in the '80s meant finding community in specific places, building real connections out of necessity and shared experience.
The gay community, which once felt tight-knit out of necessity, has become fragmented by apps and social media. We used to gather in specific places – bars, community centers, bookstores – where we could find each other and build real connections. Now we're scattered across digital platforms, seeking instant gratification instead of lasting connection.
The paradox of choice extends beyond dating. I have 300 streaming services, 50 types of breakfast cereal, and thousands of restaurants at my fingertips. But all these options have made me less satisfied, not more. I'm constantly second-guessing my choices, wondering if I'm missing out on something better.
I'm not advocating for a return to the 1950s – that world had its own problems, its own limitations, its own forms of exclusion and harm. As a gay man, I know that past wasn't golden for everyone. But I think we can reclaim some of what we've lost without abandoning what we've gained.
Last month, I instituted "phone-free dinners" when friends come over. We all put our devices in a basket by the door and actually talk to each other. It was awkward at first – we'd forgotten how to have uninterrupted conversations. But now it's become something we all look forward to. We share stories, play games, and remember why we chose to be friends.
I've started shopping at the farmer's market instead of the grocery store. It takes longer, costs more, but I've gotten to know the vendors. Tom grows the best tomatoes, Sarah makes incredible bread, and Mike's honey is worth the drive. These relationships feel real in a way that online transactions never can.
When I go to the movies now, I put my phone in my jacket pocket and leave it there. I let myself be transported, the way movies were meant to transport us. I allow myself to be fully present for the experience, and it feels revolutionary.
Maybe what I'm really yearning for isn't the past, but presence. The ability to be fully where I am, with whom I'm with, doing what I'm doing. This wasn't a skill our parents had to develop – it was just how life worked. There was no alternative to presence because there were no devices offering us escape from the current moment.
Presence meant noticing the way my friend's face lit up when they told me about their day. It meant tasting my coffee instead of drinking it mindlessly while scrolling. It meant feeling the sun on my face during my morning walk instead of listening to a podcast. These moments weren't special because they were rare – they were the fabric of daily life.
I'm trying to remember that the most radical thing I can do in 2024 is to pay attention. To look people in the eye. To listen to stories without planning my response. To sit with discomfort instead of immediately seeking distraction. To choose depth over breadth, quality over quantity, presence over productivity.
The world I'm yearning for isn't completely gone – it's just harder to find. It exists in the spaces between our digital lives, in the moments when we choose connection over convenience, presence over productivity. It's in the decision to call instead of text, to visit instead of video chat, to be bored instead of entertained.
It's in the small rebellions: looking the cashier in the eye and asking how their day is going. Putting your phone away during dinner. Choosing to watch a movie without checking your phone. Taking a walk without listening to anything. Having a conversation without googling the answer to settle a debate.
These aren't grand gestures – they're tiny acts of resistance against a world that profits from our distraction. They're quiet insistences on the value of being fully alive in our own lives, fully present to the people we love, and fully engaged with the world that exists beyond our screens.
The simple days are still there, waiting for us to slow down enough to notice them again. They're hiding in plain sight, in the pause between the notification and our response, in the breath we take before we speak, in the choice to be here, now, with this person, in this moment.
That's not nostalgia – that's hope.
