It starts with a nostalgia that feels less like a longing for the past and more like a recognition of a loss. You’re sitting with a friend, the conversation drifting back to simpler times, perhaps to a childhood in the 90s, to a life lived before the constant hum of the internet became the backdrop of our existence. For many of us, that era wasn’t just a time period; it was a different way of being. We remember the silence. We remember the waiting.
Now, look at the world around you. Look at your child. They are growing up in a landscape where every desire is met instantly. A movie is a click away. Food arrives in minutes. Information floods in before you’ve even finished forming a question. As a parent, watching this unfold can be unsettling. It’s not that we hate progress; we want ease, efficiency, and connection. But there is a cost. The sheer volume of options has become a burden, a cognitive overload that our brains weren’t designed to carry. It’s like trying to quit smoking while keeping a fresh pack in your pocket, always within reach, always whispering promises of relief.
The Ritual of the Movie Night
I remember when going to the movies was an event. Not just the film itself, but the entire journey. We would drive into town, browse the shelves of a physical video store, debating over covers and blurbs, finally settling on one choice. We’d stop at a candy shop, grab treats, and head home. The anticipation built during the drive, the ritual of setting up the player, the shared excitement of the first frame. That was a memory.
Today, we have infinite libraries at our fingertips. We stream instantly. We order food with a tap. But in doing so, we’ve stripped away the texture of the experience. The waiting, the week-long gap between episodes of a favorite show, the chance of missing a broadcast and having to catch up with friends later, these were not inconveniences. They were spaces where imagination could breathe. They were moments of connection, of shared narrative that bound us together.
My son, now four, is just beginning to form his own memories. I wanted to give him that same sense of occasion. So, we bought a DVD player. We went to the library to rent a disc. He held the case, examined the cover, felt the weight of it. When we played it, he didn’t just watch; he experienced. The physicality of it mattered. The choice was deliberate, not endless. And, he said it felt “way better.”
Breaking the Algorithm’s Grip
The struggle isn’t just about movies or music. It’s about the architecture of our attention. Algorithms are designed to feed us what we want to see, to keep us scrolling, to keep us engaged. But in doing so, they erode our ability to choose, to wait, to be bored. Boredom, once seen as a failure, is now recognized as a fertile ground for creativity and reflection.
I’ve tried to reclaim some of that space. I deleted social media apps. I switched to browsers that don’t track or curate my content. I set limits on my data usage, forcing myself to think twice before streaming. It’s not easy. The habits run deep. Even without social media, the urge to scroll persists. But by removing the algorithmic feed, by choosing services that don’t know me, I’ve found a little more room to breathe.
The Music of Intention
Music, too, has changed. Once, buying a CD was a commitment. You’d walk into a store, pick an album, read the booklet, and listen to it from start to finish. You knew the songs, the lyrics, the mood. Now, with streaming, we shuffle endlessly, skipping tracks before they’ve even begun. We consume music in fragments, never fully immersing ourselves in the artist’s vision.
So, I’ve brought back the CD player. I’m rediscovering the joy of intentional listening. It’s not about rejecting technology; it’s about using it with purpose. It’s about slowing down enough to appreciate the craft, the story, the emotion behind the notes.
The Deeper Question
This isn’t just about DVDs or CDs. It’s about a fundamental shift in how we live. We’ve traded depth for speed, intention for convenience. And in doing so, we’ve lost something vital: the space to be human. To wait. To choose. To connect.
What about you? What is one thing you used to do fully, but now only do halfway? Is it reading a book? Cooking a meal? Having a conversation without checking your phone? Whatever it is, perhaps it’s time to bring it back. Not because the past was perfect, but because the present is too loud, too fast, too full of choices that leave us empty.