As I was sitting in the house the other night.
Just quietly pondering
lost in thought
I started thinking about how space had sound.
Phones ringing.
Friends dropping by without warning.
Laughter carrying down the hallway.
Arguments that meant something because they happened face to face.
Now?
It’s orderly.
It’s efficient.
It’s controlled.
And it’s quiet.
I did not live this way.
I don’t remember voting for it.
It just engulfed us.
We all got busy.
Work stretched longer.
Evenings filled up.
Phones got smarter.
And somewhere in there, I stopped calling people.
Not because of a fight.
or because of betrayal.
Just because time passed.
And time can be ruthless when you don’t interrupt it.
I used to have men I could sit with and say nothing.
Just sit.
No agenda.
No productivity.
Just presence.
Now when I think about calling one of them, there’s this pause.
“Ah, he’s probably busy.”
“I’ll do it next week.”
Next week turns into next year.
And that’s how something thins out without breaking.
It doesn’t explode.
It evaporates the air
It isolates the soul
It dominates existence
I see it when I’m out too.
Miniature golf, grocery store, church parking lot.
People move quicker now.
Less eye contact.
Shorter conversations.
Everyone seems slightly braced.
And the strange part is, we’re more connected than ever.
You can reach anyone instantly.
But reaching and connecting aren’t the same thing.
I scroll sometimes and realize I’ve “seen” dozens of people that day.
But I haven’t felt one of them.
That’s when it hit me.
This isn’t just isolation from others.
It’s isolation from who I used to be.
I used to linger.
Used to knock on a door without texting first.
Used to stay at the table after dinner and let the talk wander.
Now I measure.
I calculate.
I conserve energy.
That version of me didn’t disappear.
He just stepped back quietly.
And I think a lot of people feel that.
They don’t say it.
They don’t even know how to name it.
They just feel something missing.
They say they’re tired.
They say the world changed.
They say people aren’t the same anymore.
But maybe we aren’t the same either.
Maybe we adjusted so much to speed and noise and distance that we left part of ourselves behind.
Not in a dramatic way.
Just in small trades.
Trade conversation for efficiency.
Trade presence for convenience.
Trade vulnerability for safety.
And now we walk through solid houses that feel a little hollow.
We sit in rooms that look full but don’t feel alive.
We pass neighbors and don’t quite know what to say.
Isolation from who we knew… ourselves.
Not just missing others.
Missing the version of us that believed connection was normal.
The version of us that didn’t hesitate.
The version of us that didn’t treat every interaction like a cost-benefit decision.
I’m not writing this to accuse anyone.
I’m writing it because I recognize it in myself.
And when you see something in yourself, it’s harder to dismiss it as cultural commentary.
It becomes personal.
There’s a weight to it.
A quiet ache.
Not catastrophic.
Just steady.
And powerful because most people can’t quite name it.
They just feel it.
And maybe that’s where we start.
Not with solutions.
Not with speeches.
Just with recognition.
We didn’t just lose some friends.
We drifted from parts of ourselves.
And until we admit that, we’ll keep thinking the emptiness is somewhere else.
It isn’t.
It’s closer than that.
It’s us.
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