Still Becoming — When the World Goes Quiet
Lately, I’ve noticed something that most of us probably have.
The internet goes out.
Cell phone service disappears.
The power flickers.
For a few minutes — or sometimes a few hours — we’re frustrated. We can’t send a text. We can’t check Facebook. GPS won’t load. The television goes dark. We complain because we’ve become so used to everything being just a tap away.
It made me stop and wonder.
What if these little interruptions are reminding us of something we’ve forgotten?
Not that the world is ending.
Not that there’s some grand conspiracy.
Just that we’ve become incredibly dependent on things that can disappear in an instant.
If my phone died today, how many phone numbers would I actually know by heart?
Could I find my way somewhere without GPS?
How many of my neighbors’ doors could I knock on if I needed help?
When was the last time I sat on the porch without checking a notification every few minutes?
Technology has given us incredible things. It lets us talk to loved ones across the country, capture memories, learn almost anything, and build communities with people we’ve never met. I’m grateful for that.
But somewhere along the way, convenience quietly became dependence.
We’ve traded conversations for comments.
We’ve replaced handwritten letters with instant messages.
We document every moment instead of simply living it.
And while our world has become more connected than ever, many of us have never felt more disconnected.
Grief has taught me something that no app, search engine, or social media platform ever could.
The moments that matter most aren’t digital.
They’re the hug you didn’t know would be your last.
The laughter echoing through the house.
The muddy footprints across the kitchen floor.
The bedtime stories.
The family dinner.
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The “I love you” spoken out loud instead of typed across a screen.
Those are the things that stay with us.
Those are the things no power outage can take away.
Maybe these little outages aren’t warnings.
Maybe they’re invitations.
An invitation to look up.
To put the phone down.
To have a conversation with the people sitting beside us.
To memorize a phone number.
To learn the back roads instead of depending on GPS.
To watch the sunset instead of recording it.
To remember that life existed long before Wi-Fi — and that some of life’s greatest moments still happen when the world goes quiet.
I’ve learned that life can change without warning.
Not because the internet stopped working.
Not because the lights went out.
But because tomorrow is never promised.
So if the signal disappears for a while, maybe instead of immediately reaching for frustration, I’ll reach for gratitude.
Gratitude that I get another day.
Another conversation.
Another memory.
Another chance to tell the people I love exactly how much they mean to me.
Because one day, it won’t matter how many followers we had, how many notifications we answered, or how quickly we replied to a message.
What will matter is whether we truly showed up for the people we love.
Maybe that’s the lesson hidden in the silence.
Sometimes the world has to go quiet…
…so we can finally hear what matters most.
Still becoming,
One quiet moment at a time.
