On any given September afternoon in the late 1990s, you might find me racing home from school on my bicycle. I was overweight, and not a particularly strong cyclist. The way to my house from Sheridan Green Elementary (which, I learned recently, was demolished and will soon be replaced with a city park) was mostly flat, until you got to the hill on 112th Place, which didn’t really look much at all like a hill until you tried to ride your bike up it, and, upon reaching the summit, you found yourself out of breath and your legs all wobbly.

After catching my breath, greeting my mom, and having a quick snack, I’d ask permission to use our family’s phone line to connect to the internet to check my email and play an online match of Age of Empires, firing up our trusty 56K dial-up modem connected to the family computer. The «familiar screech of the modem making contact» with the digital universe was like the secret knock on the door to a magical world, where nothing was impossible. It was the Information Age, and we optimistically looked forward to the dawning of a new millennium that would keep us more informed, more connected, more efficient, than ever before.

The internet kept getting better. Our connections kept getting faster. First, we installed a dedicated second phone line in our house so we wouldn’t tie up the line for phone calls. Before long, we had DSL. I could download a song from mp3.com in mere minutes, not hours. ICQ and AOL Instant Messenger connected me to school and church friends, but also my friends from around the world. I had several guys I chatted with often whom I had met on a youth group mission trip. The opening door sound of my friends coming online gave a rush of excitement—I didn’t even have to leave my room or stop what I was doing to talk to my friends.

Slowly, the center of social life faded from schools, clubs, and churches—it was now Myspace, Facebook, and Twitter. My addiction became asynchronous, scrolling for the next cool post while waiting for the reactions and comments on my own. Before I knew it, and with my full consent, «the internet followed me out of the family room and into my pocket» with the advent of the smartphone, which acted as an accelerant for all the best—and worst—things the internet had to offer. I didn’t stop to consider the consequences.

The Information Age failed to deliver on its promise. The flood of news, awareness, and connection around the world combined with addiction only led to more anxiety and more wasted time. Keeping up with every latest news story, every current internet trend and meme, has become increasingly exhausting. Those entering adulthood right now have never known a world without an omni-present high-speed connection to anything and everything. They’ve never tasted the ancient peace of living offline.

It didn’t feel remarkable at the time. The boredom, the freedom to let your mind wander without constant digital input. Scanning magazine covers and candy bars in the grocery store checkout line. Waiting for your favorite television program to come on the air. It all just felt normal. And now that peace is gone.

I often catch myself wishing for that earlier version of the internet—the one I could more easily log off, go outside, wonder, and be bored, and despite technically being less connected, felt more real and satisfying. It is tempting to give in to the nostalgia. But here’s the deal: those times can’t come back. And maybe they shouldn’t. «The world is too connected, too efficient, too transparent now.» There’s no going back. No matter how much we long for the days of intermittent connection, the ship is too large to steer.

But beyond that, here’s the question that scares me most: What if the peace and slower pace of life I remember from my childhood never really existed in the first place? As we age, we look on the past with rose-colored glasses. The past seems simpler now, but it was fraught with its own anxiety. Got stranded on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere? Hope that a car passes by, is willing to stop, and is not a serial killer. We had to rely on the details that the news media felt were important, unable to do our own research. If you had an unusual hobby, it was more difficult to find others who shared your interests.

And if I’m being truly honest, I never really lived that slower pace. It’s a false memory of a time before my own. The internet grew up with me, and I grew up with the internet. I was relatively young when the internet became ubiquitous, and I was still in college when I got my first smartphone.

There’s also some good in that connection. It pays my salary, yes—but there are tangible benefits to having the wealth of the knowledge of humanity at your fingertips. I don’t have to brave the busy aisles of a grocery store and wonder if they’ll have what I need in stock. I can order replacement parts for my home appliances and have them arrive in the mail within a day or two, at half the cost of the manufacturer’s part. I can purchase a book and be reading it on my tablet within seconds.

I don’t think what I really miss is the alien sounds of the dial-up modem or waiting for my computer to boot up as the spinning hard drive skipped across bad sectors. I think what I miss is the boundaries and constraints that came naturally with the limitations of the technology. Boundaries between the real and digital world, and boundaries between contexts. It all collapsed into one– «work, family, news, entertainment, faith, and politics, all on the same screen in the same feed.» The boundaries gave life rhythm and meaning, intentionality and purpose, and now daily life has been reshaped at its foundation.

Where do I go from here? Grieving the loss of what we once had is the first step to moving on. We have to understand the new foundation for living in the digital world, and define the way we will use that technology rather than letting it define us. We have to take control of the technology so it does not take control of us.

We need to establish rhythms of life that bring us in and out of the online world. Weekly events like church, clubs, workout groups, or neighborhood barbecues can pull us out of our digital haze and foster the offline connection we crave.

Maybe it’s OK to keep your world small. Maybe it’s OK to ignore the news headlines and political ranting on social media. Maybe it’s better to let friendships drift apart when you move away rather than try to keep up with it all.

As for me? Being mindful of my screen time and using apps that nudge me in the right direction¹ has palpably increased my satisfaction and enjoyment of both my family time and computing time. I’m going to put down my phone and make the world a little smaller.

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