The Digital Revelation

A meditation on tech, life, and things we've lost to the internet

The internet and I grew up together. When we were kids, I loved it like a cool older sibling. Older than me, but not by much. Both figuring itself out and helping me do the same. The internet showed me music and online games and how to share my writing anonymously, which was everything my little fifth-grade self wanted. By middle school, I had my own computer, which I used for YouTube and AIM chats and hours-long video calls with friends. I’d pack my school bag each day with my pink iPod Nano, a tangled clump of wire headphones, my purple slide-keyboard cell phone, and a thick, hardcover library book. On the school bus in the mornings, I would talk to my friends with a sense of urgency, as if there was too much to say and not enough time to get all the words out, and we’d coordinate when we’d log on to connect after school. I would pass notes to them in class on slips of lined paper ripped from my notebook, dazzling in pink glitter ink. I would linger by the lockers between classes to gaze at my crush as he gathered his books, then gush to my girls at the lunch table. Together, we’d devise complex plans of action for me to catch his attention and align on a nickname to effectively discuss in code. Some days after school, I’d ride bikes with the neighborhood kids. We’d climb Pennsylvania’s great evergreens and build forts in the forest, then ride home just in time for dinner. Other days, I’d hole up in my room for the entire evening chatting with friends, planning our outfits for the next day, and doing homework together.

This period of time, I know now, was a unique historical moment. Not just because this was my childhood – a series of events that made me the person I am today – but also because these were the last of the years that I now think of as real life. I grew up in the in-between, the years when technology provided ease and comfort without yet reaching the point of excessive convenience, that toxic line we’ve since crossed without looking back. These are the years that teetered on the border of physicality and intangibility, the golden time before social media became the beast it is today and all of our lives became packed into small black boxes that fit in our pockets. These are the years that we’ll never get back. 

My generation – Generation Z – is the first in history to have had access to the internet as kids. We are the first children of the digital age, and the first ones who soon enough, if not now, may look the internet in the eyes like family does and say you fucked me up. We may mourn for the lost experiences of our youth. We may hate it for the influence it still holds over us. Some of us may, eventually, estrange the internet – or at least try to. Gen Z has had unlimited access to information since our most formative years. We didn’t just observe the rise of the information age – we were born and raised in it – and we’ve been doing this digital life thing long enough to realize that having everything at the touch of a button has left us wanting. 

In middle school, my American history teacher taught me and my classmates about the Industrial Revolution – a period of rapid technological growth and expansion that changed the world forever. Mass production took the nation by storm in pursuit of efficiency and, ultimately, profit. Machinery found their way into factories and farmland alike. Railways sprung up through towns as if they’d been built overnight. People could go places and do things faster and easier than anyone had thought possible. The working class and the planet suffered. The American people were largely miserable, save for a handful of rich men at the top, but at the end of the day, they were making human progress. 

“And one day, what do you think this era we’re in right now will be called?” my teacher had asked, looking around at his classroom full of bright, young minds. His question was met with silence. “The digital revolution, right?”

Resolution struck the room. Heads nodded. Right. 

Let it be known that what we are enduring today is not real life. Real life is not two-dimensional. It is not constantly stimulating. It is not a twenty-four-hour news cycle. It is not video montages of perfect moments. It is not an algorithm that knows you better than you know yourself. It is not face-altering filters. It is not finding love with the swipe of a finger. It is not limitless options. It is not livestreaming your most exciting experiences. It is not doctors dancing behind lists of symptoms you may be experiencing. It is not same-day delivery. It is not the metaverse. It is not noise-canceling headphones. It is not children with iPads in place of caregivers. It is not artificial intelligence. It is not record-breaking suicide rates. It is not hustle culture. It is not a journey to becoming “that girl.” It is not isolation. It is not this.

This digital life we have so enthusiastically adopted is a virus. It feeds on our humanity and drains us of our ability to think and feel. When I wake up in the morning, I pick up my phone before my eyes are even all the way open. I scroll through text messages, Instagram, Twitter, TikTok, and dating apps. Before I have given my brain a chance to form a single thought, I suffocate it with content. And then I start my day, chasing that initial surge of happy brain chemicals through ongoing stimulation. I listen to audiobooks or podcasts while I run errands, while I workout, while I shower, while I cook, while I clean. I scroll through LinkedIn at work and read about the professional success of people I know from college. I listen to music while I send emails. I check the apps again – and again and again and again. How else would I keep up with the lives of my friends and family, of people I went to high school with, of that person I met on vacation that one time? This ongoing feed of highlights is broken up by the world’s tragedies – violent war scenes from Ukraine, faces of children murdered in Texas’ latest mass shooting, white men announcing the death of my reproductive rights – and funny cat videos. I continue scrolling, consuming whatever the algorithm chooses to shove down my throat, long after I grow bored, then end my day watching television, which is no longer interesting enough to hold the attention of my overstimulated brain and must be paired with online shopping or Pinterest moodboarding or deleting blurry photos from the forty candids I took while trying to capture one postable shot. When I finally lay my head to rest – and make no mistake, these days are far from restful – my mind has not had a moment of silence to process a single thought or feeling. And then it starts over.

Most of these days I spend tuned out, coexisting alongside a world of other people who are also tuned out. I wear headphones, and they wear headphones. Unhoused people approach subway commuters who don’t even see them. Compliments to strangers go unheard. Kind smiles are an anomaly and hellos a rarity. Young people visit bars to meet new people and realize they don’t know how. Long phone calls have been supplanted by brief texts and abstract emojis. We order things to our door to skirt human encounters in the world; take-out over dine-in, grocery delivery over farmers’ markets, fast fashion hauls and mail-in returns over in-store shopping and fitting rooms. We all live in our crafted little bubbles, afraid of what happens if we ever let them pop.

The world has made it easy to abandon human connection and original thought. I don’t have to ask around to decide the best bar or restaurant in the neighborhood because consumers have rated them all out of five stars. I don’t have to wonder how to tell my crush they’re cute because an app will do it for me with a single tap. The same app will tell me which of the cute people in a fifty mile radius is my Most Compatible Match. Another app will give me all the public discourse on the latest political controversy and how to feel about it to avoid being problematic. Apps can tell me what’s cool, what’s fashionable, what’s funny, what’s attractive, what’s a red flag, what shows to watch, what books to read, what to cook for dinner, how to heal my trauma, how to start a side hustle, how to get promoted in my career, how to decorate my home – all without leaving my bed, speaking a word, or challenging my brain. 

Our culture is now one in which we’ve grown accustomed to, and expectant of, the fastest and best of everything. Our societal efforts to optimize life have grown to a point of absurdity that abandons the fundamental nature of humanity. Life is not supposed to be this fast. Since the Industrial Revolution, we as a human race have done nothing but strive for improvement. I will not claim that modern technology is wholly evil. The digital age has made life unimaginably more convenient for a lot of people. It is easier than it has ever been to find healthcare providers, to access educational content, and to organize and share resources across communities. But there can always be too much of a good thing. Convenience is not something we lack in 2024. But at what cost?  

The question no one can answer is when will it be enough? Innovators of the past twenty years have ripped our beautiful imperfect lives up by the roots and planted silk flowers in their place. They have swapped conversations with social media posts and experiences with video content. Love has been reduced to data and art to artificial intelligence. Where in all of this fits our fundamental need to just be? When will we realize how close to the sun we’re flying and float back down to earth? Will we ever – or will we, all at once, go up in flames?

Some people, like my grandfather, never drank the kool-aid. These are the people I envy – the old folks who, against the advice of every generation after them, stayed loyal to the analog world. My grandfather is a stubborn man who never wanted to be a part of this digital life. In 2024, he still does not have wifi. He does not have a smartphone. He does not own a computer and does not know how to use one. The man, God bless him, does not have so much as an email account. I remember his disgruntled protests when my mother gifted him a GPS for his car, and again when my aunt set him up with her old flip phone. He has adapted to these technologies with time and has grown to appreciate them – his smile is always wide when he squints at his micro screen to show me new pictures of his cat – but he has not taken a single step into this technological world without a hefty dose of skepticism. We tease him for it, and he always responds the same way, with a dismissive wave of the hand: “I don’t need any of that stuff. I’m a simple man.” And he is. I used to think he was missing out on the world. Now, I think he’s brilliant. One of the lucky ones. Part of the generation that got away. 

Sometimes I wonder if it’s still possible for the world, especially younger generations, to estrange the internet. It has grown since those early days of our youth. It has gained power in excess, as if becoming a new force of nature. How, after we have collectively learned to lean on a thing to such a degree, can we live without it? Can we ever go back to the real world, or is it too late? 

Every now and then, I turn my phone off. I shove it to the bottom of my bag and bring a book to the neighborhood cafe where the baristas recognize me. They make me a dirty chai latte while I stake out my regular spot in the window so I can people watch between chapters. I sit there for hours, in respite, and when the sun finally starts to set, I walk the long route home. Fresh air always feels like a miracle when I remember to appreciate it. I walk slow to observe the brownstones lining Brooklyn’s sidewalks and the eclectic items decorating my neighbors’ stoops. When I arrive at my tired gray building, I smile at my neighbors in the elevator and thank the woman who cleans the hallway floors. I laugh with my roommate while I cook dinner and play fetch with my cat after. Still, after a day this perfect, the moment when I pull my phone out from my bag and watch it glow back to life is an exciting one. What did I miss? Usually nothing.

There is a happy medium, a balance between these polar realms. The catch is that real life is not easy. As romantic as it is to reminisce on the pre-tech world, let’s not forget that one unfortunate truth that got us here in the first place – real life is fucking hard. Sitting with your emotions is hard. Boredom is hard. Uncertainty is hard. When faced with the choice of grappling with these things or solving them in an instant by feeding our brains readily available content, we tend to choose the easier path – but we don’t have to. 

Why are we surviving on this low-quality dopamine when the world outside our screens is brimming with the good stuff? Real life is grueling and messy and imperfect, but it is also beautiful and immersive and whole. It is picking out your fruit at the grocery store and chatting with the clerk. It is butterflies on a first date. It is new ideas and art about to be made. It is the high during a long run and the ache in your bones after. It is lasting friendships with coworkers and neighbors and the faces in your book club. It is world news delivered once a day and life updates delivered through the grapevine. It is catching up over a home-cooked meal. It is live music and dancing with strangers. It is the overdue library book you couldn’t put down. It is dirt under your nails and grass stains on your jeans. It is bonfires and playing in the snow. It is gifts made by hand. It is a hug on a hard day. It is stories and photos from lands far away and the state of living in wonder. It is choosing to stay in the moment – for better or for worse.