What I notice when I'm not rushing:

Is it even possible to be slow anymore? In an age of pings, prompts, and pressure, slowing down feels like a rebellious act. But when it happens naturally, not forced it feels like sunlight moving gently across a floor: quiet, patient, easy to miss unless you’re paying attention. The world doesn’t pause when I slow down, but it softens. The background noise fades. The smallest things begin to raise their hands, asking to be seen. This is for them. A quiet thank you. A whispered, "I see you."

When I’m not rushing, I hear the sound of my steps. Not the frenzied click of urgency, but the grounded thud of purpose. The pavement becomes a storybook—cracks like old battle scars, weeds rising in defiance, puddles holding pieces of sky. These tiny scenes have always been there. I was just moving too fast to notice them.

The air changes, too. It brushes against my skin like an old friend remembering me. I notice how it smells, how it shifts from tree-lined shade to sunlit sidewalk to damp underground. Even in a city, there’s texture to the breeze if you’re paying attention. In those moments, it doesn’t feel like I’m just existing in the world. It feels like I’m moving with it.

And then there are people. The ones I overlook when I’m rushing. A woman at a bus stop, furiously scribbling thoughts into a notebook before tucking it away as her ride arrives. A man across from me on the train, eyes sunken from long days, gently turning the pages of a book older than some buildings. I don’t know their stories, but in noticing them, I feel connected. On a recent train ride, I counted seven people reading. Not scrolling, not tapping, just reading. For a fleeting moment, that shared stillness felt sacred.

Scrolling, I’ve realized, is its own kind of sprint. That thumb-flick motion feels harmless, even restful, but it’s not. It’s a chase. A race toward the next micro-dose of stimulation. How much have I consumed without absorbing any of it? The moments we spend scrolling aren’t empty, but they’re dulled, like sound through a wall. I tell myself I’m unwinding, but my brain is sprinting laps. The noise doesn’t stop until I do.

Lately, I’ve been less enamored with social media. Instagram feels hollow. Snapchat is a ghost town, and even TikTok’s sparkle fades fast. I still use them—how could I not? I’m a teenager in a hyperconnected world. But I’m reaching more often for quieter corners: Substack, Pinterest. Maybe that’s a beginning.

But it’s only when I truly unplug that everything sharpens. The world gains texture again. My attention feels heavier, more grounded. Even reading something I used to love has become pleasurable again, no longer just an academic task. Writing too. It doesn’t have to be an assignment; it can be this.

Still, slowing down doesn’t just show you the beauty. It shows you the cracks. Closed-up shops that once buzzed. People carrying invisible weights. Inequities you can’t unsee. Sometimes noticing hurts. But maybe that’s part of the point. Slowness lets us bear witness. It doesn’t fix the world, but it acknowledges it. And that, in itself, matters.

Sometimes I fantasize about a slower world a romanticized version, sepia-toned and spacious. One where people walked not with urgency, but with reverence for the moment. Where days weren’t measured in unread emails or open tabs. I think about this when I’m surrounded by rush hour bodies, all leaning forward like time owes them something. I often get swept up in it, too.

But I know this is a privilege. To stop is a luxury not everyone can afford. The world rewards output, not observation. Even now, I’m typing fast, aware of the irony. I scroll, I rush, I double-screen. It’s inescapable. But that doesn’t mean we stop trying.

Maybe what I really want isn’t a different world, but a different way of being in this one. Maybe what I’m looking for is the lost art of lingering. Of paying attention. Of choosing stillness even for a moment and remembering how to see again.