the slow death of depth

How our fractured attention is reshaping us — and what we reclaim when we choose stillness.

In today’s world, the amount of information we take in—and the speed at which it hits us—is beyond our brains’ capacity to process. Despite these cognitive limits, we’re inundated daily by a deluge of content, and it comes at a cost. One of those costs is depth: in our relationships, our character, our interests, and our engagement with the world.

Depth requires time, reflection, and a slow pace—things many of us are losing tolerance for. We haven’t lost our need for depth; in fact, I’d argue we need it now more than ever. And because that need still exists, we search for it—but not in ourselves, where it’s most likely to be found. Instead, we seek it in information and in other people, in TikTok videos and Substack essays, in wellness hacks and too-short vacations meant to restore us to wholeness.

We search for depth in the very noise that distracts us from its sources: quiet, reflective time with ourselves; intimate connection in small groups; immersion in hobbies or study; thick novels that build complex characters and ideas. We watch our TikToks on 2x speed, deciding within five seconds whether they’re worth our time. We skip captions. We scan articles and posts, muttering, get to the point already. And that’s part of the problem—when there are endless options, we never want to commit to one, even for ten minutes.

No matter what we’re doing, there’s a constant buzz of other, more, never enough—something else to read, buy, watch, or get angry about. It’s the hum of a machine that never stops, whispering that there’s always something better just one scroll away. It’s shallowness disguised as information, distraction camouflaged as connection, capitalism masked as fulfillment.

I believe the epidemic of loneliness is rooted, in part, in this loss of depth. What happens when we crave real, intimate connection but don’t know how to develop it? When we have emotions we can’t name because we’ve lost the capacity for reflection? When we don’t have the language to describe what we feel or want? When those who do cultivate depth can’t find others capable of meeting them there? What happens when depth becomes the privilege of the wealthy—those who can afford time, space, and quiet? What happens when we no longer know ourselves deeply, leaving us easy to manipulate and control?

Human beings are built for connection and contemplation—and we are rapidly losing both. In their absence, we search for meaning in 280-character tweets, for connection through parasocial “relationships,” for happiness in Amazon deliveries and the latest “wellness” trend.

In recent months (okay, years), I began noticing these tendencies in myself. I couldn’t commit to watching a two-hour movie. I’d start a novel and feel impatient with its pace—why was it taking so long to get to the point? I’d click on a fascinating article and find myself skimming, trying to absorb the gist with the smallest possible investment of time or attention. Even when I sat down to do things I love—painting, writing, journaling—I felt pulled in a dozen directions. Is this what I really want to do? Wouldn’t my time be better spent doing something else?

When I watched TV, I’d have my laptop open, jumping between tabs, doing everything and nothing at once. I became easily influenced by other people online—their interests, habits, aesthetics—allowing their opinions to shape what I bought, read, or even thought about.

Eventually, I realized—with a mix of shame and horror—that I had lost the ability to focus. It made me feel manic, unfulfilled, and hollow. I was always convinced I should be doing something else, that I was missing out by not chasing every link, that stillness was laziness. But none of it made me happier or wiser or more whole. With each scroll, I felt like I was betraying myself—trading nuance and depth for busyness and performance.

So I began to pay attention. I tracked when I felt distracted or influenced. I noted how often I picked up my phone, checked email, or opened Instagram—and what I was feeling each time. Then, I started to make changes with awareness and intention.

I took a three-day break from social media. That may not sound like much, but in nearly twenty years I had never taken a single day off. I’d always justified it as a business necessity. But when I returned, I did so intentionally. I didn’t open Instagram for days more, Facebook for longer. TikTok—my drug of choice—I reentered after my 3 day break with a notebook in hand. As I scrolled, I noted what I felt. Overwhelm. Overconsumption. Obligation to care about things that didn’t truly matter to me. The most surprising realization was that I simply didn’t care about any of it. Even my favorite creators—the ones I once checked daily—I discovered I didn’t actually miss them at all.

I began making daily schedules that included both responsibilities and leisure. I listed the things I wanted to do and gave them time slots—30, 60, 90 minutes. The formality of scheduling freed me: I could immerse myself fully, knowing everything else had its own place in time. Knowing that my other hobbies and responsibilities were slotted to be worked on the next day freed my mind to focus on the task at hand.

I created dedicated social media hours—and stopped opening the apps outside them. Before, I’d scroll compulsively: while walking from room to room, making dinner, waiting at stoplights. Any empty space, I filled with other people’s noise. Now, I leave room for silence—for my own mind to wander.

I moved my email app from its docked position on my home screen, into a hidden folder. That one small shift broke the habit of checking it dozens of times a day. I also turned off almost all notifications and batched the rest into twice-daily deliveries. I set timers for each block of time and flipped my phone face-down.

I chose two books—one fiction, one nonfiction—that I found compelling, not ones recommended by influencers. I set aside two 30-minute sessions each day to read slowly, highlighter in hand, and another 30 minutes to journal about what I’d read. Thinking deeply about the themes that resonated was far more gratifying than anything I’d read on-screen.

I picked a single topic—giftedness and high sensitivity as forms of neurodivergence—and scheduled three focused research sessions per week. During those hours I didn’t touch my phone, open new tabs, or multitask. I followed threads of curiosity wherever they led, and in that flow, I felt expansive and alive again.

I also keep a running list of every book, product, or idea I’m tempted to explore because of social media. Instead of impulsively buying or Googling, I just jot it down. When I revisit the list later, most of it makes me laugh. What was I thinking?

It’s been eight weeks since I started, and the difference is astonishing. I can focus for hours at a time—painting, writing, researching, reading. My mind feels whole again, not fractured into a thousand jagged pieces.

This is ongoing work, but I’m finally diving into my depths again—and it feels like coming home. Depth isn’t a luxury, it’s where we find meaning and purpose. It’s our birthright, and it’s being rapidly stripped from us to feed the machine and keep it humming. With awareness, we can turn off the machine and slow down enough to meet ourselves and rediscover the quiet satisfaction of focus, curiosity, and connection.

The world doesn’t change when I step away, but I do. I soften. I breathe. I expand. I can feel myself again. I can hear my thoughts in their true voice, not distorted by the noise of a thousand others. In that quiet space I am rediscovering my depth and reclaiming the parts of myself I once feared the world had taken.