I think that technology - computers and smart phones and 24-hour

In the thoughtful and poignant words of Rebecca Traister, writer and chronicler of modern womanhood, there resounds a lament both timely and eternal: “I think that technology – computers and smartphones and 24-hour availability – often leaves me, and others I know, feeling blank and depressed at the end of a day. I also believe that hyped expectations for raising children leaves many women and men feeling as if their days are a blur of carpools and play-groups and tutors.” In this reflection, Traister does not condemn technology nor parenthood, but rather the invisible weight of expectation that modern life has draped across the shoulders of humanity. Her words speak to a world that has forgotten how to rest, how to breathe, how to simply be. She warns of a life lived at the speed of machines — efficient, connected, relentless — yet emptied of peace and meaning.

The origin of her words lies in the age we now inhabit: a time when human beings are both empowered and imprisoned by their own inventions. The computer, the smartphone, the glowing screen that once promised liberation and knowledge, has instead become the altar upon which attention and tranquility are sacrificed. What began as a tool to connect us has become a master that consumes us — demanding constant vigilance, instant response, endless motion. Traister’s confession, that she feels “blank and depressed” after such days, captures the quiet desolation of millions who live surrounded by light yet drift in inner darkness. The soul, like the body, requires rest; but in the digital age, the night never truly comes.

Her insight cuts deeper still when she turns to parenthood, that sacred calling that has been transformed by modern pressure into a theater of perfectionism. Once, to raise a child was to guide them through the rhythms of ordinary life — through play, through failure, through simple days of laughter and discovery. But now, Traister observes, the age of “hyped expectations” has stolen even this natural joy. Parents race from carpools to tutors, from lessons to playgroups, as if the child were a project to be optimized rather than a soul to be nurtured. The day becomes a blur, not of love, but of logistics; and at its end, the mother and father, like the worker before the screen, are left feeling hollow — successful in motion, but starved of meaning.

This is not a new tragedy, but the old story of imbalance, retold in modern form. The ancients, too, warned against the hunger for more — more speed, more control, more prestige. In the Roman world, the philosopher Seneca wrote that man’s greatest disease was “busy idleness” — the endless doing that leaves no space for living. In his time, it was wealth and politics that distracted the spirit; in ours, it is screens and schedules. Yet the sickness is the same: the forgetting of the self amid the frenzy of the world. Traister’s words, therefore, echo those of the Stoics and mystics alike — that true fulfillment cannot be engineered; it must be lived.

In her observation there is no cynicism, only sorrowful clarity — the awareness that progress, though radiant, has a shadow. The technology that keeps us connected has made us anxious and restless; the ambition that drives parents to do their best has become a burden that crushes joy. And yet, her tone is not that of despair, but of a call to remembrance: to remember that we are human, not machines; that love and purpose cannot be quantified; that to live well is not to do everything, but to do a few things with presence and grace.

Her insight finds reflection in countless real lives. Consider the story of a mother in the modern city, whose day begins before dawn and ends after midnight. She checks her emails as she dresses her child, takes calls in the carpool line, scrolls through messages while helping with homework. Her heart aches with the desire to be both devoted and productive, both parent and provider. But when night falls, she feels what Traister describes — that blank, weary sadness, the sense of having given everything yet connected with nothing. It is not failure that drains her, but the loss of stillness, the inability to pause and see the beauty of the life she already lives.

The lesson, then, is not to abandon technology or ambition, but to reclaim balance. Use the tools of progress — but do not let them use you. Make time each day to disconnect from the digital and reconnect with the real: with the laughter of your children, the quiet of your thoughts, the sound of your own heartbeat. Measure success not by the fullness of your schedule, but by the fullness of your soul. When raising children, remember that love shapes them more deeply than achievement ever will. And when you feel the world pulling you toward constant motion, remember the wisdom of stillness — that to stop, to breathe, to simply be, is itself an act of courage.

So, children of the modern age, heed the quiet wisdom of Rebecca Traister. Let not the glow of the screen replace the warmth of the sun, nor the noise of productivity drown the voice of peace. Life is not meant to be a blur — it is meant to be a song, with pauses and breaths, with moments of silence between the notes. Do not let the machine set your rhythm; reclaim your own. For though the world may race ever faster, the soul — timeless, tender, human — still longs for the ancient things: rest, presence, and the simple joy of being alive.