by Emily Ley
That pushed me over the edge from anger into surrender.
Happy mom.
My kids had seen a lot of tired, stressed, maxed-out mom for the last few months. Happy mom was in there sometimes, but my default was the opposite. I was able to fit so much into my days thanks to fancy technology like text messaging, email, and social media. Apps kept me on track and kept my world spinning. I thought I was thriving. I was so connected and plugged in. I felt powerful, really. I could take my kids to the park and keep running my business. I could “work” via text messaging, email, and apps while enjoying my kids. Sounds great in theory, right? But this kind of always-on work style can lead to total burnout.
REAL FACE TIME
Smartphones allow us to communicate with people without being face-to-face, which can lead to loneliness. In May 2018, Fortune magazine published a study conducted by Cigna, a large health insurance provider. Of their users, 54 percent reported that they felt lonely. How can that be in a world that is so overwhelmingly connected?
You’re probably not surprised to know that 70 percent of Americans use social media. And many people claim they can’t get off social media because that’s how they communicate with friends, colleagues, and family. If that’s the case and we’re more connected than ever, then why are we so lonely? Could it be that we’ve traded true face time for FaceTime (or even just texting and emailing)? Have we traded our in-person communications or even phone calls for something more convenient but less personal?
THE BEAUTY AND BROKENNESS OF THE INTERNET
I built my business on the internet and social media. We didn’t have money to put into traditional advertising more than ten years ago, when Simplified was first founded, so I used my own personal social media profiles (and then later business profiles) to share content and news about what the brand was up to. Without social media I wouldn’t be writing this book. Facebook, Instagram, and the internet are the connection tools I’ve used to create meaningful community around the Simplified brand.
While I’ve been able to observe and be part of the wonderful ways in which technology has connected the world, I’ve also witnessed the ways in which it has created a disconnect and even torn people apart. I’ve watched users publicly throw daggers at one another via comments. I’ve seen virtual strangers slap negative and bullying words on each other’s posts. I had to get off social media entirely during the last presidential election. The vitriol and hate from all sides were just too much for me. I’ve watched division and divisiveness happen over and over again in 280 characters or less.
I’ve even been the subject of some of those comments. So have my children. And my marriage. And our home. I’ve read in the darkest corners of the internet that my creations are counterfeit, my message full of untruths, and my face not quite beautiful enough. Internet bullying has become so common, so unregulated, that children and grown-ups alike are targeted.
Why does this happen? Why do people behave this way online? Does it happen more on the internet than it does in real life? Is it because screens separate us, providing both shield and sword, making us brave enough to fight? Or because we cannot visibly witness the human emotion and reactions of the people we’re communicating with? Is it because it’s easier to be angry and opinionated and disrespectful and sometimes even evil online than in real life? Is it because humans as a whole are more overwhelmed and maxed out than ever before, so popping off a nasty comment or participating in untrue gossip is a bit of a backward release for an aching, stretched, sick-with-stress heart?
I’m not sure. But I do believe the internet is not the problem, just as phones aren’t the problem for distracted parents. We choose to utilize these tools: smartphones, the internet, social media. And we can choose to continue or to leave them behind. Still, it all goes back to the heart. It all goes back to a broken world, full of broken people, in need of something that is not of this world.
On the flip side, I’ve been blessed to connect via the magic of the internet with real, hopeful, inspiring, incredible women all over the world. I’ve read stories of lives being changed by our products. I’ve met girls who’ve encouraged me and lifted me up, not just as the creator of a planner they love but as a dear friend they’ve come to know through little digital squares over the span of nearly eleven years. I’ve made friends. Real, live, in-person friends.
The INTERNET is not the problem. Just like PHONES aren’t the problem.
The internet isn’t all bad. Neither is social media. When used for good and with responsible boundaries, they can be mighty, powerful forces for positivity in the world. They can unite and connect and provide. When overused or used for evil, they can divide, breed lies, and tear down. This is where we must be vigilant. We can’t haphazardly allow social media into our lives or our children’s lives for that matter. We have to be mindful and proactive about how we use these tools, what our values are surrounding them, and how we will govern their place in our lives—not if but when they become too much.
As with anything, even too much goodness from technology can be a bad thing. Imagine that woman from a hundred years ago we talked about in chapter 1. Imagine she somehow came to visit you today. She’d be amazed by quite a few new things. But imagine trying to explain to her what technology is and all that it can do. We can speak to a device on our kitchen counter that will turn on lights, set the temperature in our home, and read the weather forecast aloud. Little devices called smartphones can read us the Bible, track our daily exercise, and even teach us how to meditate. Our kids can use “tablets” to trace letters, listen to stories, and color pictures. From our computers and smartphones, we can order a gift to be sent to the other side of the world, video chat with a friend across the country, or read about absolutely any topic under the sun. How convenient! Yes, to a degree. But what are we missing out on in this connected, automated, technology-run world?
IMAGINE THIS . . .
You wake up, groggily walk to the chair next to your bed, and slip on your robe. Rubbing your eyes, you tiptoe barefooted through the quiet house to the back door, stepping out into the earliest light to feel the morning air on your cheeks. Might be a good day for a light coat for the kids, you think. The air is cool and just a little damp. You take a breath and head inside. A kiddo will come barreling down the stairs at any minute, so you quietly make a hot cup of coffee and sit down to savor at least a minute or two alone.
You pick up your grandmother’s Bible, tattered and worn with age, use, and love. Along the margins, your grandmother left notes in her sprawling cursive handwriting, barely legible but still clear as day. You flip to the spot where you left off and start to read. It’s not long before two of three kids are awake, and the book is put away again.
What are
we missing?
After school, you turn on some jazz music, your favorite, to set the tone. The mood is relaxed and happy. You lightly draw letters for your preschooler to trace on a few pieces of scrap paper. His chubby fingers grip the blue crayon carefully—and completely incorrectly. You smile and let him try his best for the last thirty seconds of his attention span. He draws something that somewhat resembles a T, and then you proudly hang it on the fridge.
At bedtime, your kids are rowdy. (What else is new?) To settle everyone down, you choose a story to read together. They select Five Little Pumpkins for the four hundredth time (even though it’s long past Halloween), and you recite each page by heart, not even looking at the words. They’re so proud to be able to narrate the book along with you. Practice makes perfect, you suppose.
A friend comes over a little while later, and over tea that you brewed and thoughtfully garnished with lemons and honey, you chat about life and motherhood and marriage and work. Afterward, you delicately wash the tea cups, dry them with a towel, and put them away. You change into your pajamas, wash your face, and apply a dab of hand cream. After turning a few pages in the book you’re reading, you reach over to turn off the bedside lamp, close your eyes, an
d drift off to sleep.
Oh, what we miss when we let technology do life for us. Imagine falling asleep without your phone plugged in by your side. Imagine an undistracted conversation with a girlfriend. Imagine softly singing your child to sleep while you stroke her hair and calm her heart. Could it be that there is beauty in a more analog existence?
3
NOISE
Less Noise, More Calm
Perhaps one of the most obvious ways that our lives have become overfull is noise. The noise level in my home at any given time (when all five of us are home) is astounding. I’ve often said that I’m noise sensitive.
A lot of noise means I can’t hear clearly, think straight, or—to be honest—function well. I’m not sure if this is even normal, but noise drives me bananas. And I don’t mean the kind of noise that happens when kids are playing or when everyone at the dinner table has something to say. I’m talking about the kind of noise that happens when electronics are buzzing, dinging, and chirping. Children are begging for attention, growing ever frustrated because their parents are focused on tasks or work or their phones. A scheduled practice or event is growing ever closer, increasing the tension and the volume of voices and the directions being given. Thoughts are spinning and plans are being made to prepare for an overfull day tomorrow, expectations set high and patience running low.
And someone says they can’t find their shoes.
And everything unravels.
The balloon pops, the last drop of patience has slipped through my fingers, and somebody snaps. Everyone is talking at once, no one is on the same page because everyone is distracted and multitasking, and the downward spiral continues.
Imagine this happening in homes all across America at the same time.
This is the worst kind of everyday stress for me. And it’s an exact description of what happened in my home yesterday. It’s happened a lot the past few years. I’ve tried different tactics for alleviating the noise that happens in these situations. Clapping my hands. Flashing the lights. Even yelling. Yep, I’ve yelled. More times than I’d like to admit. None of it works. The only thing I’ve found to work in these situations is to turn everything off. Turn off the television. Turn off the phones. Turn off the devices. Maybe even turn yourself off for a minute. Power down. Go into sleep mode. Unplug.
Because just like a device, if you unplug something for a few minutes, it will reset itself, restart, refresh—and be better for it.
TRUE SILENCE
Have you ever been in the middle of nowhere and experienced that eerie feeling when you realize how silent it is? No hustle and bustle of traffic, people, businesses, and more? It’s strange, isn’t it?
Bryan and I took an anniversary trip once to a golf resort in the middle of the state of Florida. We lost cell reception about thirty minutes before reaching the hotel (which, to be honest, had me both excited and a little frantic). Streamsong Resort is situated in an enormous old phosphate mine that has been converted into a golf course. It’s hours away from any other city. I reluctantly left my cell phone in our room the first night when we headed downstairs for dinner. It’s weird not being tethered to that thing, but it didn’t work anyway and my parents, who were with our kids, knew how to get hold of us at the hotel if needed.
We stepped outside to walk across the property to the restaurant. I was immediately struck, in a jarring way, at the lack of noise. It wasn’t that the place was just quiet; it was as if the noises that are usually present in my life had been sucked out of the atmosphere completely, leaving this void begging to be filled with something. The sensation almost made me anxious, like my ears were desperately searching for some kind of sound. But all I could hear was the tap, tap, tap of our shoes on the pavement. This extreme quiet didn’t seem to faze Bryan. But for me it was an out-of-body experience. I hadn’t experienced that kind of silence in so long.
When working, I always had music playing in the background. When hanging out with our kids, the television usually sounded around us. When out and about, the noise of the environment acted as the soundtrack to whatever activity I was doing. But here there was none of that. There was nothing . . . except quiet. Apparently this resort had been designed that way intentionally, to give busy people a chance to relax.
So why was it so uncomfortable for me? I suppose my body had found ways to acclimate to the noise of daily life. But was that a good thing or a bad thing?
Bryan and I walked outside after dinner. The glow of the hotel was the only light for miles and miles. And it lit up only a portion of the sky. Looking up, I was once again unnerved by the contrast between here and there—what my eyes could see in this isolated getaway and what my eyes could see back home. Here the sky held hundreds of millions of stars, each one its own shade of white and silver and gold, each a unique size and brightness, carefully placed to make up this unbelievable blanket of sparkles. So many stars were visible to the naked eye that it almost looked unreal. Painted even.
Life can be so similar to that secluded starry night. When we quiet down, when we remove the excess and the noise, what’s left is basic beauty. And not basic in the sense of “plain” or “average” but basic in the truest sense of the word: fundamental, of central importance. It’s almost funny that the most basic things left in the sky once all the lights and flashes and billboards and airplanes and buildings are removed are the most beautiful stars I’d ever seen. It’s a scene I’d never have been able to experience with all those other distractions and excesses around.
When we QUIET
down, when we
remove the excess
and the NOISE,
what’s left is basic
BEAUTY.
BASIC BEAUTY
Over the next few days, I found myself slowly adapting to the lack of notifications, pop-ups, advertisements, calls, texts, and emails. It was weird at first. I had become accustomed to jumping from topic to topic to topic very quickly in short periods of time. My focus could be on twelve different things in the scope of two minutes. Is that healthy?
If you think back to a simpler time, humans were tending farms or plowing fields. We were focused for long periods of time on milking a cow or pruning plants or harvesting grain or making and baking bread—interrupted only for mealtime or emergencies or some other human interaction. Even just thirty years ago, although the average American woman wasn’t churning butter, her days weren’t as driven by distraction. She may have had a cordless phone in the house, and the internet, if she had it, was likely dial-up. And cell phones were just a new-fangled idea for fancy people (and they sure weren’t “smart”!).
These days, even a simple scroll through Facebook or Instagram can take you from a recipe for vegan egg rolls to the top ten ideas for a gender reveal party to political unrest in the Middle East and then back to thirty-seven photos of your second cousin’s daughter’s Bat Mitzvah. Wow. Even writing that series (taken, by the way, straight from my own Facebook newsfeed) is exhausting.
Were we made for this type of unfocused flittering? And if not, what are we doing to adapt or to care for our brains (and spirits) as they function this way? Could we walk away from this? Or could we slow the flittering just a bit? My new-found confidence, founded primarily in the gloriousness of the stars I’d seen and my thirst for more moments of basic beauty, said yes.
I began by unfollowing people on Instagram and Facebook. I value these platforms and obviously need them for my business, but I wanted to be proactive rather than reactive about the ways I use them. I decided that I would take the reins on what information I allow into my head and my heart. If you are my personal friend on Facebook, that means that you get a Christmas card from me. That’s my litmus test. On Instagram, I follow only a handful of accounts chosen specifically and strategically to pour into my mind what I’d like to pour out. I have plenty of real-life friends I don’t follow, for no other reason than that I’d rather catch up with them in real life.
TOO MUCH INFORMATION
> Bryan and I went through years of infertility, rounds of medications, surgeries, and eventually in-vitro fertilization to conceive our three children. My best friend did as well. I recently remarked to her that infertility seems more common now than it used to be—and it very well may be. But she noted that, with the connectedness of social media and the internet, we are now more aware of others’ stories than ever before.
In years past we never would have known of a young couple in rural Illinois who had to undergo complex treatments to have children. Or the couple in Washington who miscarried two babies before giving birth. The internet has made information (much of it from strangers or people only loosely connected to us) so much more readily available.
Now consider the number of positive stories you read online. They’re heartwarming and wonderful for our mental health. But what about the sad stories? The bad news? The tales of sickness, disease, crime, and tragedy? In the past, we heard these only on the news or, going back even further, when stories were shared from a friend’s mouth to your ear. Now? All we have to do is scroll a few inches down a newsfeed to take in dozens of these sad and scary stories from all over the world. Is that good for our minds and hearts? Should we do something to protect our minds from this input? To create a boundary or barrier for when too much has become too much? Compassion fatigue is another side effect: we see so much difficult news, for people we know only tangentially (or not at all!), that we can either sink into a pit or become totally numb. At some point, the endless onslaught of information can make it difficult to be present for our real-life friends because we’re expending so many emotional resources online—and often without even realizing it.