January | 2026 | fourgreatkids

Most of us are curious. Some more than others. Some of us are bored. Some more than others. Many spend every free moment scrolling through their feed, looking at pictures, posting pictures, see someone else’s life. Part voyeur, part spectator, measuring, comparing, wondering, being entertained. Our phones make it all too simple. Everyone is looking down, watching, listening, connected to some other reality. Hypnotized. Tranced. Busy with the screen. Tuned out.

This insulates us from each other. It also insulates us from the power of boredom or of free thought. Time to just let the mind wander. Be.

We need to stop looking at our phones. They are robbing us of the present. Drowning out our humanity and opportunity to connect. Sure, they are convenient and productive and even enjoyable. But the price is high and we do not even realize it. Everyone is looking down. In the coffee line. Waiting – but not waiting, always looking at something, scrolling through something, texting someone. Hypnotized. Silenced. Dopamine drugged.

Further, we used to be content creators – posting our own pictures and stories. Trips and reflections, silly photos and moments. Now – for most of us – we are just scrolling for entertainment. A curated feed of movies clips and puppy videos constantly being customized, fed, so much so many of us do not even post of ourselves or our families. Maybe because it felt too much like bragging or maybe because the influencers started to make our posts seem not good enough interesting enough or worth enough to share with our echo chambers of friends. When did reels of old movies clips become more important that connecting?

Whatever the case may be – our phones, social media – are making us more isolated then ever. It should be called unsocial media – or not-so-social media. What was once social has become simply a form of entertainment – and worse, it has turned our eyes downward and away from each other. And it happens at some of the saddest places — go to a restaurant and watch how a couple scrolls their feed during their date — or better yet, watch how a family arrives, with two children and two ipads — just to ensure mom and dad can have a moment. Are the ipads at dinner a good thing? They just make me sad. Sad at the moments lost, the conversations missed, the messy middle of togetherness without distractions. It wasn’t pretty, it wasn’t quiet, but it was togetherness.

We are also changing the chemistry in our brains. The need for the jolt of dopamine or the quick distraction – there are no more opportunities for the mind to wander. Why should it? I can just check Instagram. Or TikTok.

It was hard when my kids were little and I had to take them all to the doctor. Maybe one of them had an appointment, but all of us would have to go. This was during the pre cell phone time. (not all that long ago). And we would figure it out. Playing “I Spy” in the waiting room, doodling on that white paper that covers the examination bed or looking through the worn out dog earred Highlights magazines or Dr. Seuss books in the waiting room. Self-regulation was practiced over and over in small and big moments. And yes, it was hard – but those skills, learning how to sit still or be quiet or wait – just wait in the moment – those are important skills. It helps later on when you are in class or a meeting or a time when you have to just be. Still.

Boredom was not all bad. Having a moment to think was not all a waste of time. For it is in those quite moments in between the doing that magic can happen. That a memory surfaces or a new idea is born. How did we so williingly give up our own interest in the world? How did we so willingly trade personal connection for a smartphone? How did we forget that quiet time in our brains is to be cherished? Next time you are in the coffee line, or on the subway, or waiting for the movie to start, or to be called for your appointment, look up. Rest your brain. Resist.

It was always silly of me to think that I wouldn’t outlive my mother.

She died at fifty-seven—suddenly, out of the blue. My life afterward was forever changed, some of it for the good, some of it for the bad. The bad is obvious: a sadness that filled my heart and clouded my days; a shock to the system; the loss of my foundation, my rock, my home. The loss of her. Of all the special days—and the ordinary days—that she was no longer part of.

The good part was unexpected. Her death reframed my entire consciousness. It made me less afraid—while also giving me a more balanced perspective on living. Whether it was public speaking, running a marathon, or starting law school in my forties, I was undeterred. What was the worst thing that could happen? To me, it felt as though the worst thing already had.

But as I approached the age of fifty-seven, I felt oddly vulnerable. Mortal.

It helped to think about what my mother’s life had been like in the years before she died. A daily drinker since her twenties, my mom could barely wait until 5:00 p.m. to pour her first scotch “on the rocks.” She kept pace with my alcoholic father when they were together, a dynamic that wore on her in unhealthy ways. She was always chubby—a word she used to describe herself—her legs splattered with varicosities that ached at the end of a long day.

It seems strange to me now that I didn’t notice all of this more at the time. The drinking. The toll it was taking on her physically and mentally. I knew she wasn’t especially happy—but I never thought she would die. I don’t think our culture really considers that drinking can kill you. And technically, my mother did not die of alcohol; she died of a heart condition. But the daily drinking surely didn’t help, and most likely exacerbated her death.

Even knowing that—seeing the differences between her lifestyle and mine—turning fifty-seven felt ominous. Surviving the year felt uncertain, as though maybe I wouldn’t make it. I know it doesn’t make sense, but that’s how it felt in my body.

That fear was enough to motivate me to give up alcohol—my joyful companion for decades. Knowing it was causing me anxiety and stress, knowing it was only hurting my body, believing that it may have contributed to my mother’s death—all of that crystallized into a simple idea: I wanted to be as healthy as possible. I wanted to control what I could, to live as long as I could, to be alive for my children. That was enough.

As it does, the year flew by. A cliché, yes—but as I get older, time really does move faster. And guess what? I survived fifty-seven. I’m fifty-eight now, and it feels different. It’s strange that she never got to see it—either herself turning fifty-eight, or me turning fifty-eight.

Her legacy lives on in me now: this alcohol-free self who still remembers her smile, her laugh, and the joy she took in being my mom.

My mother’s death changed me—mostly for the good. But every day, I would trade all of it just to see her face, hold her hand, feel her hug.

Or pour her a drink.