I Spend My Life Online, But I Miss Being Offline
by Scott
I spend a large part of my life online. I work there, learn there, communicate there, and unwind there. The internet is where ideas live, where conversations happen, and where the world feels instantly reachable. Yet despite all of that connection, I often find myself missing a time when being offline was not a choice, but simply the way life worked.
I miss the days of linking up with neighbourhood friends without sending a message first. You would ride your bike around the block, scanning driveways and front lawns for familiar faces or discarded backpacks. Plans formed organically. If someone wasn’t home, you moved on. There was no disappointment notification, no unread message, just motion and possibility. Bikes were freedom, and the sound of tires on pavement felt like the start of an adventure.
Swimming pools were gathering places, not photo opportunities. Time passed without tracking it, measured instead by wrinkled fingers and the sting of chlorine in your eyes. Visiting pets at a friend’s house was an event in itself, whether it was feeding scraps to a dog or watching a lizard under a heat lamp. Simple games like hide and seek or backyard tag could stretch an entire afternoon, fueled by imagination rather than rules.
Entertainment felt slower, but somehow richer. Listening to CDs meant committing to an album from start to finish, reading liner notes, and memorising track order. The top 30 on the radio was something you waited for, hoping your favourite song would come on so you could record it at just the right moment. Collections mattered. Stickers, stamps, popsticks, Pokémon cards, Matchbox cars, and Hot Wheels all carried stories, trades, and small triumphs. Each item felt earned, not instantly delivered.
Backyards were places to get dirty. Mud between your toes, water fights on hot days, makeshift slip-and-slides, and scraped knees were all part of the experience. Skateboards clattered on concrete. BMX jumps were built with questionable engineering and endless optimism. Roller hockey games took over the street, stopping only when a car slowly rolled through and everyone scattered to the curb. Catching the bus felt like independence, even if it only took you a few suburbs away.
Somewhere along the way, those moments became quieter. We disconnected from the old times and connected to new ones. Technology brought incredible things with it. The internet of things made homes smarter. Social media made the world smaller. Information became instant. Entertainment became infinite. With a swipe of a thumb, we can move through entire worlds of content without ever leaving our seat.
But that convenience comes with a cost. Scrolling until our thumbs hurt has replaced boredom, and boredom once sparked creativity. Instant gratification has replaced anticipation, and anticipation once made moments feel special. We are always connected, yet often distracted. Always informed, yet sometimes distant. The online world fills time easily, but it doesn’t always fill it meaningfully.
I am grateful for the life I live online. It has given me opportunities, connections, and knowledge that past generations could never have imagined. But I still miss being offline. I miss when presence mattered more than posting, when memories lived in our heads instead of our feeds, and when the world felt larger because we explored it slowly.
Maybe the answer isn’t choosing one over the other. Maybe it’s remembering what made those offline moments special and carrying a little of that intention forward. Putting the phone down more often. Letting boredom exist. Making space for mess, movement, and unstructured time. The internet will always be there. Those simple, human moments are easier to lose, and harder to replace.