I sometimes catch myself scrolling and stopping, not because something interests me, but because something demands my attention.

A video. A headline. A moment clearly taken from someone else’s real life, often at its worst, now framed for quick consumption. I pause, feel a flicker of discomfort, then move on. And it leaves me wondering when that became normal.

At some point, almost everything turned into content.

Not just the good things. Not just the funny or impressive moments. But grief, anger, fear, embarrassment, even death. All of it sits side by side in the same endless feed, waiting for a reaction before being replaced by the next thing.

What’s strange is how quietly this shift happened. There was no announcement. No clear line we crossed. Just a gradual erosion of the idea that some moments were private, or at least deserved time and care.

We’re told we live in an age of connection, but often what we’re really experiencing is exposure. We see more than any generation before us, yet rarely linger long enough to understand what we’re seeing. Context takes time, and time is the one thing the internet does not reward.

So we learn to skim. To react quickly. To feel briefly.

It isn’t that people are heartless. Most aren’t. It’s that constant exposure dulls the edge of feeling. When pain appears every few seconds, it becomes harder to treat it with the weight it deserves. The extraordinary turns ordinary simply through repetition.

There’s also a quiet pressure at work. If something is happening, we’re meant to look. If we look, we’re meant to share. If we don’t, it can feel like we’re opting out of the world rather than protecting ourselves from it.

But opting out is sometimes the most human response available.

Not every moment needs an audience. Not every experience benefits from being turned into material. Some things make more sense when they are held privately, or at least approached with a little distance and care.

I don’t think the answer is to turn away completely. The world matters, and bearing witness has its place. But there’s a difference between witnessing and consuming. One involves attention and respect. The other is just passing through.

Perhaps the question isn’t whether something can be shared, but whether it should be. Whether sharing adds understanding, or simply adds noise.

Choosing not to engage with certain things isn’t indifference. Sometimes it’s restraint. Sometimes it’s recognising that a moment belongs to the people living it, not to the rest of us scrolling past.

In a world where everything competes to be content, deciding where to place your attention becomes an act of intent.

And maybe that’s still worth holding on to.

Copyright © Tom Kane 2026