In October 2020, I interviewed and received a job offer in New York, reconnected with an old friend to room together, signed an apartment lease, ordered all my furniture, and booked my plane ticket, all from my college dorm room. I arrived a few months later with a single suitcase, assembled a bed, desk, and chair, and the next morning I started my first day of work from the comfort of my new bedroom.
Without having to leave the apartment once, I had everything I needed. A roof over my head, running water, a stocked kitchen, and even in-unit laundry (a luxury I took for granted). Income source? Two steps from my bed. Beyond my physical needs, socially, I found everything was more or less set up as well. I lived with my friend who went to college in the city, so I met all of his friends early on after a housewarming party. My friends lived minutes away and we did almost everything together.
My life was finally “beginning” and the future was full of promise. New York offered endless novelty, conveniently packed into a tiny, well-connected grid. Within 10 to 20 minutes on the train was a new favorite restaurant, the 2nd party of the night, a date with someone brand new, or the coolest rave I’d ever been to. Driven by a heavy fear of missing out, I continuously jumped from one thing to the next, down the neverending pipeline of activities to do. And like that, the days blended into weeks, into months.
But what goes up, must come down. By the end of the year, most of the novelty of my new life had faded. The reality of my life was quite different from the narrative I’d spun in my head. Because guess what? The chill guys at that party? Never became friends. Things fizzled out with a girl I met online, for the fourth time. Over and over again, I woke up tired and hungover after another night out that I “couldn’t miss.” The consequences of my decisions began to stack up. Suddenly, life no longer felt “full of possibilities.”
Once things became stale, I was left to my own devices. I shrunk back into my comfort zone. I sustained my sense of wellbeing at the gym, cooking my meals, seeing a small number of friends who mattered, an occasional date, and I scraped by at work. I filled my downtime with video games, endless scrolling, random movies, and lived in my group chats. Whether it be League of Legends, Instagram, Youtube, Hinge, Messenger, or Amazon, I funneled all my time and attention into the ether. My phone’s screen time told me I was dedicating about 5 or 6 hours daily. I was concerned at first, so I asked my friends how theirs looked. Most hovered in this range. Others told me those were rookie numbers. This survey made my screen habits feel normal, but it certainly didn’t feel right.
I roll out of bed at 8:59 AM and hop on Zoom for my first meeting of the day. Then, I jump from task to task, answer people on Slack, and suddenly it’s lunch time. I then sit through a few forgettable afternoon meetings. At 4:00 PM, I decide I’m tired of moping around and I go hit the gym. In between sets, I scroll on my phone and cycle through songs. I get back after an hour, whip up a meal, and eat it at my desk as I finish up the work I neglected earlier.
Work’s done, gym’s complete, and the sun is setting. This catches my eye. As I gaze out from my 34th floor window across the East River on a small segment of Manhattan, the winter sky gradually dims from a streak of orange to a deep purple, a beautiful sight. Steam billows from tall buildings, and one by one, lights start to flicker on in the little frames of people’s apartments – each one a life, a story, different yet perhaps similar in many ways to mine. Below, the city hums steadily, indifferent. The apartment is silent. I am surrounded by millions of people and completely alone, a disquieting thought. I instinctively reach for my phone. Then, after hours of mindless videogaming, I climb into bed and scroll on my phone until my eyes close. I wake up the next day, in a daze, sign into work, and hit repeat.
I began to feel increasingly disillusioned with my life. So much so that I hopped on a train and headed home. As the jagged, imposing Manhattan skyline disappeared in the distance, I felt everything around me slow down. Over the next two months, I spent time learning my grandparents’ cooking recipes with my mom, shooting hoops and playing spikeball with my brothers, dialing in on my work habits, and learning to play my favorite song on the guitar. With my loved ones, I found joy in the mundane.
As the fog lifted from my brain, I saw how much I truly valued real connection, my health, and my family. With the time and space I regained after escaping my mindless routine, I reflected on my first year living in New York, and it soon became clear what had been missing from my life.
I lacked purpose, intentionality, and most of all, awareness. Awareness of how I had subconsciously subscribed to a life underpinned by convenience and comfort. I think back to how I distractedly got through my days working from home. How I spent hours a day cycling between apps. How I filled my life with the pseudo-connection of group chats, memes, and likes. How I resorted to the ease of online dating over engaging in natural interactions. Because I had never thought about how I wanted to live my life, I was quick to let in all the comforts that surrounded me.
The convenient life I led my first year in New York reveals much about the world I grew up in. Today, technology is deeply embedded within every single aspect of our daily lives. On the surface, it’s easy to celebrate. It connects us, entertains us, and solves our problems at every turn. But convenience has a way of making you forget to ask questions. And so, unaware and intentionless, I let it quietly shape how I worked, socialized, dated, and spent my time. I let it dictate how I lived my life.
The apps, products, and services around me were not necessarily the problem, but when you’re comfortable, why change? As it turns out, a life without intention is not a life worth living at all. We don’t need to reject the comforts of modern living, but we have to ask ourselves what we’re giving up each time we opt for easier, faster, or better. Convenience is not going anywhere. We just need to be the ones in control.