Too Good to Scroll: On Time, Loneliness, and the Lives We Don’t Post
There’s a strange thing that happens in your late 30s. Time stops behaving. A week goes by in a blink, yet an hour of loneliness can stretch on like wet chewing gum. You can feel like nothing’s happening — and like everything’s happening all at once.
When I was younger, time felt bigger. A Saturday lasted forever. A summer was its own lifetime. Now, I blink and it’s Sunday night again. Another week gone. Another birthday approaching. Another year of scrolling through other people’s lives, wondering if mine is going anywhere.
But lately, something has shifted. Not overnight, and not perfectly. But enough to notice. Time has started to stretch again. Not because I’m doing less — I’m arguably doing more — but because I’m doing it with meaning.
And I think that’s the trick.
The Science of Time (and Why We Lose It)
Arthur C. Brooks, in his research on happiness and ageing, writes that time feels longer and richer when it’s filled with emotional depth, awe, and intention. But when we live on autopilot — when days blur into routines and endless online consumption — time collapses. We become spectators of our own lives.
Brooks calls this the difference between pleasure and meaning. Pleasure is fleeting. Meaning lingers. If you want life to feel longer, more felt, more alive, you need to fill it with the kind of moments that actually register.
Unfortunately, the modern world isn’t built for that.
We’re drowning in distractions, constantly “checking in” but rarely truly checking in with ourselves. We document instead of digest. We broadcast instead of breathe. And we’re lonelier for it.
Loneliness and the Time Warp
Loneliness does strange things to time. It stretches it — makes every hour feel heavier — but also flattens it. You forget what you did yesterday. You can’t tell one weekend from the next. It’s like being stuck in a fog with no landmarks.
When I was most disconnected — from myself, from others, from meaning — time was something to get through. Something to manage. I used to chase the weekend. Chase Friday night. Chase whatever dopamine hit could distract me from how still everything felt inside.
Something shifted.
It wasn’t one moment, or one milestone. But gradually, I stopped living in escape mode. At first, the days felt louder — like the volume had been turned up. But then, they softened. I began to notice the rhythm of the hours again. The small things. Light on the kitchen bench. The way early mornings feel like a blank page. The quiet pride in finishing something without an audience.
Time, when you stop numbing it, returns to its shape. And even when it moves quickly, it stays with you. You feel it. It matters.
Life Off the Clock (and Off the Feed)
One of the strangest parts of recovery was realising how much of my life I’d spent performing — for friends, for strangers, for the internet. If something wasn’t shareable, was it still valuable?
Turns out: yes. Maybe even more so.
We’ve been sold this idea that our worth is tied to how well we present our lives online. That milestones matter more when they’re witnessed. That joy is better when it’s filtered. But some of the best moments I’ve had lately have been the ones I didn’t post:
Laughing mid-run because a bird nearly stole my sunglasses off my head
A walking meeting that turned into a real, needed conversation
A Get Out planning session where everything clicked
Quiet moments volunteering — no fanfare, just presence
Those moments don’t show up in your feed. But they show up in your life. And they’re the ones that help you feel like time is yours again.
Purpose, Not Productivity
It would be easy to mistake this for a productivity sermon — reclaim your mornings! Make every moment count! Track your screen time! But that’s not what this is.
This is about presence, not performance.
The most meaningful hours in my week aren’t the ones where I get the most done. They’re the ones where I feel connected — to what I’m doing, to who I’m with, to why I care.
Building Get Out has given me that in ways I didn’t expect. It’s not just a business. It’s a mirror. It reflects back what matters: community, movement, intention, queer joy that isn’t tied to nightlife or dating apps. Creating that — even slowly — has made life feel more real. More mine.
And weirdly? It’s made time feel slower. Not always. But often enough.
Little Things That Make Time Matter Again
I’ve started to pay attention to the little things. Not because I’m trying to be more productive or squeeze more out of each day, but because the details feel worth noticing again.
It’s the smell freshness after heavy rain. The ocean spray on my face during a run. A handwritten note left on my desk. A moment of unexpected kindness from a stranger.
These aren’t grand, curated highlights. They’re tiny signals that I’m here, that I’m living, that I’m in it. And they make time feel less like a blur, and more like a series of small, bright stars.
Time as a Queer Act of Defiance
In queer life — particularly gay men’s lives — so much of our culture is driven by speed. Fast connections. Fast scrolls. Fast aging. Fast fashion. We’re sold the idea that everything good happens in your 20s, and that your value expires the minute you stop going out.
But the truth is: slowing down is an act of rebellion.
To savour your mornings. To look someone in the eyes. To love deeply, platonically, or otherwise — it’s all a radical way of saying: “I’m not done yet.”
Loneliness often tricks us into thinking we’re running out of time, or that the time we have isn’t being used well enough. But in reality, the deepest parts of life don’t need to be fast. They just need to be felt.
A Quiet Invitation
You don’t have to quit your job, delete your accounts, or start a movement to feel time again. Sometimes it’s just:
Choosing awe over algorithms
Going for a walk without tracking it
Letting a conversation go longer than planned
Cooking something from scratch on a weeknight
Looking at someone — really looking — when they speak
Dancing alone in your kitchen to a song you forgot you loved
Letting yourself laugh so hard you forget what time it is
None of these things are revolutionary. But they’re reminders. That time doesn’t have to vanish. That presence is a practice. That your life is worth living, even if no one double-taps it.
Final Thought: Too Good to Scroll
Some moments should be too good to scroll past. Too good to post. Too good to frame for strangers.
They don’t always look like much. But they feel like everything.
So if time’s been slipping through your fingers lately — if every day feels the same and you’re tired of being a highlight reel — maybe this is your sign:
Put your phone down.
Look around.
And let your life take up space again.
Because you’re not running out of time.
You’re just ready to feel it again.