Adaptation Is Not Consent

A thought on modern dependence.

I never wanted this dependence. Nor did I consent.

Always making sure it’s with me, but never really wanting it there.

To my phone: why did the universe curse me with the burden of my dependence on you?

Did we have to reach such a pinnacle of technology, for the world to sit permanently at our fingertips?

From the moment it was placed in my hands at thirteen by my parents, through the deep wanting I felt for it at the time, my life has revolved around this little brick. For some it came earlier, for others later, but it’s hard to find anyone untouched by its pull. And to those lucky enough not to need one, I pray the day never comes that you do.

What makes the dependence so unfair is not just its strength, but the absence of consent. It wasn’t a habit I picked up out of curiosity or a contract I signed. There was no space to understand the cost. It arrived disguised as convenience but by the time the consequences became visible, opting out was no longer a plausible option.

At thirteen, I didn’t consent to a lifetime of constant reachability. I didn’t consent to having my attention fragmented (more than it already is) or my emotions gamified. I was handed a tool that quickly changed the way I think, relate, and regulate myself, long before I had the language or agency to question it.

Consent implies the ability to refuse.

But refusal was never really on the table. School required it. Work would later demand it. Friendships migrated onto it. Love lived inside it. To exist socially became synonymous with being reachable, responsive, visible. Disconnection stopped being a choice and became a deviation. Time away felt like time missing out on life, especially during those foundational years.

The phone feels like a perfect symbiotic pairing with the state of our society. The ability to rapidly switch between applications, information and tasks in mere seconds mirrors how we now have to operate day to day. Emotionally especially. A single scroll exposes you to an absolute bombardment of stimuli, more than the brain was ever designed to process. Grief, lust, anger, envy, joy, all compressed into seconds. And if that scroll wasn’t fast enough, don’t worry, they even added in a x2 speed mode. Regulating a nervous system under that kind of emotional load becomes a very, very difficult task.

Technological advancement, though largely beneficial, has been fast, forceful, and largely non-consensual. We are pushing it forward, no doubt, but rarely stopping to ask whether we were meant to live like this. The infrastructure was built long before the consequences were understood. A very familiar pattern. Execute first, think later.

The unprecedented access we now have to one another, at any time, is more than our willpower could ever handle.

We are animals after all.

We are closer than ever, and yet, as a society, at the pinnacle of loneliness.

Loneliness has grown so widespread it now carries institutional weight. No longer dismissed as a passing feeling, it’s now classified as something chronic.

There is simply more at play now.

Delivered. Read. Liked. Blocked. Left on seen. These are such disproportionate types of communications, so easy in execution but so profound in impact. The moment we gamified communication, we lost a big part of the blissful naivety that developing meaningful relationships requires.

There is greener grass everywhere we look. Constantly visible. Constantly accessible. How could we not indulge? It’s just a text. A like. A call. Nothing serious. Until it is.

Every decision feels like it holds so much more weight. There’s more spectators. Even when no one is actively watching.

Paranoia runs rampant. Accusations follow. Relationships exist under quiet surveillance.

These devices were meant to hold our attention, time and emotions. So how were we ever meant to stand a chance? It was barely a fair fight.

Instead, we blame ourselves. We tell ourselves we lack discipline. An addiction reframed as a personal failure, despite being handed to us, fully formed, by adults we trusted. Perhaps they should have known better. Or perhaps they didn’t.

There is a powerful illusion of agency at work.

If only I were stronger, we think. More focused. Less weak.

But this is not a personal failure.

It’s a biological mismatch.

This wasn’t an individual lifestyle choice. It was pre-decided. Calling it a choice after the fact feels dishonest.

This is where the resentment starts. Not towards the technology itself, but towards the assumption that we ever agreed to this. That we opted in knowingly. That this dependence reflects a weakness of character rather than a condition of modern life.

I still reach for my phone instinctively.

I’m not writing from above it.

Maybe this is just what it means to be alive now. To carry the world in your pocket and to feel the weight back.

I really don’t know if we were meant to live like this.

But I do know that none of us were asked.