The Birthday Behind the Screen I watched my son blow out his candles through my phone screen. Not with my eyes—with the camera. I held the device steady, making sure the angle was right, the lighting good, his face centered in the frame. I saw him take that deep breath, saw his cheeks puff out,

The Distance Between Hearts and Likes Sarah liked my post at 11:47 PM. I know this because I checked. Three times. It wasn’t anything important—just a photo of the sunset from my apartment window. But Sarah had liked it within minutes, the way she always did. The way she had done for three years now,

My Twitter bio says “thought leader.” In person, I apologize while ordering coffee. “Can I get a latte? Sorry. Medium? If that’s okay. Sorry.” The barista stared. I’d just apologized twice for ordering coffee. Online, I’m articulate. Post threads about technology, culture, society. Thousands of followers. People call me insightful. Offline, I can barely make

Five hundred and thirty-seven people saw my breakfast this morning. Avocado toast, perfectly plated. Golden morning light through the window. Caption about grateful mornings and fresh starts. Twenty-three likes within the first hour. What they didn’t see: I’d been awake since 3 AM, crying in the bathroom so my wife wouldn’t hear. The toast sat

The Price of Free I read the terms and conditions today. Actually read them. All forty-seven pages. It took three hours. By page twelve, I understood: I’m not the customer. I’m the product being sold. My wife found me staring at my phone with an expression she couldn’t quite identify. “What’s wrong?” “Did you know

I spent twenty minutes crafting a caption for my coffee photo this morning. “Brewing thoughts, one cup at a time. Perfect. Clever. Thirty-seven likes within an hour. Then my colleague asked what I was thinking about, and I said, “Nothing much.” The wit I perform online evaporates in actual conversation. My wife noticed this months

I have the ability to speak to the entire world. Right now. From this phone in my hand. I could write something, press send, and potentially reach millions of people. Billions, theoretically. Yesterday, I used this power to post a picture of my sandwich. “Turkey on rye. Living my best life. Eleven likes. My father

I refreshed the feed again. Nothing new. Same posts, same faces, same endless scroll. But I couldn’t stop checking. What if I missed something? My wife looked over. “Still scrolling?” “Just checking.” “For what?” I didn’t have an answer. What was I checking for? News I needed to know? Updates that mattered? Something that would

I remember when prayer felt like conversation. Not hope whispered into silence. Not words offered to uncertainty. Actual conversation with someone who listened, who answered, who was as real as my father sitting across the breakfast table. I was seven. God was everywhere. Faith was easy. Now I’m forty-three. And I don’t know what I