I'm typing this while wearing my new Ray-Ban Meta AI glasses, and I'll admit it. They still feel like sorcery. I can look in my refrigerator and ask what I can make for dinner, and they’ll walk me through a recipe step by step while I'm listening to music on them simultaneously. I can look at anything and get answers about what I'm seeing. The shine hasn't begun to wear off yet.
But it will.
For 50 years, I bought into the lie. The one that whispered happiness was just a purchase away. A new car. A bigger house. Or, in my case, the siren song of sleek, glassy, expensive tech.
A smarter phone. A thinner tablet. Shiny promises that told me life would be easier now. Sharper. More fun. That I’d be cooler. More efficient.
And for a minute, they weren’t wrong.
You know the minute I’m talking about. The first unboxing. That fresh out of the wrapper smell. It hits like wild excitement mixed with a mild sense of debt. You customize your settings. You download your essentials. You tell yourself this time will be different. This time, the gadget will fix the glitches in you.
But it won’t.
Within a week, it’s just another slab of glass with your fingerprints all over it and crumbs in the charging port. You still scroll too much. You still forget why you walked into the kitchen. You always feel like something's missing, and it’s not the next software update.
Things don’t make you happy. They distract you.
Even worse, they make you addicted to the idea that happiness is just one upgrade away.
This week, as I stare down fifty-eight, I’m finally seeing the game for what it is. I’m not quite out of commission, but I’m not exactly fresh off the assembly line either. That gives you perspective.
The cruelest part isn’t that the tech doesn’t work. It works exactly as promised. For about ten months. Then the newer model comes out, and your so-called life-changing device starts to feel like a flip phone from 2003. Useless. Embarrassing. Ready for the junk drawer.
Here’s what I’ve learned. The truth I wish I’d grasped at twenty-eight, thirty-eight, even forty-eight. Real joy isn’t bought. It’s lived.
It’s not the phone in your hand. It’s the call from someone who still loves you after all your rough drafts.
It’s not the travel app or the high-def camera. It’s standing somewhere beautiful with someone who makes you laugh. Really, really hard.
It’s not the notifications. It’s the people who show up when there’s nothing in it for them.
Scrolling TikTok can make two hours disappear like magic, but it doesn’t feed anything in you. It’s like eating cotton candy for dinner. Sweet going down, but you’re still hungry. Sitting with someone you don’t see enough, just talking or not even talking, that’s the meal that fills you up.
We’re sold this fantasy that purpose is purchasable. If we buy the right things, we’ll feel better. More complete. More, whatever it is we think we’re missing. But all we’re doing is renting a high. A buzz that fades quickly, leaving us right back where we started. Staring at another ad. Reaching for the credit card.
And that’s the thing. You don’t need a better gadget. You need a better story.
One where you were there when it mattered. One where you visited instead of sending the text. One where you forgave someone. Or said what you really meant. Or someone who pulled you onto the dance floor and made you forget to care who was watching.
That’s the stuff that sticks. That’s the stuff that matters.
So no, I’m not above drooling over the latest Pixel. I like a good screen. But I know it’s not going to make me more loved, more fulfilled, or more alive. That only happens when I put the thing down and step into the moment.
If you’re younger than me, I hope you figure this out sooner. If you’re older, maybe you’ve already stopped chasing shiny. If you’re somewhere in the middle, consider this your reminder.
Don’t chase upgrades. Chase meaning. Chase moments. Chase relationships.
Still clinging to shiny things? Try this.
If your house caught fire, you wouldn’t run in for your smart glasses. You’d run in for your dog. Your journals. That one photo that proves you used to have better hair.
You’d run in for something that can’t be replaced. Because deep down, the stuff never loved you back.
You did.
