You’re letting life pass you by one scroll at a time

One day you’ll realize your phone saw more of your life than you did

I’ve spent more time than I care to admit wondering how digital technology has transformed our personal and professional lives. Sometimes I find myself staring at my smartphone as if it were Alice’s looking glass, wondering what my 1985 self would make of this glass-and-metal slab, about the size of a chocolate bar, that’s never more than an arm’s length away.

Back then my wardrobe was inspired by Miami Vice. Phil Collins, Madonna, Dire Straits and Bruce Springsteen dominated my cassette collection. Sushi still seemed adventurous. Friday nights revolved around strategically choosing which bars to visit.

In 1985, I was connected to the world by being in it, not by scrolling through it.

If I could somehow give 1985 Nick a glimpse of 2026, I imagine the conversation would go something like this.

“Let me get this straight. Everyone carries a glowing glass slate and stares at it all day, even when they’re sitting with family and friends. People photograph their food before eating it so strangers can approve of it. Everyone owns a phone but prefers typing because talking to people makes them anxious, yet they’ll happily share their most private moments with the entire world.

“And despite being connected every second of the day, loneliness is everywhere?

“Does anybody ever just sit quietly anymore?”

He’d have a point.

If someone had told me in 1985 that we’d each carry a supercomputer in our pocket, I would have imagined scientific breakthroughs, instant access to knowledge and perhaps a flying car or two. I wouldn’t have predicted we’d spend so much of that computing power arguing with strangers, chasing approval from people we’ve never met or comparing our ordinary Tuesday afternoon with someone else’s carefully staged highlight reel.

Back then, sharing a photo of your dinner required a Kodak Disc camera, a trip to the nearest Shoppers Drug Mart to develop the film and a visit to a friend’s house just to show them a grainy four-by-six picture of a Salisbury steak. Today it takes three seconds. Apparently, kale salad doesn’t contain nutrients until it’s been uploaded to Instagram.

In 1985, “following” someone meant you were either a private investigator like Thomas Magnum or someone the police should probably interview. Today, someone with 10,000 followers is considered an influencer. Back then, the real influencer was the friend who somehow convinced everyone that flip-up sunglasses looked cool.

And then there are “likes.”

Imagine wandering through your local shopping centre putting thumbs-up stickers on complete strangers because you admired their perm. Security would have escorted you out the door. Today, those same digital thumbs-up have become a form of social currency.

Somewhere along the way we stopped asking whether people liked us and started wondering whether the algorithm did.

Like most kids of the era, I spent countless hours in neon-lit arcades feeding quarters into Pac-Man and BurgerTime, chasing high scores that disappeared the moment someone unplugged the machine. Those victories felt enormous. They were also wonderfully temporary.

Which brings me to what I miss most about growing up before smartphones: the unrecorded moment.

In the 1980s, if you embarrassed yourself at a party—say by attempting a breakdance move and launching the punch bowl across the room—the only evidence was the fading memory of six friends who’d consumed enough Boone’s Farm and Southern Comfort to forget most of it by morning. Today, there are 17 high-definition videos online before you’ve even stood back up.

Some memories deserve to fade.

Then there’s doomscrolling. In the ’80s, if you wanted to worry about the state of the world, you waited for Knowlton Nash to deliver the evening news on CBC. Today, global crises, neighbourhood gossip and old classmates’ carefully curated success stories all compete for space in our pockets, 24 hours a day.

We’ve become remarkably good at staying informed, but we’re less certain how to switch it off.

If I could travel back to the era of New Coke, Tab and rotary phones, I’d tell 1985 Nick to appreciate the quiet. Yes, rotary phones took forever to dial, and the coiled cord was a tripping hazard. But when the phone wasn’t ringing, it simply sat there. It didn’t interrupt dinner to tell you someone in Saskatoon hated your opinion of The Breakfast Club. It didn’t quietly track your fascination with front-loading VCRs before selling that information to advertisers.

Of course, I wouldn’t trade away everything we’ve gained. Being able to video chat with family across the country, carry an entire library in my pocket or settle an argument in seconds still feels miraculous. Technology has solved countless problems that once seemed impossible.

It just hasn’t solved the oldest human problem of all: remembering to pay attention to the people sitting right in front of us.

Maybe that’s what I’d really tell my younger self.

Enjoy the quieter world while you’ve got it. One day you’ll carry the world’s knowledge in your pocket, along with its arguments, distractions and endless notifications. Just remember to put it down once in a while.

The best moments aren’t the ones that collect the most likes. They’re the ones you remember because you were fully there when they happened.

Nick Kossovan decodes the psychological impact of AI and social media, helping us make sense of our evolving digital landscape.