Today I woke up and realised that the world is already racing ahead without me. It’s not that it’s set off without my permission; it’s that it never stopped. And as I try to catch up, a phrase keeps echoing in my head, borrowed from someone who writes from the trenches of everyday observation: “Attention is our most valuable possession. Without it, we are practically useless as humans". That sentence isn’t mine, but I make it my own because it resonates with what I see: children absorbed in screens whilst the park, out there, fills with light and wind, with solitude.

The perspective of those of us witnessing the collapse

I read reflections that strike a chord, such as when Hive account@tarazkp writes that *‘our ability to concentrate has a profound impact on our mental health: high levels of attention are linked to greater productivity, less stress and even greater confidence’. And I think: *if this is true, what are we doing to ourselves when we allow endless scrolling, three-minute videos and the never-ending stream of short-form content to replace the practice of deep thinking? It’s not pessimism; it’s an uncomfortable question that someone raised recently and which a reader commented on: “If attention is the currency of our time, who is getting rich at the expense of our inattention?”.

It pains me to think about the generations to come. Not because they are fragile—on the contrary, they have developed a resilience that took us years to learn—but because they have inherited a world that demands they be adults before they have even had a chance to be children. My friend Hive account@tarazkp wrote recently, and I’m quoting him verbatim because it got me thinking: “It’s not illegal to stunted a child’s mental development”. It’s a harsh statement, yes, but it highlights something many of us sense: whilst we debate screens and screen time, we continue to allow behaviours that undeniably affect well-being. One reader responded to that post with a question that haunts me: “What if what we consider ‘convenient’ today is what causes our children the most harm tomorrow?”.

And then there is the question of work, of value, of meaning. We live in an age that glorifies efficiency, yet strips the act of producing of its substance. We measure ourselves by deliverables, metrics and notifications. And yet, when the day is done, many of us are left with an uncomfortable question: what did I build today that was worthwhile? I’m not talking about grand achievements. I’m talking about small gestures. A sincere conversation. A moment of listening. Someone recently reflected on how artificial intelligence promises efficiencies, but warned: “When everyone does exactly the same thing, no one has an advantage. Efficiency ceases to be competitive when it becomes universal” – I’m paraphrasing. And they added something that resonated with me: ‘The edge still lies in the human’. So I left a comment under that post saying: ‘So, what are we running for if, in the end, we all arrive at the same place empty-handed?’.

The uncertainty of tomorrow doesn’t frighten me because of what it might bring, but because of what we might lose along the way. The capacity for wonder. The patience to wait. The courage to make mistakes and carry on. I read about climate crises, political polarisation, crumbling economies, and sometimes I feel that the dominant narrative is one of the end. But I also see, in unexpected corners, gestures of resistance. People planting trees knowing they won’t see them grow. Communities weaving networks of support without expecting recognition. Young people questioning the status quo not out of rebellion, but out of love for what is possible. Like what I read carefully: “We are in the final death throes of humanity, and unless we change course drastically and quickly, the collapse will accelerate” paraphrase. It’s a strong statement, I know. But a reply further down: “Children know this. That’s why they’re nihilistic, disillusioned, violent. They don’t see a better future, only suffering that intensifies.” And that reply left me speechless.

Sometimes I wonder if we’re ready for the world to come. I’m not talking about technical skills, but about emotional maturity and collective wisdom. Will we be able to manage the abundance of information without being overwhelmed by it? Will we know how to distinguish between what’s urgent and what’s important when everything is vying for our attention? Someone put it clearly: “Feeling you’re right doesn’t mean you are. Feelings are guides, not truths‘. And they added: ’Intelligence does not equal good behaviour". A comment under that reflection read: ‘How many “geniuses” have we seen make destructive decisions because they never stopped to ask themselves if they were in the right?’.

I’d like to believe that the future will find us more united, more aware, more compassionate. But I also know that won’t happen by magic. It will take work. It will require us to stop waiting for ‘someone’ to sort out what is everyone’s responsibility. It will require us to speak, yes, but also to listen. To question, but also to build. To doubt, but to act. As one voice in a recent conversation shared by TarazKP pointed out: “It’s not about being right, but about seeking the truth together”, that search, I believe, is what defines us as a species. Not perfection, but the attempt. Not certainty, but the question.

Today, as I write these lines, I look out of the window. The sky is grey, but there is no sign of rain. A bird is perched on a tree branch, motionless, watching. And I think that perhaps that is the lesson: knowing how to be. Knowing how to wait. Knowing that, sometimes, the most revolutionary thing we can do is simply to remain, with our eyes open and our hearts ready. Tomorrow will come, with its lights and shadows. And we, with our wounds and our dreams, will be there to welcome it. Not as spectators, but as protagonists. Not as victims, but as creators.

Someone commented recently, and I quote them because it sums up how I feel: “The future is not predicted, it is built”. I don’t know who said it first, but today I’m making those words my own. Because in the end, it doesn’t matter so much where we’re going, but how we walk. With what gaze. With what intention. With what love.

And if you, reading this, have also asked yourself these questions, if you too feel that sweet and terrible vertigo of living in a time of transition, I’d like to know what you think. What do you see when you look ahead? What are you afraid of losing? What are you willing to build, even with trembling hands? Leave a comment. Not to be right, but to add your voice to this imperfect chorus that we are. Because perhaps, just perhaps, in that sincere exchange, in that shared vulnerability, lies the seed of what is to come.

The world cannot be fixed with a single text. But perhaps, just perhaps, a text can remind us that we are not alone in asking these questions. And that, in these times, is already an act of resistance. It is already a step towards tomorrow. It is already, in its own way, a form of hope.