Through the misty sunrise, my eyes chase an image, struggling to make sense of what I see—my sense of safety seems to hinge on understanding the visual. I’m certain there’s some malefic presence stalking my solitude. But as the light of dawn breaks, I realize my gaze is caught in the transition from darkness to light. And with every inch of brightness, it becomes clearer: there’s nothing there. Just me—my own fear invading my peace and distorting my vision.
These days, so much of what we “see” in the world is filtered through a 2-by-4-inch screen. Constantly feeding us mini-movies of unworthiness, despair, and false promises—telling us our lives could be better if we just followed this one method, bought this one thing. It carves pain into our already fractured sense of self, keeping us isolated. Just us and the screen—conveniently detached from people and the living world.
Our minds are being shaped, our realities shifted. A new world is being designed: one where pain is profitable. The mandate is clear—keep humans suffering. Because when we suffer, we consume. We hydrate with screen time and soothe with spending. We no longer splurge on dinners out; instead, we binge on judgment, numbing our insufferable pain with posts that convince us we’re not alone. But are we?
Chasing our next adventures, but is it really about experience, or is it to soothe are increasingly numb minds, or have something to post—or maybe it’s a silent crie for attention?
What addiction do you most favor? What’s your chosen medicine for disconnection? Is it simple conversation—weather, kids, your next trip, the rising cost of living—keeping discomfort at bay, only allowing frustration to surface when discussing politics? Are world events the only vessel for your pain? Or can you speak about the wounds of your soul—the unshakable sense of never-enough-ness that lives in your heart?
In the face of such pain, we numb ourselves. We anesthetize the anxious soul with constant movement or by chasing someone else’s version of success. Ten steps to a better life—ones that always seem to work for others, but never for us.
We’re buried in memes and quotes about living our best lives, but they often ring hollow—detached from the real, ever-shifting complexities of life. What are we to do when younger generations are taught that success means slowing down during their most energized, productive years? That they must find balance—when life itself has never been balanced?
They’re losing themselves, mistaking free time for fulfillment, forgetting the value of learning and contributing to something greater. They seek mentors within their own age group, unaware of the wisdom surrounding them. Social media has become their school, their scripture, their guide—convincing them they already know best.
But the real illusion lies in the fantasies that fill the misty dawn—holding tightly to what appears real, instead of seeking freedom from the source of distortion: the endless feed of half-truths delivered through screens and echo chambers.
What are we to do, when the most fragile, porous, sensitive part of us—our eyes—are hijacked for control? When we’ve lost the ability to truly listen, to see clearly, to sense what’s real?
When money is god, nothing wins. And as the natural world is discarded in pursuit of “more,” the fear of missing out becomes our master.
The mist isn’t just the weather—it’s a metaphor for our minds, clouded by overstimulation, fogged by fear. Every morning we rise into a world shaped not by truth, but by curated realities. The light of dawn used to be a reminder of clarity, of new beginnings. Now it competes with the artificial glow of screens, telling us who to be before we’ve even remembered who we are.
The scariest part? We’ve begun to believe the lies. We’ve mistaken distraction for connection, consumption for fulfillment. We don’t need more information—we need more integration. We need to let the truth settle in our bones. To remember the feeling of holding someone’s gaze, uninterrupted. To speak from the soul, even if our voice trembles.
The solution isn’t another 10-step program. It’s something much older, much quieter. It’s about reclaiming the simple things: listening to the wind, watching your breath, holding someone’s hand without checking your notifications. It’s about taking back our eyes—our attention—and choosing what we let shape us.
Because if we don’t choose, someone else will. And they already have a plan for our pain.
Although I also offer courses, my intention is to help us become more connected, that there could be another way. If you’re feeling the call, come with me on one of my next offerings.
with heart, Noelle