Life Isn’t a Highlight Reel

Creating memories for life

Introduction

The doomscrolling phenomenon is global. I’m currently writing from Nicaragua, where I’ve come for my grandfather’s funeral. Growing up here, most families couldn’t afford access to technology back in the 2000s. It was a luxury, not a given. I still recall when we got our first TV. It was clunky and sometimes electricity wasn’t available. Thus, 20 years ago people found connection, meaning, and joy in the offline world. Shared meals, sports, and community gatherings.

But that’s changed. Now, even in communities with limited resources, nearly everyone holds a glowing rectangle in their hands. It’s become a common escape, a numbing agent. One that quietly pulls us away from human experiences and into a curated feed of fear, distraction, or consumption. During the life celebration and memorial for my grandfather, I saw people on their screens¹. Quiet moments filled with skits, news, and brands. All wanting our precious time.

Today, I want to honor his memory by sharing two simple lessons he left with me. Lessons that might help you in your own search to live more fully, more intentionally, and more offline.

Photo by Vlad Yera on Unsplash

Reject Avarice

The tech world thrives on convincing us to adopt endless conveniences. We’ve moved from the unpredictability of radio and television to a world where any show, podcast, or song is curated to our taste (as long as you subscribe for a fee). Casimiro, my grandfather, was a man that valued simplicity. He had one pair of boots for work, one for church, and one for sport.

Part of that contentment came from growing up in rural areas sans shoes or socks, working the farm. Because he knew what it was to go without, he had an unmatched appreciation for life’s small details: a hot meal, a good conversation, a quiet afternoon. At the funeral, they played a video of my grandfather strumming his guitar and singing a church hymn with his brothers and sisters. The lyrics spoke of a longing: to walk closely with God, to cherish family, and to build a life marked by integrity, joy, and simplicity. Not one of excess or striving.

That kind of life feels rare today. We’re constantly taught to chase more. More stuff, more status, more followers. The message is subtle but persistent: happiness is just one purchase away. But my grandfather never bought into that illusion. He sought to have enough for his family and to give back the moment that surplus was available. It’s a lesson worth remembering in a world that pushes consumption at every turn. If you're trying to live more intentionally, more offline, it’s worth asking: Do I really need that extra app on my phone? That newest gadget everyone’s buzzing about (looking at you, Nintendo Switch 2)?

What if, instead of collecting more things, you chose to collect moments. A long walk without your phone, dinner with friends, silence. Memories that will not fade into the 24 hour news cycle. Memories that are not captured, but lived through your own eyes.

Photo by Chris Chow on Unsplash

Love Baseball

My grandpa couldn’t stand the new pitch clock. For him, going to the ballpark was as much about the game as it was about the conversations, the atmosphere, the gentle rhythm of a day spent among people. And to be clear, he loved baseball. He had a whole notebook filled with handwritten play-by-play stats from the Washington Nationals. The field gave him a serene place to collect his thoughts and get to know others as well.

Baseball, unlike basketball or hockey, doesn't demand your attention every second. It invites you to slow down. To breathe. There’s space between the action: room for reflection, laughter, and quiet pauses. I didn’t always get it. I’ve always been drawn to the fast-paced energy of sports where something’s always happening—passes, sprints, goals. But those few times I went with my grandpa to the ballpark, I caught a glimpse of something different. Slowness as a gift, not a flaw.

It taught me something I think we need more of nowadays, a little patience. While traveling through my home country, I brought along the Light Phone 3. Down here, it seems to mesh more naturally with the pace of life than it ever did back in North America. Sure, WhatsApp is everywhere, people still love the immediacy, but I’ve seen so many choosing to meet in person, to talk face to face, and to walk around without looking at the GPS.

I texted a friend using a local SIM, and he simply said he’d reply after work—no stress, no pressure. I called relatives and wasn’t distracted mid-conversation. I asked strangers for directions and they stopped to help me out. This past week, I embraced patience like my grandpa taught me. So instead of mourning the absence of high-speed highways and instant convenience, I’ve tried to let it teach me. I find myself wanting to bring that slowness home with me—to Denver, to my routines, to my scrolling fingers. Maybe we don’t need everything to move faster. Maybe we just need to be more present while it moves.

Conclusion

Two simple lessons my grandpa left with me: choose contentment and patience. These aren’t new ideas. Philosophers, sages, and teachers have echoed them through the ages. But wisdom only works if we let it in. My hope is that, this time, we’re ready to listen.

1. Some people forgot to put their phone on silence. They all had the same ringtone which made a bit funny. This is your reminder to turns yours off when you attend such events.