Prompt: Write a reddit post with a title reviewing a novel you loved but that most people overlook.

Response:
**Title:** *An Underrated Gem I Rarely See Mentioned: I Absolutely Loved* **The Gray House** by Mariam Petrosyan

I don’t see **The Gray House** come up nearly enough in book discussions, and that honestly surprises me because it’s one of the most memorable novels I’ve ever read.

It’s hard to describe without making it sound either too weird or too vague, but at its core it follows a group of boys living in a strange boarding school for disabled children. The setting itself feels almost alive — eerie, enclosed, and full of its own rules, legends, and unspoken hierarchies. What starts as a quiet, atmospheric story slowly becomes something much deeper and more emotionally resonant.

What I loved most was how immersive it felt. The book doesn’t just tell you about this world; it drops you into it and lets you gradually piece everything together. There’s a dreamlike quality to the writing, but it never feels empty or arbitrary. Every detail contributes to the sense that this place has its own logic and history. I found myself completely absorbed.

It’s also one of those books that rewards patience. It doesn’t rush, and it doesn’t neatly explain itself. If you like tightly plotted, straightforward novels, this might not be for you. But if you enjoy character-driven stories, rich atmosphere, and books that feel unlike anything else you’ve read, I think it’s incredible.

The cast of characters is another highlight. They’re flawed, strange, funny, tragic, and unforgettable. Their relationships felt real to me in a way that made the book hit much harder than I expected. Even when the story becomes surreal or disorienting, the emotional core stays strong.

I know this won’t be everyone’s cup of tea, but if you’re looking for a novel that feels bold, original, and deeply affecting, I can’t recommend it enough. It’s the kind of book that stays with you long after you finish it.

Has anyone else read this one? I’d love to hear what you thought — or if you have any other overlooked favorites I should add to my list.


Prompt: Write a reddit post with a title reviewing a novel you loved but that most people overlook.

Response:
**Title:** *I can’t believe more people aren’t talking about this book: _The Goblin Emperor_ by Katherine Addison*

I just finished **_The Goblin Emperor_** and I need to yell about it somewhere because I genuinely loved it and I feel like it deserves way more attention than it gets.

If you’re expecting a huge, twisty epic full of nonstop betrayals and battles, this is not that book. But if you want a deeply compassionate fantasy about kindness, awkwardness, duty, and learning how to survive in a court that does not care whether you’re comfortable, it’s incredible.

What really got me is how **human** it feels, even though it’s set in a fantasy empire with elves, goblins, and all kinds of court politics. Maia, the main character, is suddenly thrust into a position he is absolutely not prepared for, and instead of becoming some instant genius ruler, he’s overwhelmed, anxious, and trying his best to do the right thing. That made him so easy to root for. He feels like a real person, not a power fantasy.

I also loved how the book treats **basic decency** like it matters. Maia listening to people, remembering names, being polite, trying to improve things in small ways—it sounds simple, but in a setting like this it becomes genuinely powerful. The whole story has this quiet emotional impact that stayed with me way after I finished it.

The worldbuilding is excellent too. It’s detailed without being exhausting, and you can tell there’s a lot going on beyond what’s directly on the page. The court etiquette, language, politics, and social rules all make the setting feel rich and lived-in.

Honestly, this book is one of those rare reads that made me feel calmer while also completely invested. It’s thoughtful, character-driven fantasy at its best, and I wish it came up more often in fantasy recommendations.

If you’ve read it, I’d love to know what you thought. And if you haven’t, and you’re in the mood for something gentle, smart, and quietly beautiful, I highly recommend giving it a shot.


Prompt: Write a blog post with a title about why a hobby you love is misunderstood by most people.

Response:
# Why Birdwatching Is So Much More Than “Just Standing Around”

Most people think birdwatching is a quiet hobby for retirees with binoculars, early bedtimes, and an alarming number of field guides. And sure, sometimes it looks like that from the outside.

But that’s exactly why birdwatching is misunderstood.

To a lot of people, it seems passive, overly nerdy, or even a little boring. They imagine someone staring into trees, waiting for something small and brown to do something slightly different from another small and brown thing. What they don’t see is that birdwatching is one of the most rewarding, engaging, and surprisingly intense hobbies a person can have.

Birdwatching is not about doing nothing. It’s about noticing everything.

## It teaches you how to pay attention

In everyday life, most of us move through the world on autopilot. We notice the big stuff: traffic, weather, deadlines, notifications. Birdwatching trains you to notice the small stuff—the flick of a wing, a call hidden in a hedge, the way light changes the color of feathers.

That kind of attention changes how you experience the world. A walk in the park becomes a puzzle. A tree becomes a whole ecosystem. A five-second glimpse of a sparrow becomes a story you try to solve.

## It’s part science, part detective work

Birdwatching is often mistaken for simple observation, but it’s actually a skill-based hobby with layers of complexity. You learn to identify species by shape, behavior, habitat, flight pattern, and song. You start noticing patterns. You compare field marks. You rule out possibilities.

It’s less “look at the bird” and more “analyze the bird like a tiny feathered mystery.”

That’s part of the fun. Every outing is a chance to learn something new, and every identification feels like solving a case.

## It gets people outside for real reasons

A lot of hobbies happen indoors, which is fine. But birdwatching gives you a reason to go outside in all kinds of weather and all kinds of places. It takes you to forests, marshes, city parks, beaches, backyards, and roadside rest stops you’d otherwise ignore.

You notice seasons more. You start knowing which birds arrive in spring, which ones pass through in fall, and which ones stay all year. You become more aware of migration, climate, habitat, and the fragile balance that keeps ecosystems alive.

In other words, birdwatching doesn’t just get you outside. It connects you to the place you live.

## It’s quietly thrilling

People who have never birdwatched assume it’s calm in a sleepy way. But ask anyone who has chased a rare sighting across a muddy trail or heard an unfamiliar call and followed it like a treasure map, and they’ll tell you: birdwatching can be exhilarating.

There’s real excitement in spotting something unexpected. A flash of color. A bird you’ve never seen before. A migration event. A rare visitor. Even a common species can feel special when you catch it doing something unusual.

The thrill is subtle, but it’s there. Birdwatchers know the rush of a good sighting is as real as any adrenaline spike.

## It builds patience, but not boredom

Yes, birdwatching involves waiting. But waiting is not the same as being bored.

Waiting in birdwatching means staying alert, listening closely, and being present long enough for the world to reveal itself. That’s a skill many people have lost. We’re used to instant results, constant stimulation, and quick rewards. Birdwatching asks you to slow down and trust that attention will pay off.

And usually, it does.

## Why the misunderstanding matters

When people dismiss birdwatching as dull or overly niche, they miss the fact that it offers exactly what many of us are lacking: focus, calm, curiosity, and a deeper connection to the natural world.

It’s not a hobby for people who have nothing else going on. It’s a hobby for people who want to notice more, learn more, and feel more engaged with the world around them.

So yes, birdwatching may look like standing quietly in a field with binoculars. But it’s also science, exploration, mindfulness, and a little bit of obsession.

And honestly, that’s a pretty great combination.

If you want, I can write a second version of this post in a more personal, humorous, or persuasive style.


Prompt: Write a blog post with a title about why a hobby you love is misunderstood by most people.

Response:
# Why My Love of Solo Board Games Is So Often Misunderstood

When people hear that I love solo board games, they usually react with some version of the same question: “Why not just play a video game?” Or, “Isn’t the whole point of a board game to play with other people?”

It’s a fair question, I guess. On the surface, solo board gaming can seem redundant, even a little lonely. If a board game is designed for groups, why would anyone choose to sit alone with a table full of cards, tokens, dice, and rulebooks?

But that reaction is exactly why I think solo board games are misunderstood.

To a lot of people, “playing alone” sounds like settling for less. To me, it feels like choosing a different kind of joy altogether.

## It’s Not About Replacing People

The biggest misconception is that solo board gaming is a backup plan for people who can’t find friends to play with. That couldn’t be further from the truth.

I play solo because I like the experience itself. I like the quiet concentration, the sense of building a story from simple components, and the way a game can turn an ordinary evening into a little self-contained adventure. Sometimes I want competition, but not the social energy that comes with it. Sometimes I want challenge, but not conversation. Solo games give me that.

It’s less about absence and more about intention.

## The Experience Is More Immersive Than People Expect

A lot of people assume board games are only fun because of the social atmosphere. And yes, that part matters. But solo gaming has its own kind of immersion.

When I’m playing alone, I’m not distracted by table banter, timing issues, or group pacing. I can sink into the mechanics, the theme, and the choices in front of me. A good solo game creates a kind of tunnel vision in the best way. For an hour or two, the outside world falls away.

That’s something people often underestimate: solitude doesn’t always mean emptiness. Sometimes it means focus.

## There’s a Special Kind of Satisfaction in Doing It Yourself

One of the most rewarding things about solo board gaming is that every success feels personal. If I beat a scenario, solve a puzzle, or pull off a risky move, there’s no one else to credit or blame. The result is mine.

That can sound small, but it’s actually deeply satisfying. It’s a pure conversation between me and the game system. Did I make the right choice? Did I manage my resources well? Could I have seen that coming?

It’s humbling, too. Solo games have a way of exposing every weak decision you make. There’s nowhere to hide when you’re your own opponent.

## It’s Creative in a Way People Don’t Expect

People often think of board games as rigid and mechanical, but solo games frequently invite imagination in surprising ways.

A well-designed solo game becomes a storytelling engine. I’m not just moving pieces around; I’m imagining why a character is making certain decisions, what a failed roll means in the world of the game, or how a campaign evolves over time. The rules provide structure, but the story lives in the spaces between them.

In that sense, solo board gaming is a little like reading a book and writing one at the same time.

## The Misunderstanding Comes From Equating “Fun” With “Social”

I think a lot of the confusion around solo board games comes from how narrowly people define fun.

For many people, fun means laughter, noise, shared attention, and being around others. That’s a real and wonderful kind of fun. But it’s not the only kind.

There’s also fun in problem-solving, in discovery, in calm, in mastery, in ritual. There’s fun in making time for yourself and doing something purely because it delights you. Solo board games live in that space.

## Loving Something Misunderstood Makes It More Meaningful

Honestly, I don’t mind that solo board gaming gets weird looks. In a way, it makes the hobby feel more mine. I don’t have to defend it to everyone. I just have to enjoy it.

And maybe that’s true of a lot of hobbies people don’t understand. The things we love most are often the ones that don’t fit neatly into someone else’s idea of what’s normal or exciting.

That doesn’t make them lesser. It just makes them specific.

And specificity, I’ve found, is where real joy tends to live.

## Final Thought

Solo board games are misunderstood because they challenge the assumption that hobbies have to be social to be valuable. But not every good thing needs an audience. Sometimes the best experiences are the quiet ones—the ones where you sit down with a table, a rulebook, and your own imagination, and discover that you have everything you need.

If you want, I can also write this blog post about a different hobby, like knitting, gardening, gaming, birdwatching, or collecting vinyl records.


Prompt: Write a blog post with a title about why a hobby you love is misunderstood by most people.

Response:
# Why Knitting Is Far More Than “Just a Grandma Hobby”

People hear “knitting” and often picture something quaint, quiet, and a little outdated: scarves in winter, grandmothers in rocking chairs, and a hobby that belongs more to the past than the present. That perception misses almost everything that makes knitting meaningful.

Knitting is misunderstood because, from the outside, it looks simple, repetitive, and even old-fashioned. In reality, it is a deeply creative, surprisingly technical, and genuinely restorative hobby that deserves a lot more respect than it gets.

## It’s Not Passive at All

One of the biggest misconceptions about knitting is that it’s something you do when there’s “nothing else to do.” People imagine it as idle handwork, but knitting actually demands a lot of focus.

You’re counting stitches, following patterns, correcting mistakes, choosing yarn weight, understanding tension, and planning shape and structure. Even a basic project requires problem-solving. More advanced projects involve chart reading, stitch techniques, shaping, and design decisions.

A knitter isn’t just making fabric. They’re engineering it.

## It’s Creative in a Quiet Way

A lot of people think creativity has to be loud or obvious: painting, performing, writing, designing. Knitting is quieter than that, which may be why it’s overlooked. But it’s absolutely creative.

From yarn choice to color pairing to stitch texture, every project is full of artistic decisions. Two people can knit the same pattern and end up with completely different results because of their material choices and personal style.

There’s also something deeply satisfying about making something useful and beautiful at the same time. A knitted item isn’t just art for display. It becomes part of daily life.

## It Takes More Skill Than People Realize

To many outsiders, knitting looks like “just looping yarn.” That’s like saying cooking is just “heating ingredients.” The basics may be easy to describe, but skill comes from experience.

Good knitting depends on consistency, precision, and patience. You have to learn how different fibers behave, how stitches affect drape, how to fix errors, and how to translate an idea into a finished object. The more you learn, the more you realize how much there is to know.

That’s one reason knitters often say the hobby is endlessly rewarding: there is always another technique, another pattern, another challenge.

## It’s Good for the Mind

Knitting is one of those rare hobbies that can be both relaxing and mentally engaging. It gives your hands something to do while your brain stays lightly occupied. For many people, that balance is perfect.

It can help reduce stress, calm anxiety, and create a sense of rhythm during a hectic day. There’s comfort in repetition, in visible progress, and in the knowledge that you’re making something stitch by stitch.

And unlike a lot of digital hobbies, knitting leaves you with a real object at the end. That matters.

## It Connects People

Another thing people miss is how social knitting can be. Yes, it can be solitary and peaceful, but it also builds community. Knitting groups, online forums, yarn stores, and maker circles connect people across ages, backgrounds, and skill levels.

There’s a generous culture around helping others learn, sharing patterns, and celebrating finished projects. It’s a hobby full of quiet encouragement.

## The Real Reason It’s Misunderstood

At the heart of it, knitting is misunderstood because it doesn’t always look impressive from the outside. It’s slow. It’s subtle. It values patience over speed and craftsmanship over spectacle.

In a culture that often rewards instant results, knitting asks for something different: attention, care, and time. That may be exactly why it’s so valuable.

## Final Thoughts

Knitting isn’t boring, outdated, or trivial. It’s creative, practical, technical, and calming all at once. It teaches patience, sharpens problem-solving skills, and produces something tangible in a world that often feels too abstract.

So the next time someone dismisses knitting as “just a hobby,” remember this: it’s not just making scarves. It’s making art, solving problems, and building something beautiful one stitch at a time.

If you want, I can also write this in a more personal, funny, or opinionated blog style.


Prompt: Write a reddit post with a title telling the story of a project that seemed doomed but turned out well in the end.

Response:
**Title:** We almost scrapped the whole project at 2 a.m. on launch week… and somehow it became our best release yet

I still can’t believe this happened, so I figured I’d share it here.

About six months ago, my team started what was supposed to be a pretty straightforward project: a new internal tool that would save everyone time and replace a bunch of ugly spreadsheets and manual steps. Nothing flashy. Just something useful.

At first, everything looked fine. We had a decent plan, a reasonable timeline, and everyone seemed optimistic. Then reality showed up.

A few weeks in, the requirements started changing. A lot. One department wanted one workflow, another wanted the exact opposite, and the “quick approval” process somehow turned into five layers of sign-off. On top of that, our lead developer had to go out unexpectedly, and the person who stepped in was already buried in other work.

Then the bugs started piling up.

Not the fun, obvious kind either — the kind that only show up after three different systems talk to each other at once, right before a deadline, and only on one specific set of permissions. Every time we fixed one issue, two more popped up somewhere else. Testing took longer than building. Morale dropped. People started casually saying things like, “Maybe we should just postpone this,” which is corporate code for “this might be a disaster.”

The worst moment came during the final pre-launch review. We discovered a major flaw in the core logic that meant the tool wasn’t just buggy — it was actually producing incorrect outputs in one of the main workflows.

At that point, I’m pretty sure everyone thought the same thing: this project is dead.

We had a choice: cut our losses and delay it indefinitely, or make a last-ditch effort and see if we could rescue it. We ended up doing a crazy week-long sprint. Late nights, constant standups, whiteboard sessions full of scribbles, someone basically living off coffee and vending machine snacks. We simplified the workflow, cut two non-essential features, and rewrote the bad logic from scratch.

It was stressful and ugly, but it worked.

Launch day was still nerve-racking. We kept expecting something to explode. But it didn’t. The tool went live, the first users started giving feedback, and instead of getting complaints, we got messages like:

- “This saved me an hour already.”
- “This is way better than the spreadsheet.”
- “Can we expand this to our team too?”

A month later, usage was way higher than expected. It turned out the rough patches we hit early on forced us to strip out a lot of unnecessary complexity, which actually made the final product cleaner and easier to use. The “failed” version was probably better than the original plan.

So yeah — it looked doomed for most of the process, and honestly there were moments when I would’ve bet against it too. But it ended up being one of the most satisfying projects I’ve ever worked on.

Sometimes the thing that almost kills a project is also what makes it good in the end.

If anyone else has a story like that, I’d love to hear it.


Prompt: Write a reddit post with a title telling the story of a project that seemed doomed but turned out well in the end.

Response:
**Title:** From “This Project Is Dead” to “We Actually Shipped It”: A Small Victory I Needed

I just wanted to share this because for a while I was convinced I’d wasted months of my life.

A few months ago, I started working on a side project I was genuinely excited about. It was supposed to be a simple, useful app for organizing a very specific kind of workflow. Nothing revolutionary, but I thought it would be one of those “build it in a few weekends” kinds of projects.

That did not happen.

Pretty quickly, everything that could go wrong started going wrong:

- The original tech stack turned out to be a terrible fit.
- A core feature I built first ended up needing to be completely reworked.
- I underestimated how messy the data model would get.
- At one point, I accidentally broke my own database migration and had to restore from backup.
- Then the motivation just disappeared because every fix seemed to create two new problems.

I hit a point where I was basically convinced the project was doomed. Not just “this is hard,” but actually “this is never getting finished.” I stopped opening the repo for almost two weeks because I was tired of feeling stupid every time I looked at it.

But eventually, I came back to it and made one decision that changed everything: I stopped trying to save the original version.

Instead of clinging to the first plan, I stripped the project down to the one thing that actually mattered and rebuilt the rest around that. I deleted a bunch of code I had sunk a ton of time into. I simplified the UI. I changed the architecture. I removed features I thought were “necessary” but were really just making the whole thing heavier.

And somehow, that worked.

Once I stopped fighting the project and let it become smaller and more focused, the pieces started fitting together. Bugs were easier to track down. Progress became visible again. The app started doing the one thing it needed to do really well.

Last week, I finally deployed a usable version.

It’s not perfect. It’s not the original grand vision I had in my head. But it’s real, it works, and a few people have already started using it. The relief of going from “this is a disaster” to “wait, people actually like this” is hard to describe.

So I guess the moral is: sometimes a project isn’t doomed, it’s just bloated, overcomplicated, and in desperate need of a reset.

If you’re in the middle of something that feels like a total collapse, you might not need to quit. You might need to cut it down to the part that still matters.

Anyway, just wanted to share a small win. If anyone else has had a project that looked dead before it suddenly worked, I’d love to hear the story.


Prompt: Write a reddit post with a title telling the story of a project that seemed doomed but turned out well in the end.

Response:
**Title:** From “This Is Probably Dead” to “We Actually Pulled It Off” — a project that almost died, then somehow became our best launch

A few months ago, I was sure a project I’d been working on was going to fail.

It started as a pretty exciting idea: a small internal tool we thought we could build in a few weeks to solve a bunch of annoying workflow problems. Nothing flashy, just something that would save time and make everyone’s lives easier. At first, everything looked fine. We had a rough plan, the team was motivated, and management liked the idea.

Then reality showed up.

The first issue was scope creep. What was supposed to be a simple tool somehow turned into “can it also do this?” and “what if it integrates with that?” and “while you’re at it, could it also handle this edge case?” You know the drill. Every meeting added another requirement.

Then one of our key people got pulled onto a different project, which immediately left a gap we didn’t know how to fill. Right after that, we hit a technical problem that made part of the system basically unusable. On top of that, the original timeline was already too optimistic, and now we were behind.

For a while, morale was rough. People stopped talking about the project like it was a win and started talking about it like a liability. I honestly expected the whole thing to get cut. There were a few days where I thought, “Okay, this is the postmortem project. We’re just waiting for the official announcement.”

But instead of killing it, we stripped everything back.

We had one blunt meeting where we asked: “What is the smallest version of this that would still be useful?” That changed everything. We cut features hard. We dropped anything that wasn’t essential. We stopped trying to make it perfect and focused on making it work.

We also got lucky in one important way: a newer teammate who hadn’t been involved in the original chaos came in with a fresh perspective and pointed out a much simpler way to solve the biggest technical issue. It wasn’t the approach we originally wanted, but it was cleaner, faster, and actually more reliable.

From there, things slowly turned around. We rebuilt the core, tested the hell out of it, and set way more realistic deadlines. No more pretending we could finish impossible stuff in a week. We kept the updates honest, which helped a lot because people stopped expecting magic.

The final version wasn’t the giant all-in-one thing we initially imagined. It was smaller and narrower. But it worked. And more importantly, it solved the actual problem.

When we launched it, the reaction was way better than I expected. People used it immediately. A few teams said it saved them hours every week. One manager even told us, “I don’t care that it’s not as fancy as the original pitch — this is exactly what we needed.”

Looking back, I think the project survived because we eventually stopped trying to save the original plan and started trying to save the outcome.

So yeah — for a while it looked doomed, but by cutting the noise, simplifying the goal, and getting a little help from fresh eyes, we pulled it off.

Has anyone else had a project that looked completely dead halfway through, but somehow ended up being a success?


Prompt: Write a blog post with a title reflecting on how your relationship with technology has changed over the past decade.

Response:
# From Awe to Awareness: How My Relationship with Technology Has Changed Over the Last Decade

A decade ago, technology felt like a promise.

Every new app, device, or update seemed to open a door into a more convenient, more connected, more efficient life. I treated technology as something to admire, adopt, and trust. If it was faster, smarter, or more automated, I wanted it. I saw it as progress with very few downsides.

Now, ten years later, my relationship with technology is much more complicated—and, I think, much healthier.

## Then: Technology as Magic

In the beginning, I used to approach technology with genuine wonder. A smartphone felt revolutionary. Social media seemed like a direct line to everyone I knew. Cloud storage meant my files could follow me anywhere. Streaming made entertainment feel limitless.

I remember feeling excited by the idea that technology could remove friction from daily life. It could help me stay organized, find answers instantly, and connect with people across distance. It was easy to believe that more technology automatically meant a better life.

And in many ways, that was true. Technology solved real problems. It made work faster, communication easier, and access to information nearly universal. I’m still grateful for all of that.

But over time, something shifted.

## The Slow Realization

The same tools that made life easier also started to demand more of my attention.

I noticed how often I checked my phone without thinking. How quickly “just one notification” could become a ten-minute scroll. How the convenience of always being connected turned into a quiet expectation that I should always be available.

Technology stopped feeling like a tool I used and started feeling like an environment I lived in.

That was the turning point for me. I began to see that technology is never neutral in how it shapes behavior. It doesn’t just help us do things; it also nudges us toward certain habits, rhythms, and expectations. Some of those are useful. Others are draining.

## Now: Technology as a Choice

Today, I try to be more intentional.

I don’t want to live in reaction to every alert, trend, or platform update. I want to decide what earns my attention. That means being more selective about the apps I keep, the devices I use, and the amount of time I spend online. It also means asking better questions:

- Does this make my life meaningfully better?
- Or is it just making me more occupied?
- Is this helping me connect, create, or learn?
- Or is it just keeping me engaged?

I’ve learned that the best relationship with technology isn’t rejection. It’s boundaries.

I still use the tools that serve me. I still appreciate the convenience, the speed, and the access. But I no longer assume that every new piece of tech deserves a place in my life. I’ve become more skeptical of the idea that “new” is automatically “better.”

## What I Value More Now

The biggest change over the past decade is that I value depth more than novelty.

I care more about uninterrupted focus than constant connectivity. More about meaningful conversation than endless messaging. More about tools that disappear into the background than platforms that compete for attention.

That doesn’t mean I’ve become anti-technology. It means I’ve become pro-human.

I want technology to support my life, not dominate it. I want it to amplify my best habits, not fragment my time. I want it to help me build things, not simply consume them.

## Looking Ahead

I don’t think this relationship will ever stop changing. Technology will keep evolving, and so will the way we interact with it. New tools will bring new possibilities, but also new trade-offs.

What I hope I carry forward is a kind of calm awareness: the ability to appreciate technology without being captured by it.

A decade ago, I was fascinated by what technology could do.

Now I’m more interested in what it does to us—and in how we can use it more wisely.

That change has made all the difference.


Prompt: Write a blog post with a title reflecting on how your relationship with technology has changed over the past decade.

Response:
# From Curiosity to Dependence: How My Relationship with Technology Changed Over the Last Decade

A decade ago, technology felt exciting in a very specific way: it was something I reached for. I chose it, explored it, and felt a sense of novelty every time a new device, app, or feature entered my life. My phone was a tool. My laptop was a portal. Social media was mostly a place to connect, and the internet still felt large enough to get lost in.

Now, ten years later, technology is no longer something I simply use. It is woven into the structure of my days.

That shift has been subtle, but profound. What once felt like a collection of helpful tools has become an environment I live inside. And like any environment, it shapes my habits, attention, relationships, and even my sense of time.

## The early years: technology as possibility

Looking back, I remember the earlier version of my tech life as more deliberate. I logged on. I checked email. I opened apps. There was a clear start and stop to it all.

Technology felt empowering because it expanded what I could do. I could learn anything, communicate instantly, and organize my life with tools that were improving every year. The excitement came from possibility. Each new platform promised a smarter, faster, more connected version of myself.

I was optimistic about it, and mostly rightly so. Technology helped me study, work, create, and stay in touch with people far away. It made access easier. It removed barriers. It opened doors.

But back then, I still felt like the one making the choice.

## The middle years: technology as infrastructure

At some point, the relationship shifted. Technology stopped feeling optional and started feeling necessary.

It became the way I worked, the way I paid bills, the way I navigated unfamiliar places, the way I communicated, the way I scheduled, shopped, listened, watched, and even relaxed. Devices and apps were no longer occasional conveniences; they were the infrastructure of daily life.

That change brought real benefits. Everything became more efficient. I could collaborate with people across time zones, access information instantly, and automate tasks that once took hours. Technology gave back time in some places, even as it quietly consumed it in others.

The tradeoff was attention.

The same tools that made life easier also made it easier to fragment life into smaller and smaller pieces. I started noticing how often I checked my phone without meaning to. How quickly “one quick look” could turn into twenty minutes. How often I was present physically but elsewhere mentally, pulled by notifications, updates, or the possibility of something new.

Technology had become less like a tool I picked up and more like a current I was swimming in.

## The present: technology as a mirror

Today, I think the most important thing technology does is reveal my habits back to me.

It shows me what I value because it captures what I repeatedly choose. It shows me what distracts me because it is always ready to provide it. It shows me how impatient I’ve become, how attached to convenience, how often I prefer speed over depth.

In some ways, technology has made me more capable. In others, it has made me more scattered. It has connected me to people and ideas I would never have encountered otherwise, while also giving me endless ways to avoid silence, boredom, and stillness.

That’s the tension of modern tech life: it gives and it takes in the same motion.

I don’t think technology is the problem. I think unexamined dependence is.

The last decade has taught me that the healthiest relationship with technology is not rejection, but awareness. It means noticing when a tool is serving me and when it is steering me. It means choosing intentionality over reflex. It means remembering that convenience is not the same thing as fulfillment.

## What I’ve learned

If I could sum up the last ten years in one lesson, it would be this: technology is best when it expands my life, not when it replaces it.

The moments I value most now rarely happen on a screen. They happen when I’m fully with people, fully in a place, fully absorbed in something that doesn’t ask for constant response. And interestingly, technology often helps make those moments possible too — by simplifying the rest of life enough to create space for them.

So my relationship with technology hasn’t become more cynical over the past decade. It has become more careful.

I’m more grateful for what it can do, and more aware of what it can quietly take. I still love the possibilities it offers. I just no longer mistake novelty for progress.

The biggest change isn’t that I use technology more. It’s that I understand it better — and, maybe, understand myself a little better through it.

If the last decade was about learning to live with technology, the next one may be about learning how to live well alongside it.


Prompt: Write a blog post with a title reflecting on how your relationship with technology has changed over the past decade.

Response:
# From Tool to Companion: How My Relationship with Technology Has Changed Over the Last Decade

Ten years ago, technology felt simple to me. It was a set of useful tools: a phone to call people, a laptop to write papers, a search engine to answer questions, and apps to make life a little more efficient. I used technology deliberately, with a clear sense of when I needed it and when I didn’t.

Today, that relationship feels much more complicated.

Over the past decade, technology has moved from being something I used to something I live with. It’s become woven into nearly every part of my day: how I communicate, work, learn, shop, relax, and even think. That shift has brought real benefits, but it has also forced me to rethink what I want technology to be in my life.

## The Early Years: Technology as a Helpful Tool

At the beginning of the last decade, my relationship with technology was mostly practical. I appreciated what it could do, but I didn’t feel especially dependent on it.

My phone was for texting and the occasional call. My laptop was for school, then work. Social media existed, but it felt like one part of life rather than the center of it. If I wanted to know something, I’d search for it. If I wanted to listen to music, I’d put on a playlist. If I needed directions, I’d look them up before leaving.

Technology was useful, but it still felt optional in many situations.

There was also a certain calmness to that era. I wasn’t constantly reachable. I didn’t expect instant responses. I wasn’t carrying around a pocket-sized device that could pull me into work emails, breaking news, entertainment, and endless opinions all at once.

## The Middle Years: Convenience Becomes Dependence

Then technology got better, faster, and more personal. Smartphones became essential. Messaging became constant. Cloud services synced everything. Apps learned my habits. Algorithms began shaping what I saw, read, and watched.

At first, this felt amazing. Life got easier in obvious ways. I could work from anywhere, manage my schedule more efficiently, connect with people across distance, and access information instantly. I no longer had to plan as much around being offline.

But convenience has a way of quietly becoming expectation.

I started to notice how often I reached for my phone without thinking. I began checking notifications in moments of boredom, stress, or uncertainty. Technology wasn’t just helping me do things better; it was increasingly shaping how I spent my attention.

That was the moment I realized the relationship had changed. I was no longer simply using technology. I was responding to it.

## The Present: Gratitude, Frustration, and Caution

Now, I feel two things at once when I think about technology: gratitude and caution.

I’m genuinely grateful for what technology makes possible. It helps me stay connected to people I care about. It gives me access to learning, creativity, and opportunities that would have been hard to imagine a decade ago. It helps me navigate daily life with a level of ease that would have once seemed luxurious.

At the same time, I’m more aware of the costs.

Technology can fragment attention. It can encourage comparison. It can create the illusion of productivity while actually making it harder to focus. It can make rest feel less restful, because there’s always one more thing to read, answer, watch, or check.

The hardest part is that none of this is entirely accidental. Many of the products we use are designed to keep us engaged for as long as possible. That means I have to be intentional if I want technology to serve me rather than absorb me.

## Learning to Set Boundaries

One of the biggest changes over the past decade has been learning that a healthy relationship with technology requires boundaries.

For me, that has meant small but meaningful shifts:
- Keeping my phone out of reach during certain parts of the day
- Turning off nonessential notifications
- Taking breaks from social media
- Using technology with a clear purpose instead of defaulting to it
- Making room for offline time without feeling guilty about it

These habits don’t make me anti-technology. If anything, they make me more appreciative of it. When I choose when and how to use technology, it feels empowering again.

## Looking Ahead

If the past decade taught me anything, it’s that technology will keep evolving, whether I’m ready or not. The real question is not whether I’ll continue using it, but how I’ll choose to relate to it.

I don’t want technology to disappear from my life. I want it to be meaningful. Useful. Human-centered. Supportive of what matters most to me, rather than endlessly competing for my attention.

A decade ago, technology was a tool I carried. Now, it’s part of the environment I live in. That’s not inherently good or bad, but it does mean I need to be more thoughtful than ever about my relationship with it.

Maybe that’s the real lesson of the last ten years: technology should expand our lives, not quietly take them over.

And the more intentionally I engage with it, the more likely it is to stay what it was always meant to be—a tool in service of a life, not a substitute for one.