There was a version of me who could lose entire afternoons to reading; I used to find such reward in spending hours consumed by a book. But that version of me feels long gone. That depth feels out of reach now. I can’t imagine my scattered attention ever bringing me back to that joy, that mindfulness. But I miss that version of me dearly.
These days I feel like my attention has been hijacked. I’ve struggled with the idea that my screen addiction is entirely my fault. Yes, I bear some responsibility for my habits. But when I learn about the deliberate design tactics social media companies use to capture and hold our attention, the scale of it shifts the entire frame of responsibility, and it demands a deeper understanding of what we’re actually up against.
These platforms have engineered themselves to be irresistible. I can’t look away, even when I want to. My news comes from social media now. My sense of what’s happening in the world comes from daily scrolling.
Don’t get me wrong. I’ve always loved being chronically online, diving deep into rabbit holes and exposing myself to new realms of knowledge. But there was a time when I controlled where my attention went. But now the algorithm decides for me, slowly and softly influencing my lifestyle choices, what I wear, what I read, what I shop, what I consume and even how I react.
What unsettles me most is that many of us haven’t even realised this shift has happened. Now everything is pushed at us, algorithmically selected, inescapable. Even the things we actively don’t want. So yes, our attention has been hijacked. And, I am not alone. Many of us are mourning an older self that could sustain deep attention.
Writer and journalist Johann Hari explored this crisis deeply in his book Stolen Focus: Why You Can’t Pay Attention. To understand what was happening to our attention, he interviewed psychologists and scientists who study it for a living.
In his book, he writes that we may be living in what one leading researcher calls “an attentional pathogenic culture” — an environment designed to fracture our focus. He then goes on a spiritual journey to reclaim his attention. He commits to a digital detox, heeds the experts he interviews, does one thing at a time; his attention nearly mends. The combination of monotasking, putting away distractions, and clear stopping points creates long stretches of attention absorption he hasn’t felt in years, he shares. The fog lifts enough that his attention feels nearly whole.
His findings are validating and sobering. There are pervasive systems fracturing our attention but we still have the capacity to regain and rebuild some of our attention.
Recognising the problem simply doesn’t solve it, but it does open the door to doing something about it. We can’t dismantle these invisible systems overnight, but we can build small practices that protect our attention and wellbeing — rituals that create breathing room between what’s important and what’s merely distraction.
And I’ve realised that protecting my attention isn’t separate from protecting my wellbeing; they’re deeply intertwined. Lately, I have been creating small rituals for attention hygiene: using an analog timer to track focused work, leaving my phone in another room, journaling for just a bit longer than yesterday. I think of it as similar to personal hygiene–basic maintenance for a mind constantly under siege.
Some days I fail. The pull remains strong — my hand reaches for my phone without thinking, chasing a dopamine hit that fades as quickly as it arrives. It’s a vicious cycle that has rewired our brains. Still, I try to create friction between myself and distraction, to carve out space for sustained focus.
But I am trying to resist in the small ways I can because I have come to realise that attention is the lever that moves my life. What I notice becomes what I think, what I think becomes what I choose, what I choose becomes who I am.
We live in a digital world engineered to capture our attention and profit from our engagement. I feel compelled to guard my attention because it creates space for depth, for flow, for genuine joy. These rituals are my way of reclaiming a mindful life — one that belongs to me, not to algorithms.