The Convenience Trap

The other day I ordered groceries from my phone while brushing my teeth. A few swipes, a saved list, tap to confirm. The food arrived on my doorstep two hours later, and I barely remembered ordering it.

We call this progress. We call this convenience.

But I wonder—when did ease become the ultimate goal?

We’ve built a world designed to eliminate friction. One-click checkout. Predictive text. Same-day shipping. Skip the line. Save time. Auto-fill. Auto-play. Auto-pilot.

Everything is faster, simpler, more efficient—and somehow we feel more behind than ever.

Convenience promises us time, but rarely gives us presence.

Because here’s the quiet truth: removing effort doesn’t always add meaning. Sometimes it removes the very thing that makes an experience worth having.

We don’t remember the things that came easy. We remember the things we wrestled for. The meal we made from scratch. The letter we wrote by hand. The garden we planted that made us wait.

The more steps something takes, the more space it gives us to be human.

I’m not against efficiency. I’m grateful for technology. But I’ve started to notice how often I chase convenience out of habit, not need. I’ll pay extra to skip the process, skip the moment, skip the waiting—only to wonder why everything feels a little thinner.

We’ve made life smoother, but have we made it fuller?

Convenience has become a kind of virtue. If something is hard, we assume it's broken. If something takes time, we assume it’s outdated. If something requires us to be patient, we assume it’s inefficient.

But maybe friction isn’t failure. Maybe effort isn’t a flaw. Maybe some things are meant to be a little difficult—not to punish us, but to shape us.

Convenience removes the mountain. Meaning is often found in the climb.

I think of my grandmother sewing clothes without a pattern, her fingers worn and steady. Of my father fixing the same lawnmower engine year after year instead of replacing it. Of friends who bake bread not because it’s faster—but because it’s real.

None of it was convenient. All of it was meaningful.

We keep optimizing our lives, but for what? What are we saving all this time for, and why does it still feel like we never have enough?

Maybe we’re not meant to skip the process. Maybe the process is the point.

So yes, I’ll still order groceries. I’ll still be grateful for maps and timers and online forms. But I’ll also take the long way home sometimes. I’ll let the soup simmer a little longer. I’ll walk instead of scroll. I’ll lean into the spaces that take more effort but leave more memory.

Because the easiest way isn’t always the most human one.

And I don’t want to miss the life inside the effort.

—Everett

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