Sometimes, I think about how we didn’t even have a computer in the house when my first child was born. I didn’t have a smartphone until 20 years later, when my ninth was born. And even then, I had a personal rule to never hold it when I was holding her.
So, when did it happen? When did I become a distracted mother who needed to tear my eyes from the screen when they wanted my attention? And when did the pressing needs of a world on fire compete so loudly for space in my brain? When did angry strangers online begin to squeeze my heart?
We are educated by our intimacies, shaped by our friendships and forever changed by what we see on our phones.
What we consume does not pass through us untouched; it stays and teaches us how to live.
We tend to think of consumption as harmless — something we can take in and move past unchanged. A post here. A clip there. A few minutes of scrolling while we wait in line or wind down at night. But the truth is more sobering: what we repeatedly welcome into our minds and hearts does not remain external. It forms us.
Right now, much of our culture is on fire with rage. Social media platforms reward outrage, mockery and contempt. Algorithms elevate the most inflammatory voices, not because they are wise or true, but because they keep us hooked. Rage-bait travels faster than nuance. Fear spreads more efficiently than hope.
And we are not just observers of this cultural exchange. We participate in it. We like to imagine that scrolling is harmless — something we do in small pockets of time between email and dinner prep. But the numbers tell another story. In recent data, Americans spend more than five hours a day on their phones — some report upwards of 10 hours — unlocking them more than 150 times daily and scrolling without noticing the minutes disappear.
Each time we consume content designed to provoke anger — each time we rehearse arguments in our heads, sharpen our sarcasm, or feel that familiar spike of indignation — we are being trained. Not informed. Trained. Rewired. Our nervous systems learn to stay activated. Our imaginations grow suspicious. Our inner lives become noisy and reactive.
This has consequences.
Psychologically, constant exposure to outrage erodes our capacity for calm attention. It increases anxiety, fuels rumination and makes it harder to think clearly or compassionately. Spiritually, it does something even more subtle: it forms us away from reverence. Away from humility. Away from the slow, patient work of charity.
The spiritual life requires a certain interior spaciousness — a capacity to listen, to discern, to receive. Rage collapses that space. It narrows us. It trains us to see enemies everywhere and reduces complex human beings to symbols and slogans. Over time, we may find that prayer feels harder, silence more uncomfortable, and mercy less instinctive. Remember that as someone is goading you to participate in online outrage in the name of mercy. You are being formed by constant streams of negativity. Don’t expect that formation to strengthen virtue.
Formation is happening all the time.
What we consume does not pass through us untouched; it stays and teaches us how to live.
So, what is the alternative?
The answer is not withdrawal from the world, nor denial of real injustice or suffering. The alternative is intentional attention. Choosing what we allow to shape us. Practicing discernment not only about what we believe, but about what we repeatedly behold.
We can choose to consume what enlarges the soul rather than constricts it: thoughtful writing instead of reactionary commentary; conversation instead of combat; silence instead of constant stimulation. We can return to Scripture, to prayer, to good books, to beauty, to the voices that tell the truth without inflaming our fear.
We can also practice restraint — not every provocation deserves our response, and not every argument deserves our energy.
This is not passivity. It is stewardship of the mind and heart.
In a culture that profits from our agitation, choosing peace is quietly radical. Guarding our interior life is not escapism; it is preparation. Because the people who will heal a burning world are not the most enraged ones — but the most well-formed.
And formation begins with what we choose to welcome, day after day.
Foss, whose website is takeupandread.org, writes from Connecticut.
