Shortly after being booted from the house for the day, commandeering my bicycle, and setting forth on my daily adventure as a child into the world, I was full of wonder. Inhaling the fragrance of honeysuckles that lined the pasture fences along the Texas road. The smell of the morning. A vast array of scents that, to this day, will trigger memories at unexpected moments. Wonder has a way of imprinting itself deep.
As children, we were wide open. Empty canvases waiting to be painted. We didn’t need to manufacture awe. It was everywhere, waiting to be stumbled upon. Every interaction, every experience was molding our minds. Our surroundings, our home lives, the choices we made in those long unscheduled hours. That was what shaped us. A time when a quick drink from a neighbor’s garden hose was not only quenching your thirst but renewing your spirit for further adventures.
Wonder doesn’t require much. It just requires space.
Happening upon a pond one afternoon, my friends and I found a gutted, half-sunk pontoon boat. Most would see tragedy, neglect, or simply…a wreck. We saw adventure. An opportunity to shed our shoes and shirts, swim out to it, and take back the vessel from its demise and decay. That is wonder. Looking at something broken and seeing what it could still be. Days seemed endless. Time seemed forever.
Then we grow into adulthood. Years that are awkward and strange, full of hormonal changes and life experiences nobody warned you about. Wonder doesn’t disappear in those years, but it starts to compete for space.
Growing up in the ’80s and early ’90s, we were the Last of the Mohicans of a generation. One that technology did not control or dominate. Cell phones existed, yet they were archaic and not a staple of daily life. Computers existed but were not in every household, business, or school. News came from newspapers and the stoic, serious faces of older men on evening broadcasts. There was outrage and propaganda, but it lived in the crevices. It was not the ambient noise of every waking hour.
Wonder still had room to breathe back then.
As young adults, we gathered socially and spoke to one another. Shook hands, hugged, and conversed. There were no handheld devices commanding our attention at every waking moment. We gave a quick wave to a passerby in another vehicle, a simple gesture that said, Good day, fellow human. We held doors open. Said excuse me, thank you, you’re welcome. Gave respect before it was earned, because that was simply how it was done. Quiet moments brought clarity. To subjects, to thoughts, to feelings. Experiences were visceral. Our attention spans could settle in deep and stay without needing to be entertained.
That stillness was wonder doing its work.
Then, slowly, it began to die.
Social media turned devices from tools into masters. What began as a way to stay connected became an engine of addiction, dopamine loops designed not to satisfy but to keep us hungry. Doomscrolling. Constant stimulation. The only way to feel alive somehow became consuming content from a screen, every waking moment, visually and audibly. But wonder needs patience. It needs silence. It needs the willingness to sit with a question before reaching for an answer. The algorithm offers none of that. It answers before you’ve had the chance to be curious. Fills the silence before you’ve had the chance to feel it.
What’s left is numbness dressed up as comfort. Life built around efficiency instead of quality. Broadcasting instead of experiencing. Being seen instead of truly seeing.
We traded the smell of honeysuckle for the blue glow of a notification.
And somewhere in that trade, wonder went quiet.
This isn’t a condemnation of technology. The irony of publishing these words online is not lost on me. The tools we have are remarkable. But a tool is only as good as the hands holding it, and the intention behind those hands. The question isn’t whether we can go back. We can’t, and maybe we shouldn’t want to. The real question is whether we’re willing to make room for wonder again.
Because it isn’t gone. It’s just waiting.
Put the phone down and take a walk with no destination. Sit with your coffee before the screen comes on. Look up when you’re out in the world. Talk to a stranger for no reason other than they’re there. Notice the smell of rain. Let your mind go somewhere without dragging it back. Hold a door. Mean it when you say thank you.
None of that is grand. It’s just a decision, made over and over, small enough to keep. And something happens when you make it. That wide-open feeling starts coming back.
Slowly.
Quietly.
Like a bicycle rolling down a Texas road in the morning, no particular place to be, everything still ahead.
We were full of wonder once. We still are…underneath it all. The only question is whether we’re willing to put down what’s killing it long enough to remember.