As I’ve gotten ready to launch Peace Culture Provisions, I’ve started noticing how often I reach for the shortcut. I know it’s a season, but I promised myself that if I was going to continue running a small business, it wasn’t always going to be this way.

We’ve been sold this idea of convenience: that once things are convenient enough, we will free up space in our lives to do the satisfying things.
But what if I told you that you’ve been overly convenienced? That’s what I’m starting to question for myself. Is efficiency taking the joy out of tasks that could otherwise be fulfilling?

We were told microwaves would save us time on cooking, that washing machines would take the labor out of doing laundry, and that AI could run our side hustles for us. But what are we actually doing with all the time we’ve “saved”? Are we actually using our extra time to spend with those we love? Or are we using that time to scroll and envy what other people have that we don’t? This may sound like an exaggeration to some, but I think for most it’s not. I am “most”, by the way.

And listen—I’m not anti-modern tools. I’m grateful for a lot of them. I’m not trying to go live in a cabin and churn my own butter (although honestly, some days that sounds amazing and I’d do it voluntarily).

But I keep coming back to this question:

If convenience really worked the way it promised, wouldn’t we all feel more rested and connected by now?

Instead, it’s like the extra minutes get swallowed whole. Not by love. Not by creativity. Not by deep friendships and long dinners and meaningful work.

By scrolling. By comparison. By that quiet little ache that shows up when you watch other people’s lives from a distance and call it “connection”.

I’ve done this so many times: someone pops into my head, like an old friend, a person I miss, someone I genuinely care about… and instead of reaching for them, I reach for information about them.

I check their socials. And then someone is asking for a snack in the background.

And it feels like I did something. It feels like I “checked in.”

But afterward I’m not more connected. I’m just slightly more aware or maybe updated on a highlight of life, at best. That’s the trick of convenience: it gives us the illusion of participation without the vulnerability of presence.

The long route asks more of us.

The long route is: write the letter.
Pull out a card. Find a pen that actually feels good in your hand. Let your handwriting be messy. Let your words be imperfect. Let it take ten minutes and feel a little longer than it “needs” to.

The long route is: invite them over even though your house is a wreck.

The long route is: the satisfaction of cooking your craving at home, which takes a little chopping and spice throwing.

The long route is: folding the laundry with a show on and letting it be a rhythm instead of a race.

The long route is: making your next gift by hand instead of outsourcing it to Target.

Not because you’re trying to prove something, but because sometimes convenience gets in the way of creativity. And it definitely gets in the way of intimacy.

It’s hard to make beauty when you’re always trying to eliminate friction.
It’s hard to build a real life when you’re always trying to optimize it.

And I keep thinking about money too (because this is the air we breathe): we’re told to automate everything so we can make money on autopilot, so we can finally live.

But how much is enough?

And if we do manage to replace all the work—what will we do with the hours we get back?

Will we love people better?
Will we make art?
Will we rest?

Or will we just fill the space with more noise?

I don’t think this is an exaggeration. I think it’s one of the most normal, unspoken problems of modern life: we keep trading the satisfying parts away, and then we wonder why everything feels thin.

So here’s my small invitation (for you and for me):

Take the long route on purpose this week.

When someone crosses your mind, don’t just check on them—reach for them.
Write the letter. Send the card. Leave the voice memo that’s a little awkward and rambly.
Let it be slow. Let it be methodical, and let it be human.

Because I’m starting to believe the long route isn’t the detour.

It’s the point, and it’s oh so satisfying.