...And Other Stories We Tell Ourselves to Avoid the Truth

There’s a moment—between the endless scroll and the subtle ache of reality—where your finger hovers over “Add to Cart.” You’re not even sure why. You’re not bored. You’re not hungry. You’re just reaching. For something. For anything that feels like control.

That’s not weakness. That’s design.

We’ve been conditioned—expertly, systematically—to consume our way through discomfort. To solve emotional weight with next-day delivery. To quiet the rising panic of the world with a little dopamine hit from a doorstep package. Capitalism has trained us to soothe existential dread with a checkout page and a branded box.

This article isn't just for consumers (which is all of us). It's for the exhausted parent adding things to cart at midnight. For the activist burned out and looking for a reprieve. For the well-meaning friend who reposts headlines but hasn't yet learned how to sit in their own discontent. For the ones who scroll and feel the ache, but don't know where to place it.

Retail therapy, they call it. But it’s not therapy. It’s anesthesia. And it keeps us from the harder, more meaningful work: witnessing our own lives.

Because that moment you’re trying to numb? That grief, that dread, that what-the-hell-is-happening feeling? It’s telling you something. It’s not a glitch. It’s a signal. One that deserves to be heard.

And yet, in America especially, we’ve been sold the idea that personal struggle is a branding problem. That sadness is a failure of optimism. That if we just hustle harder, meditate more, or invest in better skin care, we can sidestep the deep work of grief, honesty, and reckoning. Especially when it comes to what’s happening around us politically, economically, environmentally.

We’re in a moment where the world is shifting beneath us. Tariffs. War. Political fragility. Climate collapse. Cultural fatigue. It’s not your imagination—things are heavier. And what we do in that weight matters.

This isn't about shame. This is about returning to the human instinct that discomfort is information, not a failure. That somewhere in the stillness of that discomfort lives clarity—not the polished kind sold in productivity journals, but the ancient kind spoken of by philosophers like Epictetus and Simone Weil. The kind that reminds us: between stimulus and response, there is a space. And in that space lies our power to choose. Our freedom. Our presence. Our truth.

So what might it look like to honor that space? To not rush to escape the feeling—but to sit beside it. To name it. To ask what it needs, instead of what it can be replaced with.

It might look like turning off the feed and taking a walk. Like making tea and breathing through a moment of overwhelm. Like writing a note instead of placing an order.

It might look like silence. Or stillness. Or staying awake.

Because the truth is: the world is too much right now. That’s not just okay to admit—it’s essential. It means you’re still tuned in. Still human.

The opportunity isn’t in perfection or purity. It’s in practice.

To begin again. To notice when we’re avoiding something real. To pause, listen, and ask: What am I really reaching for?

This is the work of waking up. Of being alive to more than just the algorithm. Of choosing to belong to a world that needs our attention more than our transactions.

Let that be your invitation. Let that be enough.

T.M.