I still scroll for affirmation... when the silence gets too loud

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Even now, with all this clarity, with all this stillness I speak of, I still have days where I scroll for affirmation instead of sitting in silence.

I know the silence well.
It’s spacious. Alive. Real.
It’s where I remember who I am.

But some days… it’s too much.

Some days I’d rather check how a post performed than check in with my breath.
Some days I seek the flicker of a heart instead of feeling my own.

Let's be honest.
I don’t reach for my phone because I'm bored.
I reach because I'm scared.

Scared of the stillness.
Scared of the space between one thought and the next.
Scared of what I might find if I actually stopped running.

It’s the almost that seduces me.

The almost-enoughness of being seen.
The almost-intimacy of likes.
The almost-truth of a well-crafted insight that gets shared — even if I wasn’t fully inside it when I wrote it.

I know this because I still do it.

Even after all the unlearning.
Even after all the clarity I write about.
Even after telling people — like I’m telling you — that presence is the point.

Sometimes I still reach for my phone like it’s a lifeboat.

And here’s the worst part:
It works.
For a moment.

The scroll sedates.
The likes applaud.
The feed reminds me who I’m supposed to be — a well-crafted version of me that performs it without needing to live it.

And then I close the app… and silence is still waiting.
But now, it’s heavier.

You want to know the truth?

We don’t want healing.
We want relief.

Relief from the ache.
Relief from the self-doubt.
Relief from the question you’ve been dodging for years:

That mask? I still wear it sometimes.

Scrolling is easy.
Sitting is excruciating.

Because stillness doesn't flatter you.
It confronts you. It doesn’t tell you who you are.
It shows you everything you're avoiding.

And that is a kind of violence to the ego — a gentle, sacred dismantling of everything that earned you praise.

We don’t scroll because we’re weak.
We scroll because we’ve been conditioned to believe silence means failure.
Stillness has no status.
Reflection has no metrics.
Peace has no exclusive guest list.

Platforms aren’t designed to nourish — they’re built to extract. Your hunger is their profit.

So you keep refreshing.
They keep winning.
And your soul keeps waiting.

On the days I don’t scroll, I shake.
Not always on the outside... but inside, something resists.
It wants to fill the space.
With thought. With noise. With usefulness.

But usefulness is not aliveness.

And sometimes, the most radical thing I can do is let myself be utterly useless for five minutes.

The paradox is this:
I know better.
I’ve burned the armour.
I’ve stopped chasing the sun.

But I haven’t fully stopped refreshing.
And maybe that’s okay.

Maybe part of clarity is knowing that even the old habits still live in the corners... they just don’t run the show anymore.

What do you do when silence gets too loud?​
Do you check email?
Open the fridge?
Rehearse a future version of yourself so impressive it earns your own approval?

Do you reach for the scroll?

Some days, I sit anyway.
Some days, I don’t.
But on the days I pause long enough to feel what I was trying to avoid…

It’s never a monster.
It’s usually a child.
Lonely. Tender. Wanting to be held.

So here’s what I do — when I remember:​
Before I reach for the scroll, I stop.
I place the phone down.
I breathe.
I ask: “What am I really looking for?”​
And if I’m honest, it’s never a number or a comment.
It’s connection.
It’s reassurance.
It’s to feel real.

Sometimes, that question is enough.
Sometimes it’s not.
But even asking it… loosens the grip.

Pause and reflect…​
What do you reach for when silence gets too loud?
What’s the feeling underneath that habit?
What might shift if you simply stayed with it — just once?

So here’s the invitation.
Not a practice.
A dare.

Go five minutes without your crutch.​
No phone. No feed. No fixing.
Sit in the unfiltered now and ask:

What part of me doesn’t want to be here?

Wait for the answer.
Let it sting.

And then... do nothing with it.

Let the discomfort stretch you.

That’s how silence becomes a teacher, instead of a threat.

No conclusion.
No tidy arc.
Just this:

And maybe that’s the whole point.
Zaheer

P.S. If this hit somewhere tender, hit reply. You don't have to face this alone.
​P.P.S. If you missed my letter from last week, read it here: What are you chasing?​

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