The Lost Art of Not Being Available

There used to be a magic to being offline. A kind of sacred disconnection. When someone said they were “offline,” it didn’t mean they were on airplane Wi-Fi or set to Do Not Disturb. It meant they were gone. Unreachable. In their own world, or maybe someone else’s. Out fishing. On a bike ride. At dinner, on purpose. A little bubble of space where no one expected a reply.

Now “offline” is more of a costume. A mode we toggle. Something performative. We go “off-grid” by announcing it on social media and scheduling auto-replies that assure people we’ll be right back. It’s less of an escape and more of a branding strategy. I don’t blame anyone. I do it too. But I remember when it was quieter.

Back then, the absence of a signal was the signal. There wasn’t a shadow version of ourselves still posting, liking, scrolling. We weren’t attending meetings while hiking or checking Slack during a beach sunset. No push notifications. No status indicators. No little green dots judging our availability.

“Offline” used to feel like holding your breath under the surface of a pool, knowing no one could reach you, and loving that. Now it feels like forgetting to answer a text and worrying that someone thinks you’re mad at them.

I don’t want to disappear forever. But I miss the kind of disappearing that didn’t need a status update. I miss when being offline wasn’t just rare. It was real.