The first time my granddaughter tried to explain the family group chat to me, I nodded politely, pretending the swiftness on her phone made any sense at all. She rattled off quick instructions, her fingers darting across the glass like small birds. To my eyes, the icons and pop-ups multiplied faster than I could follow.
Later that night, when things were quiet and the house had settled, I sat in the armchair with my phone and tried again. Slowly. It was not the first time I found myself retracing steps to understand something everyone else seemed to know by heart. There’s a particular humility in learning at this stage of life, especially when it comes to technology, and sometimes, a quiet pride, too.
Growing accustomed to new devices isn’t as tidy as the commercials suggest. Even small changes—an updated remote control, a doctor’s new patient portal, the altered layout of an online newspaper—can disrupt the gentle rhythms we form. Some days, it can feel as if the world keeps rearranging itself just as we’ve made peace with it. A friend once told me she unplugs her Wi-Fi every time it confuses her, hoping a bit of ‘rest’ will calm it down. We laughed, but there was wisdom in it: sometimes we all need a pause before things make sense again.
Over time, I’ve noticed I have my own routines for these moments. I keep a notebook with passwords that mean something only to me. My husband, more practical than sentimental, writes his on unlikely scraps of paper—one stuck inside a National Geographic from 1978. The pattern is familiar among my friends and neighbors. We invent our own ways to fit these new shapes into our old lives. It may not be efficient, as the technology folks say, but it works well enough for where we are.
There’s often talk of the digital divide, but what’s rarely mentioned is how much quiet ingenuity goes on in the margins. I’ve learned more from neighbors than any manual: how to silence an unexpected alarm, how to rescue a vanishing document, and tricks for resizing the font when tired eyes protest. People help each other in small, generous ways—the same way folks used to lend a wrench or offer advice on pruning roses. These new lessons feel oddly similar. They travel by word of mouth, through trust, and the kindness to explain without hurrying.
Not every piece of technology is a welcome guest. I still bristle at robocalls, and the voice assistants with their too-cheerful answers sometimes make me miss the satisfying clack of our old rotary phone. Yet, when my cousin’s grandson was hospitalized last winter, her tablet was a lifeline. She talked to him every day, saw his smile, and sent him photos. She told me afterward that seeing his small face on the screen was better than any letter, better even than a telephone call. In that moment, wires and circuits came closest to warmth.
Truth be told, some gadgets remain unopened. A digital picture frame, given by my son, sits in its box. Every now and then I think about setting it up, but there’s comfort in the familiar stillness of paper photographs. Maybe one day, when curiosity outweighs hesitation. For now, there’s no hurry.
The world won’t wait for us to catch up, but it rarely leaves us entirely behind. We discover our own paces, just as we always have. Technology, for better or worse, is only another piece of the household—a little unpredictable at times, but not impossible to live with. I can manage the basics now, most days. When I find myself lost again, I remember what my neighbor said: ‘Don’t be afraid to press buttons. That’s how you find what works.’
It’s a kind of truce we make, these familiar devices and us. Both changing, both holding traces of what came before. In their pale glow, sometimes there’s confusion, sometimes a laugh, and sometimes a quiet sense of belonging, threaded through all the updates and forgotten passwords. That feels like enough.
