If a child grows up to be kind, healthy, responsible, self-sufficient, and decent—but not wealthy—has the sacrifice failed? Most people would instinctively say no. Yet many families behave as though the answer is yes. Not openly, of course. No parent sits their child down and says, "I didn't raise you to be happy. I raised you to be rich." But expectations have a way of revealing themselves. In comparisons with more successful relatives. In questions about promotions, land, and home ownership. In the disappointment that hangs in the air when a child is doing well enough to survive but not well enough to transform the family's fortunes. And perhaps nowhere is this tension more visible than in Kenya, where sacrifice is often treated as the highest form of love. Parents sacrifice for their children. Older siblings sacrifice for younger siblings. Entire generations sacrifice in the hope that the next one will live better. But what happens when sacrifice quietly becomes an...
Our attention is finite, yet we spend it everywhere but where it matters.
This is not a moral failure. It is a structural one.
Attention economics is the idea that in a world overflowing with information, human attention becomes the scarce resource. Whoever captures it, holds power. Over time, this has reshaped not just markets, but inner lives. What we notice. What we ignore. What we can tolerate. What we can no longer sit with.
For a long time, people warned that television would rot our brains. In hindsight, television looks almost generous. A show required you to stay for forty minutes. A film asked for two hours. A detective story invited you to notice details, to remember names, to hold multiple threads in your mind at once.
You watched. You followed. You waited.
Listening to music meant staying long enough to learn lyrics. Reading meant sitting with confusion until meaning arrived. Writing a poem meant wrestling with language, not skimming it. Even boredom had a purpose—it stretched into imagination.
None of this made one morally superior. It simply trained a different kind of attention.
Today, much of what competes for us does the opposite. Short clips. Endless scrolls. Constant novelty. Content optimized not for understanding, but for interruption. Not for completion, but for movement.
One second. One clip. One thought. Gone.
This does not make us shallow people. It makes us people trained for speed.
And training matters.
Different forms of attention cultivate different capacities. Quick content sharpens reaction, humor, pattern recognition. Sustained attention builds patience, memory, depth, intimacy. The problem is not that one exists, but that we now live almost entirely inside the former.
When one kind of attention dominates, other capacities quietly weaken.
We often believe we choose what we give our attention to. But increasingly, that choice is curated. Algorithms decide what rises. Metrics decide what spreads. Loudness is mistaken for importance. Urgency replaces meaning. What is subtle, slow, or demanding sinks out of sight.
Over time, this changes us.
We begin to feel restless in stillness. Guilty when reading slowly. Impatient with conversations that do not immediately entertain. Silence feels awkward. Depth feels like effort rather than nourishment.
Not because it is inherently difficult—but because we are no longer practiced in it.
This is the hidden cost of attention economics. It does not steal intelligence or creativity. It erodes continuity. The ability to stay. With a thought. With a feeling. With a person. With ourselves.
It explains a particular modern exhaustion: being constantly stimulated yet deeply unsatisfied. Busy but strangely absent. Engaged everywhere, anchored nowhere.
Attention that never settles struggles to produce meaning.
And yet, naming this loss does not require panic or nostalgia. The question is not whether one activity is better than another. It is whether we are giving ourselves room to practice more than one way of being attentive.
To let a story unfold without interruption.
To finish a song without skipping.
To remain in a conversation without reaching for an escape.
To allow boredom to ripen into curiosity.
Attention is not just about productivity. It is about presence. About the quality of experience we are capable of having. About what—and who—we are able to hold.
There are things we do not grieve, because we learned to live without them too early. Sustained attention may be one of them.
Still, nothing here is lost forever. Capacities neglected are not erased; they are dormant. They return quietly when invited. When we choose, occasionally, to stay.
Not to optimize.
Not to perform.
Just to be with what is in front of us.
Our attention is finite.
And what we repeatedly give it to—slowly, faithfully—becomes our life
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