I Didn’t Realise I Was Escaping... Until I Scrolled for Three Years
At first, I didn’t know what to do with the stillness.
So, I cleaned. I rearranged cupboards, gave away old clothes, labelled pickle jars, and sorted spices by expiry date. My husband had just retired, so he kept himself busy too. He took long walks in the morning, read the newspaper page by page, folded it neatly, and moved on to watching news debates on TV. Sometimes he talked to me, sometimes he didn’t. And even when he did, the conversations stayed within the safety of headlines, pension schemes, or which ceiling fan needed servicing.
I started picking up my phone more often.
At first, it was just to check family WhatsApp groups. Someone would share a good morning image with a flower and a quote. Another would send a video of a baby dancing. I would smile, type “so cute,” and move on.
Then came the reels.
Short, loud, colourful windows into other people’s lives. Recipes I would never try. Makeup hacks I didn’t need. Memes about being a wife, being ignored, being over it. I laughed at them. I shared them. Sometimes, I even sent them to my husband. He would glance at the screen, let out a soft chuckle, and go back to his newspaper.
That became our only form of conversation. Sharing reels. A woman mimicking her lazy husband. A man struggling to get his wife’s attention. We sent these things to each other because they were easier than saying what we really felt.
In a strange way, those memes made me feel seen. Understood. As if someone out there, some stranger behind a screen, knew exactly what my days looked like.
But the truth is, I was alone.
Not alone in the dramatic, deserted island sort of way. But alone in the everyday. I cooked, I cleaned, I folded laundry. I looked at the door at 6:30 p.m. even though no one was coming home anymore. I kept my phone nearby because it was my only companion that talked back. And scrolling, it became a rhythm. Wake up, scroll. Sip chai, scroll. Watch something on TV, still scroll. Talk to my husband, then scroll when he wasn’t looking.
There were days I scrolled for six hours and couldn’t remember a single thing I saw.
I know I’m not the only one. I’ve seen other women in my building doing it too. On benches in the park, waiting outside beauty parlours, in the line at the grocery store. Heads down. Thumbs moving. We are all trying to feel connected, but no one is actually talking.
My closest friend moved to Canada five years ago. We don’t talk much anymore. We just exchange hearts on stories now. That’s what friendship has become—emojis and reactions, not words. And sometimes I wonder if anyone would notice if I stopped replying altogether.
But I do know this—scrolling has become the white noise that covers up the silence I don’t want to face. Because when I pause, when I look up, I see a husband I no longer really talk to, a home that doesn’t need me like it used to, and a woman I don’t fully recognize anymore.
I used to be someone’s whole world. Now I am someone who watches other people live their lives while sitting on a sofa.
But maybe awareness is a start.
Maybe if I can be honest with myself about the boredom, the grief of a life that’s changed, the fear of aging, the ache of not being needed then I can slowly, gently, start building something new.
Not for social media. Not for likes. But for me.
I don’t know what it looks like yet. I just know that scrolling is not the answer. It never was.
So I’ll ask you, whoever is reading this:
What are you escaping when you scroll?
And what are you hoping to find?
Maybe we won’t find the answers on our screens.
Maybe we’ll find them in the silence we’ve been trying so hard to avoid.
