When the recent Air India crash happened, I was at the movies. It had been over an hour since the incident by the time we stepped out. My dad checked his phone and told us. The moment I heard it was in Ahmedabad, my first instinct was to check on a close friend who lives there.

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I messaged him. No reply.

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I knew where he lived, so I checked how far his neighbourhood was from the crash site. Thankfully, not close. But what if he’d been out? My chest tightened. 

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And then his message came. 

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He was fine. 

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I exhaled.

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The ride back home was filled with images and videos, wreckage, grief, families in disbelief. My family scrolled, murmuring prayers. Over the next few days, my feed filled with condolences, candle emojis, black screens. 

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And yet, beyond those minutes of anxiety, I felt nothing. 

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Just relief, and then stillness.

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Why didn’t I care more ? 

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Was it because it didn’t touch me directly? Is that what it takes now, for something to feel real? If my friend hadn’t lived in Ahmedabad, would this crash have been just another headline?

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I even asked my family. Why didn’t I react the way they did? Why did my own numbness disturb me more than the tragedy itself? 

They said I’ve always been a little detached. Apathetic.

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But I don’t think that’s true. 

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I know I care. I’ve cried over strangers’ stories. I've felt empathy crack through me in unexpected places. 

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Maybe not always, maybe not for everyone. But I’ve felt it. I’m not cold. I know I’m capable of empathy.

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So why not this time?

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I keep circling back to one uncomfortable thought:
If my friend hadn’t lived in Ahmedabad, would this crash have been just another headline to me?

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And if the answer is yes, what does it say about me?

What does that say about the way we experience grief in this age?

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We wake up to heartbreak. 

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Doomscroll through disaster.

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Eat dinner while watching someone else’s worst day unfold.

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There’s always something new, another tragedy, another headline, another wave of people saying “thoughts and prayers” before the feed refreshes and it’s gone.

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We live in the age of abundance.

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Not of joy or peace, but of information. Of noise. Of stories. Images. Loss.

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There is so much of everything, all the time, that nothing sticks.

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I wake up to my phone lighting up, news alerts, Instagram stories, WhatsApp forwards.

One second it’s a meme, the next, breaking news. A reel that makes me laugh, one that breaks my heart, another that leaves me numb. Each one fighting for my attention. Each one interrupting the last.

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Skincare tips. Celebrity edits. Wedding reels. War updates. A productivity hack. A dog video. A suicide note posted as a carousel. A political rant. A murder case. A girl dancing. Someone being cancelled.A warzone reel where both sides are shouting to be heard, both begging for empathy, both drowning in the noise.

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Even what’s meant to inspire me feels too polished, too constant, too much.

Every swipe delivers something new, again, and again, and again.

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It never ends.

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There’s no pause.

No moment to sit with something long enough for it to truly affect me.

No time to even decide what’s worth feeling anymore.

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We live in a culture of instant gratification.

Even the way we consume art has become a race.

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I have subscriptions to three, four, sometimes five different platforms. New shows, films, interviews, drops every week. But in just four days, I’ve already watched whatever seemed interesting. And suddenly I’m left thinking: Why isn’t there more?

It’s absurd. With so many creators in the world, I still find myself wondering why no one’s making something for me right now.

That’s the thing though, there is something. Not just something, but everything.

There are endless options tailored to every mood, sad, angry, nostalgic, anxious, bored. It’s all available, all the time.

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And still, I reach for the next thing before the last one even lands.

I want to be moved,but not if it takes effort.

I want meaning, but I want it condensed, captioned, and 30 seconds long.

I want art, but I want it now.

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Even with music, it’s the same story.

I’ll admit it, my taste is all over the place, and yes, a lot of the songs I enjoy now, I first heard on reels. And they’re good. Genuinely good. I hear a melody in the background of a video, I look it up, I play it on loop. It hits something in me. I think to myself: This one’s going to stay. There’s no way I could ever get tired of this.

But fast-forward a few days and suddenly, just the thought of that tune irritates me. It plays in my head like static.

What once felt like a soundtrack to a moment starts to feel like noise.

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It’s not the song’s fault.

It’s the speed at which I’ve consumed it. Played it to death, paired it with too many images, memories, moods, scrolls.

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It’s not that we don’t care.

It’s that we don’t know how to care this much, this constantly.

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Empathy has become a resource we ration, reserved for what hits closest to home.

We’re flooded with emotion, yet emotionally parched.

We feel everything and nothing at once.

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And maybe that’s not failure.

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Maybe it’s survival.

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Just today, I watched one reel about the upcoming F1 movie, and that was enough. 

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Suddenly, I was knee-deep in back-to-back edits of Brad Pitt and Damson Idris, clips of Tate McRae singing “Just Keep Watching”, influencers attending F1 events like it was the Met Gala, and videos of people recreating the experience by go-karting in their local tracks. There was Nicole Scherzinger and her relationship with Lewis Hamilton, a viral meme of a kid yelling “Leclerc!” followed by Camila Cabello doing a staged recreation of it.

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Then came the “tea” reels about Simone Ashley’s role in the movie, speculation on her screen time, her outfits, the narrative arc of her fashion goals during the promo tour and influencers making F1-inspired outfits. I saw the cast unboxing Labubu dolls, which don't even get me started on. I still don’t understand what they are, how they became popular, or why people are so quick to hop onto trends that don’t even make sense anymore.

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It’s bad enough they exist, these oddly shaped, borderline disturbing dolls, but now there are fake versions too. And no, they’re not cute. They’re creepy as hell.

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And somewhere in the middle of all this, a thought lodged itself into my head:

Maybe attending an F1 race should go on my bucket list.

Why? I don’t know. Because it looks cool? Because everyone seems to be there?

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Here’s the thing, I know nothing about F1. Except, as of today, that the drivers have unusually thick necks, and that a single kilogram difference in weight can cost them two seconds, which can change the entire race. 

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Oh, and that WAGs are now a keyword in my algorithm.

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Meanwhile, my actual, never-ending, productive to-do list sits untouched.

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I’m comparing my life, not just with peers, but with Priyanka Chopra and Millie Bobby Brown.

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Yes, I know how that sounds.

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Priyanka is 42. A global icon. Actress, producer, author, mother, ambassador.

And I’m 22. Still figuring things out. Still deciding which of my many dreams I want to chase first.

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And yet, some part of me whispers:

You’re already behind.

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So I take someone my own age, Millie Bobby Brown. She’s what, 20? She’s acted, produced, launched a brand, written a book, owns a farm, is married, rescues animals, and somehow lives it all with ease.

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And there’s me. With my open tabs and restless dreams.

Already feeling too late to the race.

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The worst part is, I know.

I know it’s curated.

Filtered. Cropped. Staged.

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I know that behind every perfect photo is a mess just out of frame.

I know people often post when they’re not okay, to feel seen, to be reminded their life looks good even when it doesn’t feel that way.

And still, I fall for it.

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Still, I scroll through story after story and compare my reality to someone else’s highlight reel.

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Still, I feel like I’m missing out.

On the experiences I should be having.

On the person I should already be.

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Call it what it is: FOMO.

Even when I know it’s not real, I feel it.

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And maybe that’s what social media has really done to us.

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It’s desensitised us not just to tragedy or joy, but to truth.

To reality.

To our own pace.

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It blurs the line between wanting a life that’s meaningful and wanting a life that just looks good in a 15-second clip.

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Even as I live this life, one I genuinely like, with things I care about,I feel it creeping in.

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I love photography. I love that I write. I enjoy the places I go, the people I’m with, the experiences I collect along the way. And yet, the moment I take a picture or share a post, something shifts.

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It stops being a memory.

It stops being art.

It becomes content.

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Just another square on a grid. A cool post for a moment, until the likes slow down, the story expires, and it fades into the background like a dusty book on a forgotten shelf.

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And that’s what hurts most, maybe that even the parts of me that feel most alive get diluted. Curated. Measured. Consumed.

Not because I don’t value them, but because somewhere along the way, I started viewing my life through the lens of how it’ll be received.

Not how it felt, but how it looks.

Not what it meant to me, but how long it will trend.

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I don’t usually take political stances publicly.

Not out of indifference, but uncertainty. I’m still learning. Still questioning.

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But then, when that “All Eyes on Rafah” post went viral, something changed.

Everyone had it on their story. Everyone had an opinion.

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At first, I told myself I’d stay quiet.

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But then, I don’t know what came over me.

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I shared it.

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It was instinctive. Sudden.

Even I was surprised.

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And afterwards, I wasn’t sure how to feel.

Was it genuine? Performative? Reactionary? Brave? Hollow?

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Maybe all of it at once.

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There is no hierarchy left in pain.

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The gravity is flattening.

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Everything sits side by side, all at once.

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And maybe that’s the real cost of desensitisation:

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Not that we stop feeling,

But that we forget how to tell what deserves to be felt.