There’s a strange ache in our generation, this constant feeling that we’re living life but not exactly living in it. We go places, meet people, see beautiful things, experience incredible moments… yet somehow we always end up experiencing them through a four-inch screen. It’s almost subconscious now. Before the mind even registers the beauty of a place, the hand reaches for the phone. Before the heart feels the moment, the camera app is already open. And by the time we finally decide to sit and take it in, the moment has already slipped a little.
Maybe it’s the way we grew up with Instagram aesthetics, with “pics or it didn’t happen,” with daily reminders that everyone else’s life looks more stunning than ours. Maybe it’s the hundreds of trends that come and go every week, shaping how we behave without us noticing. Or maybe it’s that quiet pressure to prove that we’re living a good life, a fun life, a beautiful life. Not to ourselves, but to everyone watching.
Walk into any café and watch a group of friends on a “chill evening.” The first ten minutes go into adjusting the cup, fixing the hair, taking 15 pictures of the same latte from different angles. By the time they finally relax, the coffee has gone cold, and honestly, so has the moment. Go to a beach, and half the shoreline looks like a photoshoot set. Go to a concert, and instead of watching the stage, you’ll see a forest of glowing screens in the air. It’s as if we’re more excited about showing the world we were there than actually being there.
And it gets even more real when we think about how our memories work. We assume taking photos will help us remember moments better, but science says the opposite can happen.
One of the clearest real-world examples of how recording affects presence comes from a well-known experiment by psychologist Linda Henkel (2013). She took a group of museum visitors and let some of them take photos of the exhibits while others simply observed them.
Later, when tested, the people who took photos actually remembered less about the objects they photographed in less detail, with less clarity, less emotional connection. Henkel called this the “photo-taking impairment effect.” The act of documenting a moment shifted their attention outward, away from actually experiencing it. Their brain treated the moment as “saved” by the camera, so it didn’t store it deeply.
This study is often used to explain why our generation sometimes remembers the posted picture vividly, but the real moment feels blurry.
Imagine that the very thing we do to “preserve” the memory is often the thing that stops us from forming it.
And when you think about it, it makes sense. The moment you decide to record something, your brain shifts tasks. You’re no longer in the moment; you’re managing it. You’re thinking about angles, lighting, reflections, and background noise. You’re worrying if it looks good, not if it feels good. You’re performing, not experiencing.
And we all do it. I remember going to a quiet lakeside spot last month. The kind of place that feels like a deep breath after a long week, it had a cool breeze, still water, and soft sunlight. But instead of soaking in the calm, I spent the first fifteen minutes trying to get a perfect picture. When I finally sat down, my mind felt scattered. It took me time to reconnect with the place. And later, when I looked back at that day, the photos felt vivid, but the memory itself felt… thin. Like I was there physically, but emotionally somewhere else.
Ask any student today, and they’ll say the same. We post everything: sunsets, study desks, the meal we cooked, the café we visited. Somewhere inside, it feels like we’re curating a version of ourselves, a version made for public viewing. And that version often takes priority over the real person living the real moment.
But we can change this. It doesn’t require deleting social media or going on a phone detox. Small shifts can make a huge difference. Like waiting five minutes before taking a photo. Let the moment arrive. Let the place wash over you. Experience the colors, the sounds, the temperature, the smell, the emotions. Once your senses have had their say, then decide if it still feels worth capturing.
Or try this: when you visit a beautiful spot, take just one photo. One. Then put your phone away and let the rest of the memory form naturally. Or decide that not everything needs to be posted. Some moments are too sacred to be shared; they deserve to live only in your mind, not on a timeline.
Real life doesn’t need filters. Real moments don’t need angles. And real experiences don’t need to be aesthetic to matter.
One day, we’ll look back at our youth, the places we visited, the people we loved, the moments that changed us, and we won’t remember the pictures. We’ll remember the warmth of the sun, the sound of laughter, the feeling of being young, present, alive. And none of that requires a camera.
Maybe living in the moment isn’t something we lost forever. Maybe it’s just something we forgot and can easily remember again.