What could you do less of?

Less screens.
Less rushing.
Less noise that masquerades as connection.

In a world that keeps speeding up, technology has quietly reshaped the way we live, the way we raise our children, and the way childhood unfolds. What once felt distant is now at our fingertips, and what once took days now takes seconds. Convenience grows but so does the cost, often unnoticed.

When I look back at my own childhood it was one lived almost entirely without screens I realise what a profound blessing it was. We grew up outdoors, playing until we were called in to eat or sleep. We were told stories under the starry sky, surrounded by a village that felt like one family. Even in a war-torn Somalia, life felt peaceful, protected, and whole growing up.

We needed less to feel fulfilled.

We made toys from nature and invented our own games.
We created joy from imagination.
We lived simply, yet fully content without constantly wanting more.

Before school, we memorised Qur’an. Our minds were trained early, our memories sharpened, our hearts anchored. Learning anything later in life came easily, and only much later did I understand why: the Qur’an opens the mind, disciplines the soul, and connects us to our Creator.

We spent less time being entertained and more time engaged.

We learnt from the elders.
We played with children of all ages.
We gathered around a radio for weekly stories, experienced by an entire village.

There were no overflowing schedules.
No glowing screens pulling us away.
No algorithms shaping how we thought.

Today, many childhoods unfold differently. Scrolling replaces storytelling.
Pixels replace play. Speed replaces presence.

I don’t believe the answer is perfection or total rejection. Screens exist in our home. But what I continue to aim for is less. Less exposure. Less dependence. Less passive consumption.

Instead, more balance.

I raised my children to love and enjoy the outdoors. I was fortunate enough to have a huge back garden with forest trees. I protected free play and delayed formal learning, trusting the natural rhythm Allah places within a child. Learning to read and write came when they were ready and excited for it. Confidence followed, in its own time. The love of learning was preserved which is every child’s natural tendency but the school system robs them off it overtime. I’ve observed this from my own children when I sent them to school later on. But I am ever so grateful to have homeschooled them in their early years.

Nature helped us loosen technology’s grip. But as children grow, the world grows louder. Devices become harder to avoid. And still, my heart has never made peace with too much exposure especially knowing the emotional, physical, and spiritual risks they carry though I can’t claim that I didn’t let this happen.

Then came Tarim.

A city that quietly chose less.

Less screens in children’s hands.
Less distraction in young hearts.
Less noise in everyday life.

Here, children talk, laugh, play and fully present. Even teenagers don’t carry personal devices, and the difference is visible in their calm, their manners, their focus.

When the environment supports restraint, choosing less becomes natural.

Being here has reminded me that childhood doesn’t need constant stimulation to thrive. It needs space. Slowness. Protection.

We left our devices behind and stepped into a gentler rhythm alhamdulillah. The children felt it too. What began as resistance turned into gratitude. Awareness. Choice.

So if you ask me what I could do less of, my answer is this:

Less scrolling.
Less noise.
Less distraction disguised as necessity.

And in making space for less, we gain more.

More presence.
More connection.
More barakah.

I’ll pause here and continue these reflections another day.

This article is part 5 of my series: “Sacred Living in a Distracted Age,” a journey back to presence, barakah, and God in a world that constantly pulls us away.

Thank you for reading.

Until next time..
Peace be upon you.