28/12/2025. Like every Sunday morning, I had a coffee date with a friend at our usual spot. I ordered a phin-brewed milk coffee with just a little condensed milk; he went for one with a lot more—then we sat there, just chilling, talking about life and future plans in that winter cold that somehow feels like a sign another year is about to slip by.
Right in front of our table sat a family with a few of their friends. There were two little girls—both adorable. And normally, whenever kids are around, the place instantly gets livelier: they run around playing tag, climb on things, get mischievous, their eyes dart everywhere because everything is new, and they pepper their parents with questions—“What’s this?”, “What’s that for?”, “Why is it like that?”—that very “kid” kind of curiosity I think everyone has seen before.
But not today.
That table with the two girls was unusually quiet—calm, almost too well-behaved. Not the kind of quiet because they were asleep, but the kind of quiet because they’d lost interest in everything around them. And then I noticed: each girl had a smartphone in her hands. Two tiny fingers flicked quickly through TikTok, then jumped over to YouTube—one short video after another, nonstop, completely glued.
That moment stuck with me. Not in a “judging who’s right or wrong” way—I get it, adults get tired too, and sometimes you just want to sit down, finish your coffee, and actually get a full conversation out. But I couldn’t help asking myself: if one day my own child gets used to reaching for a screen whenever they’re free, scrolling whenever they’re bored, needing videos to keep running the moment they sit down… then where would I still “meet” my child?
I don’t think the answer is banning technology entirely or letting it run wild. I’m in tech, so I know better than most: phones, the internet… they’re not “bad” in themselves. The point is, I want my child to see them as something to use when needed—not as a default habit that replaces talking, replaces noticing the world, replaces those ordinary little moments between a child and their parents.
And I also remind myself of a pretty hard truth: family connection doesn’t just happen on its own. It’s like a habit you have to build early. You can’t wait until your kid is older and then suddenly decide to “have deep talks.” Sometimes it’s just dinner, a walk, waiting at a red light, sitting in a café—and in those few minutes, am I really there with my child, or am I also lost in my own screen?
I don’t have kids yet—I’m saying that upfront so no one can nitpick. But if I do someday, I want to choose the slightly harder option: to be present. To make the effort to talk, to play the silly little games kids love, to answer dozens of “why” questions every day. Because I believe what a child needs most isn’t one more short video—it’s the feeling: “My mom/dad is truly listening to me.”
To be fair, watching short videos doesn’t make kids “stupid” overnight. But what I worry about is something else: they get used to the rhythm of “something always playing”, used to constant stimulation—and then slower things—a long story, a dinner where people actually talk, a trip out just to look around—start to feel “boring.”
I want my child to grow up with a quiet, safe space to share: what was fun at school today, what they like, what they dislike, what they’re worried about. And I want myself to have the patience to sit and listen—not just listen halfway to get it over with.
Technology can make life lighter in many ways. But there’s no shortcut to being close with your child. It’s in those few minutes when you choose to put your phone away, choose to look at them, choose to answer, choose to ask one more question. Those small choices—repeated every day—are what keep the thread of connection at home from breaking.