An Old Friend: Anxiety & Accountability
Song of the Week
Imagine a haze of dreamy synths wrapped in the warm glow of nostalgia—that’s exactly the vibe "Pictures of You" delivers. Drugdealer and Kate Bollinger team up for a track where melancholic melodies meet intimate vocals, creating a sonic time capsule that feels both familiar and fresh.
Kate’s voice floats like a ghostly echo, weaving through Drugdearl’s intricate, slightly off-kilter beats with effortless charm. The song’s lyrical snapshots hit a sweet spot between wistfulness and bittersweet reflection, perfect for anyone caught somewhere between yesterday’s memories and tomorrow’s unknowns.
Whether you’re cruising down a rainy street or staring at old photographs, "Pictures of You" is the soundtrack for moments when the past sneaks in and won’t quit. Quirky, heartfelt, and just a bit hypnotic—it’s the kind of song that sticks around, long after the last note fades.
Press play and let it carry you through the beautifully unfinished fragments of your own story.
Are we damned?
As a way to get out of my house this summer, my job offered me a position to “hang out” with local youth and participate in a city hall activity. Not only does it help me professionally, but I also get a front-row seat to witness the new generation in action. Sign me up!
This week marks the start of the program, and already I’ve pinpointed society’s downfall: those damned iPhones.
Once hailed as the greatest technological advancement of the 21st century, the iPhone changed everything—until it took over our lives. We became seriously, seriously—and I mean seriously—addicted. Back in the ’90s, before mobile phones became an extension of our bodies, the landline was the real household craze. Families fought over who got to use it, and if someone was already on the line, you were out of luck.
I vividly remember asking friends for their home numbers so I could call them after school, even though we had just seen each other a few hours earlier. That’s how we planned sleepovers, weekend hangouts, shared gossip, and laughed over the day's drama. It wasn’t always easy to reach each other—but in some strange way, it felt more intentional. More human. More like home.
Something is Not Working
Fast forward to today, and every kid from eighth grade on up has an iPhone—or something like it—glued to their hand or at least within a few inches of reach. As I looked around the room, all I saw were bowed heads, eyes locked on glowing screens. Some were playing games. Others were watching TikToks or texting back and forth while sitting directly across from each other.
And I know this is going to sound painfully Boomer of me, but I couldn't help but think to myself: “these kids shouldn’t have phones! They need to be outside, riding bikes, running through sprinklers, staying out until the streetlights flicker on. They should be laughing so hard their stomachs hurt not just reacting with a deadpan “lol” through a screen.”
Yet as the day went on, I couldn’t shake the quiet tension in the room. Behind the endless scrolling and mindless swiping, I sensed something deeper—a low-grade anxiety humming just beneath the surface. You could see it in their posture: the uncontrollable leg shaking, the frantic tapping between pauses, the quick glances around the room as if to check whether anyone was watching them. It wasn’t boredom. It wasn’t relaxation. It was something heavier. And something all too familiar to me.
It was anxiety—a big, invisible blanket that wraps itself around you and weighs everything down. You feel it in the air before you even realize it's in your body. It seeps into your gestures, your expressions, your silences. It turns into the stammer in your voice or the way your shoulders tense when someone asks you a question. It doesn't always scream—but you can hear when it cries out.
And as I met each new person, I felt my own first-impression jitters rise to the surface. That anxious energy mirrored right back at me, like we were all stuck in the same silent loop—pretending to be cool, calm, and unbothered while our insides told a different story. Every so often, I had to gently remind myself how silly it was to feel anxious in this environment. I was here to help, to connect, to be present.
But the reality is, anxiety isn’t picky. It doesn’t care how old you are, what your job is, or how confident you seem on the outside. It lives in all of us in one way or another and seeing it so clearly in this group of kids—who should be carefree, curious, alive—left me feeling... sad.
Sad that we’ve created a world where even teenagers can’t escape it. Sad that we’ve replaced spontaneity with screens, eye contact with emojis, and real laughter with curated LOLs. Sad because I know that feeling too well—and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, especially not them. They are the future, yet they're carrying the weight of anxiety that most adults still don’t know how to name or handle. And the worst part? They’re carrying it alone. Let’s face it—there’s no real community for them, no built-in safety net, no accessible mental health check-ins handed out at school assemblies. Therapy costs money. Vulnerability costs pride. So instead, they stay quiet, keep scrolling, and pretend they’re okay. These kids are expected to navigate professional development, academic pressure, and future plans—while simultaneously untangling a mess of personal struggles, self-image issues, and social expectations that all stem, in some way, from that damned iPhone. The device that promised connection has left them more isolated than ever. And somehow, we’ve just accepted that as normal.
They are the reason we have no community because now it exists in a realm of fantasyland. And how do you compete with that? It requires quite literally escaping The Matrix, realizing there is a real world outside and inside those devices. There can be balance; it is just a matter of who is going to hold them… accountable?
Hardship is a Requirement in Community
There it is, my old and current, nemesis, accountability. It’s funny how easily we get offended when someone we care about holds us accountable. When a friend sets a boundary or calls us out, we label it as “controlling,” “disrespectful,” or even “toxic.” But more often than not, that reaction isn’t about them—it’s about us. It's about our discomfort with being seen. Our fear of being exposed. Our resistance to growth.
Because real accountability doesn’t always feel good. It forces us to slow down and reflect. It challenges the stories we tell ourselves to stay comfortable. And when someone we love offers us that mirror, we sometimes respond with blame instead of gratitude. We push them away instead of sitting with what they’re trying to show us.
But boundaries aren't betrayal. They're care in action. And people who hold us accountable—gently, firmly, lovingly—are often the ones who want us to grow, not fall apart. We’re afraid of being held. Of being asked to look inward. Of being called to rise in front of those we love. Doesn’t it sound crazy? To be seen—even by our loved ones—feels like a kind of exposure we’re not ready for. It feels like a risk. A vulnerability so sharp I want to never see it.
And maybe that’s where I come in. Not as someone who has it all figured out, but as someone willing to risk it—publicly, imperfectly, and honestly. To be a core presence, not just a person but a mirror, a steady hand and a witness. If there’s anything I’ve learned, these feelings must be seen, and they must be felt.
I want to be that person they can lean on. A pillar in the community—not above them, but among them. Someone who reminds others that there’s a world beyond the scroll, that presence matters, and that real connection still exists. Someone who dares to hold space for growth, even when it’s uncomfortable. Especially when it’s uncomfortable. Because the truth is, we’re all just trying to figure it out and all it takes is one grounded person to show the rest of us that it’s okay to look up.
I Didn’t Want to Say
There’s a soft sadness in this song that hit me deeply—like looking at something beautiful you can’t quite hold onto anymore. “Pictures of You” feels like a gentle confrontation with reality, one that lingers in the background like a memory you’ve tried to ignore. It mirrors my own hesitation to say what I really felt this week—that these kids shouldn’t have phones. I didn’t want to sound like a Boomer shaking my fist at the sky, but the truth is... this isn't just nostalgia talking. It’s concern.
There is research already being done here is your next think piece: How States are Thinking About Social Media and Mental Health | All4Ed
Enjoy This Journey With Me
° 𐐪𐑂 ♡ 𐐪𐑂 ₒ 𐐪𐑂 ♡ 𐐪𐑂 °
Enjoy This Journey With Me ° 𐐪𐑂 ♡ 𐐪𐑂 ₒ 𐐪𐑂 ♡ 𐐪𐑂 °
This isn’t the end—just a bookmark in the conversation. Stories don’t really close; they unfold, shift, and find new voices. If this one stirred something in you, let it breathe. Leave a thought, challenge an idea, or carry it forward in your own way. And if you ever feel like wandering through more unfinished thoughts, you know where to find me. Let’s keep the conversation alive. ~XOXO
