Consumed By Consumption

From Consumption to Re-Creation

We don’t just consume products. We consume content. People. Experiences. And we do it not because we’re curious, but because we’re afraid. Afraid of the stillness, the ache, the truth we might meet in silence. Join me as I explore how consumption has become our default religion, and what it means to reclaim our humanity through creativity, connection, and rest. This is not about minimalism. It’s about meaning.

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The Full Story

I first heard about the idea of working from rest rather than resting from work in 2006 at a conference in Sheffield, England. Before me, projected on a screen was the image was a semicircle, one side labeled work and the other rest. The image served as a visual depiction of the rhythm of spiritual formation. But as the presenters talked about rest, wether it came before or after work, I felt my throat tighten.

Because rest, for me, wasn't peaceful. It was terrifying.

At the time, I was exhausted. Not just from work, but from the inside out. There was a deep storm in me. Trauma I hadn't named, relationships I hadn't healed, pain I kept buried. So instead of resting, I worked. I scrolled. I watched. I filled every moment with noise. Because if I stopped consuming … I'd have to be with myself.

And that was a place I did not want to be.

We tend to think consumption is about material stuff. But before we ever bought too much, we felt too little. We numbed ourselves with anything that would keep the ache at bay.

In this way, consumption becomes spiritual.

Distraction is our religion. And consumption is its sacrament.

We take in media, messages, stimulation, not to be shaped, but to forget. We scroll, not to be informed, but to be invisible to ourselves. And what we avoid most isn't boredom. It's pain. And the truth beneath that pain: that something in us longs to be known.

Thomas Merton said, "There is a form of violence in our overwork... a frenzy that kills the root of inner wisdom." I'd add, there is a form of violence in our overconsumption, too. Because what we consume, consumes us back.

And we don't just consume goods—we consume people. We consume experiences.

Ever notice how we say, "I'm into experiences, not things," and then turn experiences into things? Photos. Posts. Proof that our lives matter because we were there. But we aren't shaped by the journey. We just collect it like a souvenir.

And people?

We don't relate. We leverage. Their attention. Their beauty. Their energy. Their charm. Instead of connection, we extract. Swipe. Ghost. Repeat. Because when consumption replaces communion, people become content.

The Deeper Why

When we talk about consumption, we need to ask why we're consuming in the first place. What are we actually hungry for?

Connection? We scroll social media but feel more isolated.

Meaning? We binge shows but wake up empty.

Pleasure? We "Netflix and chill" but remain unsatisfied.

Adventure? We vacation intensely but return more depleted than when we left.

Think about it: We've never had more access to entertainment, information and connection, yet rates of loneliness, anxiety and depression keep climbing. The very tools promising to fill us are hollowing us out.

This isn't about digital minimalism or some puritanical rejection of pleasure. It's about recognizing that our souls need nourishment, not just stimulation.

We consume to forget our production is meaningless. We binge to escape the futility of our labor. We scroll not because we're curious, but because we're empty.

And underneath it all … our soul is still waiting.

The Machine of More

We've built an entire economy on the premise that happiness comes from having and experiencing more. More options. More content. More notifications. More followers. More stuff.

But what if the path to wholeness isn't through more, but through less?

Less noise. Less distraction. Less accumulation.

What if, in the words of Mary Oliver, your one wild and precious life isn't asking for more content, but more contemplation?

The market wants you constantly consuming because a satisfied person is bad for business. Contentment doesn't drive quarterly growth. Your peace doesn't maximize shareholder value.

So algorithms are designed to keep you scrolling, clicking, watching, buying, but never arriving, always wanting.

The Violence of Velocity

There's a violence to how fast we move now. How quickly we inhale experiences. How rapidly we form opinions. How instantly we expect responses.

We've lost patience not just with loading screens, but with the unfolding of our own becoming.

We expect transformation at the speed of consumption. But souls don't work that way.

Growth is slow. Healing takes time. Wisdom accumulates gradually.

When we're constantly consuming, we're never digesting. Never integrating. Never allowing ourselves to be changed by what we encounter.

Instead, we move on to the next thing, forever stimulated but never satisfied.

John O'Donohue said, "You have traveled too fast over false ground… now your soul has come to take you back."

The Courage to Create

Creating requires courage consumption doesn't. To make something is to risk being seen. To put yourself into the world. To say, "This is me. This is what I think matters."

Consumption asks nothing of us. Creation asks everything.

But here's what's beautiful: When we create, even if it's just a meal, a garden, a song only we will hear, we touch something essential in our humanity. We remember we were made to participate, not just spectate.

And when we create together? That's where magic happens. That's communion.

Not extracting value from each other like resources to be mined, but co-creating value together. Building something new that couldn't exist without both of us showing up fully.

You were not made to be a consumer.

You were made to be a creator.

A connector.

A re-creation.

The Journey Back to Ourselves

When I think back to that Sheffield conference room, I can still feel the stiff fabric of the chair against my back, the faint scent of coffee and whiteboard markers in the air. As the presenter talked about rest, my throat didn't just tighten metaphorically—it physically constricted. My palms grew damp. My heart raced. My body was in full rebellion against the very concept of stillness.

I want to be clear about something: The journey from consumption to re-creation isn't overnight. It's not a switch we flip. It's not as simple as putting down our phones and suddenly becoming whole.

It's messy. It's slow. There are relapses and retreats back into the numbing comfort of distraction.

Because when we begin to step away from consumption, we face what we've been avoiding: ourselves. The pain we've been running from. The emotions we've been drowning out. The questions we've been too afraid to ask.

That's why it took me years after Sheffield to truly understand what was happening. I wasn't just addicted to work or distraction, I was terrified of what would emerge in their absence.

Re-creation … true re-creation … begins with allowing ourselves to be broken. To acknowledge the fractures. To sit with the discomfort of our own company.

And then, slowly, to put ourselves back together. Not as we were, but as we might become.

This isn't about moral superiority or perfect habits. It's about remembering our humanity piece by piece. Remembering how to feel. How to be present. How to connect without consuming. How to embrace ourselves.

Many days, I still reach for my phone first thing in the morning. Some nights, I still numb myself with endless scrolling. The difference is that now I can feel it happening. I can name it. I can choose differently, even if not always.

And in those moments when I do choose presence over escape—when I create instead of consume, when I connect instead of extract—I taste something of what it means to be fully human again.

Recreation and Communion in Practice

What does re-creation actually look like? It's not just absence of consumption, but presence with yourself.

Like this morning. I woke up energized and alive, not tapping on social media but my notes. Ideas flowed from my brain to the screen as I jabbered away, my voice ready to record from a heart full with ideas that might help others stay human. That's creation emerging from stillness.

Or when tension crept into my body recently, a nameless discomfort I couldn't identify. Instead of drowning it in distraction, I laid down. Breathed. Located where the sensation lived in my body. Then consulted Eastern Body, Western Mind (affiliate) to understand which energy center was speaking. This isn't self-optimization, it's self-communion.

And communion with others? It happened just yesterday when I planned my entire day around two separate dinners—one with a doctoral classmate from Canada I hadn't seen in a decade, another with a Michigan friend and his new wife. We sat across tables, phones away, eyes meeting, stories unfolding. No content consumed, just connection created.

Community: Mirrors for Recreation

Community doesn't just support our journey from consumption to creation—it catalyzes it. People function as mirrors, reflecting back parts of ourselves we couldn't otherwise see.

I used to tell couples in premarital counseling that relationships are the most efficient way to discover what needs healing within you. The person across from you becomes a mirror, revealing patterns you've been blind to for years.

This mirroring effect is what Harville Hendrix explores in Getting the Love You Want (affiliate), how our closest relationships expose our wounds precisely so they can finally heal. We aren't just consuming each other's company; we're participating in each other's re-creation.

From Consumers to Citizens

We've been trained to be consumers, not just of products, but of each other and the world itself.

What would it mean to be citizens instead? Not just taking, but giving. Not just watching, but participating. Not just critiquing, but creating.

What would it mean to see the world not as content to be consumed but as a community to be tended?

I think it would mean reclaiming our attention. Our time. Our capacity for wonder. Our ability to be present, fully present, with each other and ourselves.

It would mean trading the dopamine hit of the scroll for the deeper joy of showing up.

Yet here I am. Creating content about the problem of consumption. And I see the irony.

Isn't it hypocritical? Asking for your attention while critiquing attention economy? Using the masters' tools to dismantle the masters' house?

Maybe. But I think there's a difference between content and communion.

Content extracts. Communion connects.

Content consumes your attention. Communion invites your presence.

Content wants your eyes. Communion wants your heart.

I don't just want you to consume these words. I want them to consume you. To burn inside until something shifts. Until you put down the phone. Until you remember who you are beneath the noise.

This isn't content meant to be scrolled past. It's an invitation to step off the conveyor belt of consumption altogether.

So what do we do?

We stop.

We listen.

We close the tab. Turn off the feed. And we feel again. The ache. The boredom. The silence. The holy return.

We don't stop consuming because it's wrong. We stop because it's numbing us to beauty. To presence. To play. To people. To the divine.

So how can you start your journey to re-creation? Here are three options, all based on how much time you have in your life right now:

Embodiment Invitations

Reclamation (60-Second Survival Practice): Put your phone in another room. Sit. Breathe. Ask: "What am I feelingright now that I usually scroll past?"

Resistance (1-Hour Soul Practice): Go create something with your hands—write, paint, bake, garden. No productivity goal. Just let your soul speak.

Rebellion (Big Shift Invitation): This week, schedule time with no content. No music. No TV. No podcasts. Just you, your body, your breath, and whatever rises.

Let your soul catch up to your life.

Because we can stay human.

And we must.