27/02/2026
Social media vs in person
A looooooooong post, but grab a cuppa, take some time and read ❤️ it’s worth it ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️
If I didn’t have a business, I wouldn’t be on here. I really value real, raw, authenticity. Guided by intuition and connecting with others soul to soul.
Social media doesn’t always portray that. It can create a falsely toxic platform, where we continually scroll, create quick dopamine fixes, spend far too much time attached to a screen and lose connection with the people and real moments around us.
The amount of times, I look around and everyone in a cafe is on their phone, children walking to school on their phone, parents on their phone with young children skipping along behind them. People using AI for simple every day problem solving, their creativity and not using their own inner compass.
I don’t want to sound preachy at all, but it’s essential we all have phone free time. We come away from it and if you can’t manage that, there’s an addiction and I would say society has an addiction to them. The amount of people who say god I’d be lost without my phone or lost without Instagram - scary.
Many people feel the need to document every moment of every day on their social media, to get the perfect reel and to me you are completely missing the moment of reality.
I’m blessed to have a beautiful free life. I could record every skinny dip, every secret swim spot, every wild new place I find, every fun moment I have with friends, every meal out. I could be an influencer with my psychic work, I could have 100000 of followers. That doesn’t interest me in the slightest. I don’t care if you’ve got 1 follower or millions, I care deeply that we are connected to ourselves, our souls, not attached to a screen.
I want to capture those moments in my heart being fully present in the here and now.
I know there’s two sides to everything. To bring balance, the positive side for me is there may be some events I don’t hear about in person, but see on social media. It supports my business too.
I love to write, I love to share from my heart, my soul and guides and social media can be a really quick way to reach a lot of people with those deep messages.
In summary, I invite you this week, this month, this year to look at your relationship with your phone and if you do anything today read this, shared by a friend……
❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️
I have a fully paid-off mortgage, a seven-figure retirement fund, and three successful children. But last Sunday, I realized I am worth less to my family than their Wi-Fi connection.
My name is Thomas. I’m seventy-one years old. I spent forty years as a master carpenter, building frames for houses I could never afford to live in, just so my kids could. My hands are permanently stained with walnut stain and covered in calluses as thick as leather. I don’t mind the aches in my joints. I earned them.
But the one pair of joints that ache more than mine belong to Barnaby.
Barnaby is my fourteen-year-old Golden Retriever mix. We got him from the shelter the year my wife, Martha, passed away. He was a rambunctious puppy then; now, his muzzle is sugar-white, his eyes are cloudy with cataracts, and his hips are so bad that getting up takes a monumental effort of will.
He is my shadow. My confidant. The only living soul who hears my voice every day.
Last Sunday was supposed to be special. All three kids were coming over for a "family summit"—their words, not mine. I spent two days prepping. I slow-roasted a brisket just the way Martha used to, bought the expensive wine, and vacuumed the rugs twice.
But nobody was more excited than Barnaby.
Dogs know. I don't know how, but they know. Around 3:00 PM, two hours before they were due, Barnaby started his ritual. He limped over to his toy basket and dug out "Mr. Quacks"—a mallard plushie that lost its squeaker in 2015 and its left eye in 2018. It was a disgusting, slobbery rag, but it was his offering.
He dragged his heavy body to the front hallway and lay down, facing the door. He panted, his tail giving a weak thump-thump against the floorboards every time a car drove past.
"They're coming, buddy," I told him, scratching behind his ears. "They're coming."
At 5:15 PM, the door finally opened.
First came David, my eldest, a corporate litigator. He walked in, talking loudly into a Bluetooth earpiece about a merger. Barnaby, trembling with exertion, pushed himself up on his front paws, Mr. Quacks clamped firmly in his jaws. He took a stumbling step forward to greet David.
David didn't break stride. He sidestepped the dog without looking down. "Yeah, I’m walking in now. The reception is spotty," he said, brushing past Barnaby to find a signal.
Then came Sarah. She works in PR. She was thumbing a furious email on her phone. Barnaby turned, his back legs slipping a little on the hardwood, and tried to nudge her hand with his wet nose.
"Ugh, Dad!" Sarah recoiled, pulling her beige trench coat away. "Can you wipe his mouth? I can’t get slobber on this. Dry clean only." She walked past him to the kitchen island.
Finally, Jason, my youngest, the "influencer." He walked in with his phone held high, recording a video. "Sunday vibes at the childhood home, guys," he narrated to his screen. He panned the camera down to Barnaby. "Look at the old pupper. Ancient vibes."
Barnaby gave a soft woof and dropped Mr. Quacks at Jason’s feet—the ultimate gesture of love.
Jason stepped over the toy. "Cool," he muttered, eyes glued to the comment section as he walked to the living room couch.
Barnaby stood there in the hallway. Alone. The greeting he had saved up all his energy for had been delivered, and nobody had signed for the package.
He stood for a moment, confused. Then, slowly, painfully, he picked up Mr. Quacks. He lowered his head and limped back to his bed in the corner of the dining room. He let out a long, heavy sigh that rattled in his chest, and put his chin on his paws.
I felt a crack in my heart that was louder than any timber snapping.
We sat down to dinner. The brisket was perfect. The wine was breathable. The silence was deafening.
David was checking stocks under the table. Sarah was arguing with a stranger in a comment section about social justice. Jason was editing his video. The blue glow of three screens illuminated their faces, making them look like ghosts.
I looked at the empty chair where Martha used to sit. Then I looked at Barnaby in the corner. He was watching them, his tail still. He wasn't asking for food. He was just watching, hoping one of them would look back.
I put my fork down. It clattered loudly against the china.
"I have a question," I said.
Nobody looked up. "Mmm-hmm?" David mumbled.
"How much would you pay for an hour with Mom?"
That stopped the thumbs. Slowly, three heads lifted.
"Dad, that's... that's heavy," Jason said, lowering his phone.
"Answer me," I said, my voice shaking. "If you could bring her back for one hour. To hear her laugh. To have her ask you how your day was. What is that worth? A thousand dollars? Ten thousand? Everything in your 401k?"
"Everything," Sarah whispered. "Obviously."
"Then why," I pointed a trembling finger at the corner of the room, "are you treating the only other creature in this house who loves you unconditionally like he’s invisible?"
They turned to look at Barnaby. The dog thumped his tail once, hopeful.
"He waited by that door for two hours," I said, the tears finally spilling over. "His hips hurt him every time he stands up, but he forced himself up because he heard your cars. He brought you his favorite toy. And you stepped over him like he was a piece of furniture."
I stood up. "I don't care about your mergers, David. Sarah, those strangers on the internet don't know you. Jason, your followers won't be there to hold your hand when you're sick."
I walked over to the dog bed and sat down on the floor. It was hard on my knees, but I didn't care. I pulled Barnaby’s big, golden head into my lap.
"He remembers you," I told them, burying my face in the dog's fur. "He remembers pulling you on the sled, David. He remembers sleeping under your bed when you were afraid of thunder, Sarah. He doesn't see a lawyer or an influencer. He just sees his pack. And his pack left him behind."
The silence in the room changed. It wasn't the empty silence of distraction anymore. It was heavy with shame.
I heard a chair scrape. Then another.
David was the first one down. He didn't care about the crease in his trousers. He knelt on the hardwood floor and reached out a hand.
"Hey, buddy," David choked out. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Barnaby."
Barnaby let out a low whine and licked David’s hand.
Sarah was next, dropping her phone on the table with a thud. She sat cross-legged, stroking Barnaby’s velvet ears, crying silently. Jason joined us, turning his phone off and sliding it into his pocket.
For the next hour, we didn't eat the brisket. We sat on the floor of the dining room, huddled around an old, smelly dog. We threw Mr. Quacks a few inches for him to catch. We talked about Mom. We talked about the time Barnaby stole the Thanksgiving turkey in 2012. We laughed until we cried.
For the first time in years, my children were actually here.
Barnaby is sleeping soundly now, his paws twitching in a dream. I don't know how much time he has left. I don't know how much time I have left.
I’m writing this because I know you’re reading it on a screen.
Do me a favor. Look up.
Is there a dog at your feet? A parent across the room? A spouse sitting next to you?
Put the damn phone down.
The notifications will still be there tomorrow. But the people—and the dogs—who think you hung the moon? They won't be.
Love is a very fragile thing. It doesn't die from big explosions. It dies from silence, from being stepped over, from being ignored. Don't let the battery run out on the things that actually matter.
