I often think it is both a privilege and a curse as an American working to be working in Africa—Mali—in the age of the Internet .

Even in very remote places, I’m online—sending emails, messages, social media likes—it’s constant. Back and forth, like stones piling on a wall. Yet, sometimes, I feel it shouldn’t be this way.

I grew up on the edge of the Internet’s arrival. I think I was 17 when I first tried it—I was born in 1980. Until then, I wrote a lot of letters, which was especially important because my mom and dad moved us between schools at least ten times. His odd jobs had us bouncing all over the country, and we practically lived out of our RV most of the time.

Writing was a way to stay sane, to keep in contact, to feel like my broken, fragmented childhood—this life that constantly shifted—was actually real. That I had friends.

Now, when it’s easier than ever to stay in touch, I don’t feel like I’m truly connected anymore.

Back then, it wasn’t easy. I remember searching for a post office in a Sacramento parking lot to mail a letter, which was harder than finding a working mobile phone in Timbuktu today.

And yet, despite how simple it is now, it feels hollow. So many quick, superficial messages. They flit back and forth like gnats, but they don’t mean anything. I feel like I’m drowning in a flood of constant noise, trying to keep up with everything but not knowing why—or what I’m even keeping up with.

What an odd thing to complain about, especially here, surrounded by poverty and famine. But I guess that’s how it is. And then there’s all the noise from elsewhere: the endless chatter after the recent election, or my sister-in-law’s complaints about Trump (Yes, I loathe him, too, but what’s the point of complaining about him online – is that gonna change anything?!).

I get it—she feels trapped in her family life in Arizona. She needs to vent. But her snarky Facebook comments pile up in my feed, shaping my perception of her more than our actual conversations. The algorithm decides what parts of her I see, shaping our relationship in ways I never agreed to.

I miss the simplicity of sitting down and writing a letter to, yeah, to someone like Carrie, really taking the time to share my thoughts, to explain them. Maybe I’d write to my brother, too, (if it wasn’t easier to let Carrie be the explainer-in-chief for me on that one). I think he is still mad at me for going back to Mali after nearly getting killed by those rebels the last time.

But that’s something I have thought long and hard about and I could lay it all out in a letter. Letters feel tangible, meaningful. Like they have an impact. Maybe even with my brother.

I could include photos—actual printed ones—for the kids. Emma could pin them to her bulletin board. Maybe I’d turn the photos into a puzzle for Michael. That’s my family now. My dad and I don’t talk anymore, so they’re all I have left.

Writing a letter like that would feel like sending them a Christmas present.

I’d have to do it soon if it’s going to reach the U.S. in time. But, of course, it’s easier to just check Facebook.

My brother isn’t even on Facebook, but my sister-in-law is, and she’ll make sure everyone knows what’s going on. I read every post. I comment on everything. But it’s all so fragmented—tiny bits of sand, thrown in my face, getting in my eyes.

What I really want is to watch sand flow through an hourglass. There’s something comforting about it—how it piles up neatly at the bottom, steady and peaceful. Then you turn it over, and it begins again, just as calming. Instead, I’m caught in this endless storm of digital sand, and it gets into my eyes all the time.

I miss letters. Reclaiming that sense of peace. I just need to pull myself together and do it. Like tonight. Like now?

But, of course, it’s so much easier just to pick up my phone …

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Cover Photo by Leo_Visions on Unsplash

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