An Argument against Instantaneity
We are operating at a speed that’s beyond what our humanity was designed for.
Recently, I watched a hyper-Instagrammable clip of Reid Hoffman urging a startup founder to find their “North Star” (a worthy goal)… and then to strive to “do in seconds what used to take hours.” The comments cheered him on — Yes! North Star! Focus! — but skipped over the part where speed became the goal itself.
I like Reid. I like imagining what’s possible. But that moment struck me as intensely insistent — and a little sad. Of course Reid was arguing for what makes a platform like Linkedin succeed. So who am I to argue?
But some things shouldn’t be rushed.
Good writing takes time. Summaries aren’t substance.
Learning takes time. Output without effort is empty.
Creativity takes time — for disparate ideas to simmer and collide.
Relationships take time — real connection doesn’t happen in the comments.
Even walking and eating slowly have proven health benefits.
For a long time, speed, unchecked, has been bringing out our lower selves. With existential questions on the horizon, we might be heading lower, not deeper.
Technologists are dosing on ketamine just to keep up.
Chainsaws are the new metaphor for layoffs.
News cycles now expire in minutes.
Haters hate in seconds.
And in an age of existential risk, there’s no space between the threat and the response. No deep breath. No night of sleep. Just a hair-trigger reply to “This could mean WWIII.”
Imagine if news traveled just a bit more slowly. If decisions had a pause. If our reflexes weren’t wired directly to our fears.
Paul Simon once wrote, “Slow down, you move too fast. You’ve got to make the morning last.” He wasn’t being nostalgic — he was issuing a prescription: We are not “Feelin’ Groovy.” We are stressed out.
What if the real edge for humanity isn’t acceleration, but pacing?
What if the win is not in being faster, but in being more human — deliberate, embodied, resilient?
What if we taught our kids to dwell in questions, not rush to answers?
What if we waited a full three seconds at a stop sign?
What if we let meaning steep, instead of swiping to the next thing?
The turtle doesn’t just beat the hare. It understands the terrain.
Maybe the future belongs to those who know when not to sprint.
There’s always a moment in British dramas when someone asks “Would you like a cup of tea?” A ritual. A gentle reset. An invitation to remember our shared humanity before the next emotional storm or difficult truth.
Our most heroic adventure may not be “shaken, not stirred,” or Mountain see, Mountain Dew, or even , “Quickly Grasshopper, snatch the pebble from my hand.”
Maybe it’s something quieter:
To embrace the slow burn — small, steady acts of care that build trust, meaning, and resilience over time.
To play the long game.
To plant what won’t bloom for years — and tend it anyway.
In the rush to optimize everything, let’s not forget what can’t be rushed:
Wisdom.
Connection.
Character.
These are not outputs. They are outcomes of time well spent.
And maybe — just maybe — the real edge in the age of AI is remembering what it means to be deliberately, stubbornly, gloriously human.
Yes — AI is moving fast. It’s rewriting the rules of productivity, reshaping how we learn, create, and work.
But speed isn’t the whole story.
If we want to thrive — not just adapt — in this new era, we need education that cultivates the slow skills:
Attention.
Curiosity.
Imagination.
Ethics.
The ability to wrestle with ambiguity, to sit with wonder, to build something that matters — not just something that scales.
Because the future doesn’t just need technologists.
It needs humans — awake, grounded, and capable of depth.
That starts with how we teach, how we mentor, and how we show up.
Not faster. Not louder. But better.
