We arrive in this world reaching—small hands stretching skyward, wide eyes scanning—for our people. And for nearly two million years, that reach was met with warmth: a village stepping close, gathering us up, meeting our gaze with love (Pinker, 2014).
But when you and I arrive, no village gathers around us. Instead, we’re received by two tired souls: loving, yes, but stretched thin navigating the maze of modern life. These two carry us into a home of small rooms, tuck us gently into our crib, and, with hearts full of care but hands too full with tasks, step away. Then, the door swings shut behind them.
An unsettling quiet slinks in under the doorframe. It stretches across the floor like it’s settling in for good, and says: It’s just you and me now, kid.
And what we want more than anything is for the quiet to leave and our people to return. But how?
Consumer Culture Struts in
That’s when consumer culture struts in, like a magician taking center stage, announcing, Not to worry. I know just the trick. With a dramatic wave, it conjures a door from thin air: Step through here, and you’ll find your people on the other side. And that quiet? It won’t stand a chance.
We’re still wobbling in toddler’s shoes when that door creaks open, wide and welcoming. We toddle in, unsuspecting, and bam!, there they are: an army of advertisers, two-million strong, armed with a trillion-dollar budget (Council of Communication and Media, 2020).
One by one, they step toward us, each one offering a glittering object and uttering a seductive promise: Buy this, and your people will appear. Buy this, and your quiet will disappear.
And because we’re children, tender-hearted and trusting, we believe them. We believe their promise that Hamburger Helpers will bring our family together, that Frisbees will turn our dad into our best friend, that Hot Wheels will deliver our school friends straight to our door. This is how the world really works! (Schor, 2004).
So we buy, item after item, clinging to the hope that they’ll deliver: The quiet will lift, and our people will come. All the while, consumer culture is beaming, clapping its hands in delight… then, it ushers us into our next training ground: the classroom.
Entering the Classroom
We slip into our seats, backs straight, eyes forward. The teacher welcomes us, then wastes no time getting right to the heart of it: Work hard! Study hard! Aim high! Excel! It’s part pep talk, part command, and it repeats day after day.
Soon, we catch on. Shiny red A+’s and gold stars mean praise, attention, and, if we collect enough, a trophy, a moment in the spotlight. That’s when we learn what our classroom is really promising: Nail the grade, ace the test, and poof! Your people appear, and that pesky quiet bolts out the back door (Kohn, 2018).
But the promise is a trick. While we’re focused on earning approval, we don’t notice what we’ve lost: the real warmth traded in for shiny symbols, connection replaced by the fleeting echo of clapping hands.
And when consumer culture is satisfied that we’re sufficiently hooked on the classroom’s grades and gold stars, it smiles and presses a glowing rectangle into our palm. Look carefully, it says, I’ve made this just for you.
Cosmos in Our Palms
The screen lights up, and in a flash, we’re swept into a shimmering, handheld cosmos. Facebook and Instagram reach for us, promising, I’ll help you meet new people. WhatsApp and Snapchat hum, We’ll keep the chatter alive. And Fortnite and Roblox pull at our sleeves, telling us, Come play, there’s fun and friendship in here!
Even when the device’s glow blocks the faces right in front of us, we still believe the promise: You’ll find your people here, in this glowing rectangle (Przybylski & Weinstein, 2013).
So there we stand, a phone in one hand and two lists in the other—one list stamped Buy! and the other Achieve! And we don’t even realize we’ve slipped into consumer culture’s endless game. It’s a game that began with a promise, Play along, and your people will appear. But now it never ends. The game just keeps whispering, Buy…Strive… just a little more…
But even as we race from one purchase to the next, from one achievement to another, something deep within keeps gently tapping us on the shoulder. Hey, it says, this isn’t what I came for. I was made for something deeper: for late-night laughter, for bear hugs that refuse to let go, for people who see me, stay, and truly care. That’s the life that calls to me.
It’s calling, soft and steady. If you hear it, too, then come on. Let’s lace up and go find what we were made for. Together.
