The Lost Art of Being Bored
In a world where the glow of our screens follows us day and night, boredom has become almost taboo. Being “bored” feels like failure. Like you’re not making the most of your time or keeping up with the endless stream of things you could be doing, watching, listening to, or scrolling past. We have endless entertainment thanks to pocket-sized devices, streaming platforms, podcasts, and social media. But in gaining this access to boundless stimulation, we’ve lost something quiet and essential: the art of being bored.
Not long ago, boredom was part of the natural rhythm of life. People had stretches of time where "nothing” was happening. Riding in the passenger seat on a long drive, sitting on the front porch as the sun tucked itself behind the horizon, or waiting for bread to rise in the oven were ordinary human experiences. Those moments of mental idleness weren’t empty, they were fertile. Out of them came observation, creativity, rest, and reflection. Now, most of us can’t sit still for more than a few seconds without reaching for distraction.
Everywhere we turn, there is something begging for our attention. If we’re waiting in a grocery store line, our instinct is to pull out a phone and check notifications. When the TV show we’re watching loses our interest even slightly, we scroll on another device at the same time. The thought of walking around the block without headphones feels strange, even unsettling.
Take the simple example of a sunset. Once upon a time, watching the sun burn across the sky was a communal ritual or a personal meditation. Today, many of us feel compelled not just to watch a sunset, but to capture it, with dozens of photos, curated carefully for sharing on a digital platform later. The act of documentation replaces the act of presence.
The frontier novelist Louis L’Amour once stated: “One day I sat thinking, almost in despair; a hand fell on my shoulder and a voice said reassuringly, ‘Cheer up, things could be worse!’ So I cheered up and, sure enough, things got worse.”
It’s an ironic reminder that sometimes life doesn’t need to be constantly celebrated, posted about, or even narrated, it just needs to be lived. In his writings, L’Amour frequently emphasized that observation and patience were as important as action. He hinted that the ordinary rhythms of life, waiting, watching, enduring stretches without excitement, were not wasted interludes but part of the adventure itself. That perspective feels like an antidote to our reflex to turn every still moment into a performance.
Here’s the paradox; boredom is not a waste of time. In fact, research suggests it may be the birthplace of imagination and problem-solving. When the mind isn’t occupied by external inputs, it begins to generate its own ideas, connections, and narratives. Children left to their own devices without screens find sticks that become swords, boxes that become castles, clouds that become dragons. Adults may notice the chirp of birds, the stretch of shadows across the sidewalk, or the stirrings of forgotten dreams and goals. Boredom draws us back to noticing. It draws us back to being. Maybe the question, then, is not whether boredom is valuable but how to reclaim it. How do we relearn the art of simply being present without stimulation?
It can begin with small acts of rebellion against busy culture. Take one walk a week without headphones, letting the sounds of the world filter in instead of music or news. Sit on the porch during a quiet evening and resist the urge to reach for your phone. Let your eyes focus on the fading sunlight without feeling that you have to capture or “share” it. Allow yourself to be “unproductive” for a few minutes at a time, reminding yourself that rest and stillness are not wasted, they are necessary.
At its core, the art of being bored is the art of simply being. It’s the decision to stop documenting every moment as though it only gains value through proof of its existence. It’s refusing to turn every sunset into content, every laugh into a clip, every meal into a photo shoot. When we pause the performative impulse, we regain intimacy with the moment itself.
The truth is, most of the beauty of life is fragile. Sunsets fade, conversations end, seasons pass, and no camera or caption will ever replicate the way it felt to be alive in those instants. But sitting still, allowing yourself the gift of quiet, and daring to do nothing, that’s where those moments settle into memory.
We may never eliminate the distractions of modern life. Our phones and screens aren’t going anywhere. But we can choose, again and again, to carve out the lost spaces of boredom that allow us to reconnect with ourselves and the world around us. Sometimes, the richest moments are the ones no one else will ever see except you. Perhaps boredom, far from being an inconvenience, is one of the last sanctuaries left.
