If I could change something about modern society, I would not begin with laws or leaders or even the way wealth is distributed. I would begin with the speed. The pace at which we expect life to happen, healing to occur, dreams to materialize, and emotions to resolve. We have created a world that idolizes busyness, where productivity is worshipped and rest is mistaken for weakness. Where every minute must be accounted for, every accomplishment packaged and posted, and even grief must come with a timeline. We live in a culture where slowness is nearly a sin, where people feel guilty for not moving fast enough, not being loud enough, not achieving more than they did yesterday. It’s as if we’ve all agreed—without even speaking—that life must be sprinted through, and those who dare to walk are simply left behind.

We are praised for multitasking while our hearts are burning out quietly in the background. We applaud the ones who never stop, rarely asking what that constant motion is costing them. Even joy is something we rush through now—snapped in a photo before we’ve even had a chance to feel it. Even sorrow is trimmed into something presentable. There’s an unspoken expectation to move on quickly, to post a caption that makes pain poetic, and to “heal” before we’ve even fully understood the weight of what was lost.

I would change this. I would ask the world to slow down—not to stall, but to become more intentional. To remember the value of stillness, not as something to be earned after exhaustion but as something we are inherently worthy of. I would wish for a society that doesn’t flinch at silence. One that allows space for in-between moments—the awkward, the unspoken, the half-finished. A world where we are not rushed to conclusions, where not everything needs to be solved right now. I would change the way we measure worth—not by how much someone can carry, but by how gently they hold what they’ve been given. Not by how visible they are, but by how deeply they live. I would ask that we see rest not as indulgence but as preservation, as a sacred return to the self after the world has drained us dry.

Modern society has mastered connection but forgotten intimacy. We can send messages across the globe in seconds, and yet so many of us go to bed feeling deeply alone. We can scroll through hundreds of lives in minutes and still not know who we are. We’ve become experts at editing ourselves, curating the best parts for others to consume—but rarely do we allow ourselves to be fully seen: unfiltered, unfinished, unsure. And in doing so, we’ve become strangers to our own needs. If I could, I would soften the edges of this world. I would rebuild the spaces where people are allowed to be fully human: messy, contradictory, healing in layers. I would teach children that empathy is as powerful as intelligence, and I would remind adults that vulnerability is not a liability—it’s where the real strength begins. We have built systems that reward performance and punish emotion, and in doing so, we’ve quietly trained ourselves to suppress the most sacred parts of who we are.

I would also change the way we treat each other in small, invisible ways. The day-to-day, eye-to-eye interactions that no one sees but shape everything. I would wish for a culture where kindness is not a performance for social media, but a daily practice lived out in quiet corners. Where we speak gently even when no one’s watching. Where people check in not just when it’s convenient, but especially when it’s inconvenient. Where compassion is not grand or dramatic, but humble and consistent. I would want us to raise our children to believe that success is not only about titles or trophies, but about how you make people feel in your presence. I would wish for a society that doesn’t reward the loudest voice in the room, but honours the one who listens with their whole heart.

I would change the way we rush past one another—on streets, in hospitals, in our own homes—distracted by schedules, buried in screens, too caught up in our own timelines to notice that someone near us is quietly unraveling. I would help us remember the beauty of lingering. Of staying a little longer. Of asking, “How are you—really?” and being ready to receive the truth. I would remind us that the most profound transformations often happen in quiet places: in midnight conversations, in handwritten notes, in shared silences that don’t demand explanation.

In the end, the change I dream of is not revolutionary in the way the world defines it. It is not loud. It does not come with slogans. It will not trend. It is quiet. Gentle. Soft-spoken. But it is radical in its simplicity: to slow down, to show up, and to see each other again. To remember that we are not meant to keep proving our worth at every turn. We are not machines. We are not content. We are not algorithms. We are human beings—aching, dreaming, enduring—and we deserve a world that honours the weight and wonder of that truth.

We deserve a world that doesn’t just expect us to survive it, but one that invites us to be whole in it.