Comfort makes life easier.
There is nothing wrong with that.
An air conditioner saves us from the heat. Food arrives at our doorstep with a few taps. A cab is always a few minutes away. We can buy almost anything without leaving our rooms. We have washing machines, elevators, smartphones, streaming platforms, instant payments, and countless little conveniences that save us time and effort.
But there is a question we rarely ask:
At what point does convenience stop serving us, and we start serving convenience?
Perhaps it happens so slowly that we don’t even notice.
One day, walking two kilometres feels normal. A few years later, walking to a shop 500 metres away feels unnecessary because we can order everything online.
We once waited for people. Now, if someone doesn’t reply within a few minutes, we become restless.
We have become so accustomed to comfort that even a small inconvenience can feel like a problem.
And somewhere in the middle of all this convenience, I wonder if we have made life easier but forgotten how to actually experience it.
Is the City Making You Live Like a Machine?
Think about an ordinary weekday in a city.
The alarm rings.
You wake up, check your phone, get ready, travel through traffic, work for hours, return home tired, scroll through your phone, watch something, sleep — and repeat.
Monday becomes Friday.
Friday becomes Monday.
Weeks disappear.
Of course, city life offers opportunities that villages often cannot. Better jobs, universities, hospitals, transportation, entertainment, businesses, and exposure to different people and ideas are genuine advantages.
The problem is not the city.
The problem begins when life becomes a routine we are constantly trying to escape from.
Have you ever waited desperately for the weekend, only for the weekend to disappear before you even felt rested?
Have you ever sat in traffic and looked around at hundreds of people inside cars, buses, and autos, everyone rushing somewhere?
Have you ever returned home after an entire day and wondered:
What did I actually do for myself today?
Maybe that is why, despite having more comfort than previous generations could imagine, so many of us still dream about “getting away.”
Away from traffic.
Away from notifications.
Away from noise.
Away from schedules.
Away from the strange pressure to always be doing something.
And where do we imagine going?
Often, somewhere quiet.
Somewhere green.
Somewhere that looks suspiciously like the life we spent decades trying to leave behind.
What If Peace Looks Like a Village?
Imagine waking up without the sound of traffic outside your window.
You step outside.
There is an open sky above you — not a small patch of blue squeezed between buildings, but an enormous sky stretching from one end of your vision to the other.
The morning air feels different.
Somewhere, birds are making more noise than your phone.
There are green fields in the distance. A narrow road passes between them. Maybe someone is cycling to the market. Someone is working in a field. An elderly man is sitting outside his house, doing absolutely nothing important — and somehow, he doesn’t seem guilty about it.
That last part fascinates me.
City life has taught us that doing nothing is almost a crime.
We need to be productive.
If we are not working, we should be learning. If we are not learning, we should exercise. If we are resting, perhaps we should listen to a podcast while resting so that even our relaxation becomes productive.
But what if you simply sat under a tree?
No headphones.
No reels.
No urgency.
Just you, the wind, the leaves moving above your head, and a few minutes in which nobody expects anything from you.
Would you feel bored?
Or would you finally hear your own thoughts?
The Countryside Isn’t Perfect
It is easy to romanticize village life from a city balcony.
A beautiful field looks peaceful in a photograph, but the person working in that field knows how demanding rural life can be.
Villages may struggle with employment opportunities, healthcare access, education, transportation, infrastructure, and connectivity. Agricultural work is physically demanding, and rural communities have problems of their own.
So no, moving to a village will not magically solve everything.
And perhaps we don’t even need to move.
Maybe the countryside has something more important to teach us.
That a good life does not always require more.
More money.
More gadgets.
More subscriptions.
More restaurants.
More clothes.
More entertainment.
More things competing for our attention.
Sometimes, enough is enough.
We Created Comfort, Then Became Afraid of Discomfort
There was a time when comfort was something we appreciated.
Now it is something we expect.
A room becomes slightly hot — we need the AC.
The internet slows down — we get irritated.
Food takes longer than expected — we complain.
We have five minutes of nothing to do — we reach for the phone.
None of these things makes technology bad. Convenience is one of humanity’s greatest achievements. The ability to communicate instantly, travel quickly, access information, receive medical care, and make difficult tasks easier has improved countless lives.
But perhaps comfort should remain a tool, not become our natural environment.
Because discomfort has something to teach us too.
Walking teaches patience.
Waiting teaches patience.
Silence teaches us to sit with ourselves.
Physical work reminds us that our bodies were designed to move.
Boredom gives imagination somewhere to begin.
And nature reminds us of something modern life often makes us forget:
Not everything needs to happen immediately.
A tree does not grow faster because you are impatient.
A field does not become green overnight.
The sun does not rise because your alarm says 6:00 AM.
Nature has its own rhythm.
Maybe humans do too.
Perhaps We Don’t Need to Escape the City
Maybe the answer isn’t to sell everything and move to a tiny village surrounded by mustard fields.
Maybe the answer is simpler.
Walk when you don’t need a vehicle.
Put your phone away when someone is talking to you.
Sit outside sometimes without trying to entertain yourself.
Visit your village if you have one.
Spend a morning in the countryside.
Watch a sunset without immediately turning it into an Instagram story.
Let yourself be bored.
Cook something instead of ordering it.
Grow a plant.
Talk to your parents or grandparents without checking the time.
Look at the sky.
Small things, yes.
But perhaps life has always been made of small things.
We keep searching for peace as if it is another product waiting to be purchased. A better house. A better phone. A better job. A better vacation.
Maybe peace isn’t something we need to add.
Maybe it appears when we remove a few things.
The noise.
The rush.
The constant consumption.
The need to always be connected.
So if city life has started feeling robotic, don’t immediately blame the city.
Ask yourself a different question:
When was the last time I lived a day without rushing through it?
Perhaps you don’t need to leave modern life behind.
Perhaps you only need to remember that you are a human being before you are an employee, customer, commuter, user, or notification on someone else’s screen.
And sometimes, under an open sky, surrounded by green fields and nothing particularly urgent to do, that becomes much easier to remember.