When Easier Isn’t Better (sometimes)

Digital tools are designed to remove friction. They’re fast, searchable, endlessly adjustable. With a few taps, you can capture a thought, queue a song, store a photograph, retrieve it later - or forget it entirely.

I use these tools every day. They’re undeniably useful.

Still, when given the choice, I keep returning to analog.

Books instead of notes apps.
Records instead of playlists.
Printed photographs instead of folders in the cloud.

Not because analog is better, but because it behaves differently.

Analog introduces limits - and those limits matter

Digital systems promise abundance. Infinite storage. Infinite choice. Infinite revision. Nothing is ever final, and nothing is ever lost.

Analog is the opposite.
A book has weight. A record has sides. A notebook fills up.

These limits change how I engage.

When space is finite, attention sharpens. When revision is harder, intention increases. You don’t skim a record the way you skim a playlist. You don’t casually flip through a printed photograph the way you scroll past an image on a screen.

Analog asks you to slow down not by instruction, but by design.

Friction can be a feature

We often talk about friction as something to eliminate. But not all friction is bad.

The small effort required to place a record on a turntable, to turn a page, to sit with a notebook - that effort creates a pause. A moment of decision. A signal that what follows deserves focus.

Digital tools are excellent at making things effortless. Analog tools are better at making things intentional.

That difference matters, especially in moments meant for reflection, listening, or rest.

Presence over optimization

There’s a subtle pressure in digital environments to optimize everything: the fastest workflow, the cleanest system, the most efficient way to capture and retrieve information.

Analog doesn’t optimize well. It doesn’t sync across devices. It doesn’t back itself up. It doesn’t remind you what you meant six months ago.

What it does offer is presence.

When you sit with something physical, you’re there with it. There’s no tab-switching. No alerts arriving from elsewhere. No quiet sense that something more efficient could be happening instead.

For certain moments - reading, listening, thinking - that presence is worth more than speed.

This isn’t nostalgia

Choosing analog isn’t a rejection of modern life. It isn’t about returning to the past or pretending technology doesn’t exist.

It’s about being selective.

Digital tools excel at many things: communication, coordination, access, scale. Analog tools excel at fewer things, but they do those things well. They create boundaries. They resist distraction. They slow time just enough to notice it passing.

I don’t want everything to be analog.
I just don’t want everything to be frictionless.

A quieter way of choosing

What I’ve learned from choosing analog isn’t that one medium is superior to another. It’s that how something is designed shapes how we behave around it.

Objects, systems, and tools are not neutral. They encourage certain rhythms. They invite certain kinds of attention.

Choosing analog, for me, is less about the object itself and more about the pace it sets.

A slower start.
A deliberate middle.
A clear ending.

In a world optimized for speed and scale, choosing something slower can feel almost radical. But often, it’s simply a way of deciding how much of yourself you want to give to a moment.

And sometimes, that’s reason enough.