We were promised ease. Streamlined systems, self-service portals, one-click logins, and apps designed to anticipate our every need. Life, they said, would get simpler. More convenient. More under our control.

But what we were actually handed was something else entirely.

Modern convenience has become a burden disguised as a blessing. The very systems designed to help us have quietly shifted the weight of responsibility onto the user. What was once handled by people is now offloaded onto the individual, tucked behind sleek interfaces and “Manage Your Account” buttons that often lead nowhere. And if you need help? Good luck.

The myth of convenience is that it saves us time. The reality is that it often eats our time, and our energy, without us even realizing it. We don’t measure the emotional toll of error messages, login loops, verification mazes, and contradictory information. We don’t talk about how many times we’ve sat at our desks, forehead in hand, clicking through settings we barely understand just to get a basic task done. The cost isn’t just technical. It’s emotional. Psychological. For some, even existential.

Because in these moments, we are alone. There’s no front desk to walk up to. No familiar voice on the other end. Just a sea of dropdown menus, support bots, and help articles that don’t help. And if you do manage to reach a real person, they’re often staring at the same glitchy interface you were already drowning in. The line between support and user has blurred – both are now stuck inside systems no one seems to fully understand. And this isn’t limited to one company or industry. It’s everywhere. Healthcare, employment, taxes, insurance, utilities—even therapy. Each with its own password, its own layout, its own idea of what’s intuitive. The systems don’t speak to each other. And worse, they rarely speak human.

It’s no wonder people give up. Not because they’re unwilling, but because they’re exhausted. It’s not that they’re avoiding responsibility; it’s that responsibility was redefined without consent. Somewhere along the way, being an adult stopped meaning “making choices” and started meaning “navigating labyrinths designed to never let you out.”

We’ve been sold a version of independence that cuts us off from one another. Instead of interacting with people, we interact with interfaces. Instead of being served, we’re sorted. And when things break, when the link doesn’t send, or the portal won’t load – there’s no one there. Just you, the error screen, and the growing feeling that maybe you’re the problem. But you’re not the problem.

The problem is that these systems were never truly designed for people. They were designed for speed. For cost-cutting. For scalability. Human support was deemed inefficient. Emotional clarity, expendable. In their place: generic greetings, AI chatbots, and empty apologies.

We’ve normalized frustration to the point that many of us no longer expect technology to work. We approach digital tasks with pre-loaded dread. And when they fail, we often blame ourselves before we even think to question the system. But we should question the system. Not just the bugs and bad UX, but the entire philosophy behind “self-service.” Because if self-service means serving yourself through ten broken hoops with no safety net, then who exactly is being served?

Until something changes, the best we can do is remind each other that this isn’t ease, it’s exhaustion. That the next time you feel like you can’t even make an appointment without a tech degree and an emotional support animal, it’s not you. It’s the design. The detachment. The quiet cruelty of being expected to navigate everything alone, and cheerfully. Convenience was supposed to set us free. But instead, for many, it’s become the most polite prison imaginable.

And if you’ve felt that? You’re not alone. You were never supposed to do all of this alone.