Before Electricity Became Warm: Reflections on Modern Comfort and the Lost Ease of Living

In my house today, everything begins with a button.
The air purifier detects dust before I notice it. The washing machine calculates detergent on its own. The robot vacuum sweeps quietly across the floor like a patient servant.
The refrigerator reminds me what's expiring, and the coffee machine wakes up at seven with perfect timing. And yet, I often stand there and ask myself, “If life is this easy, why do I feel more tired?”

Technology has made our days lighter, but our hearts heavier.
We can do more, faster, cleaner—but somewhere in between, we've lost the rhythm of living. Sometimes, I miss the time when hands, not buttons, shaped the day.

I remember the old washing machine my mother used.
When it arrived, she marveled at how it spun. But a few months later, she went back to hand washing. “The machine is too cold,” she said. “Clothes need warm water and hands.”
Back then, I didn't understand. Now I do. Machines remove stains, but they can't leave love behind.

The same with fire.
Today's induction stove hums with precision, adjusting temperatures to the exact degree.
But I still miss the gas flame—the flicker that breathed life into the kitchen. Fire had personality; it danced. When the kettle began to whistle, my mother would smile and say, “The tea's ready.”
Now, the only glow comes from digital numbers, and I sometimes wonder if my heart still warms without a flame.

Even the refrigerator has changed. The old ones held more than food—they held stories.
Inside were my father's lunchbox side dishes, jars of homemade kimchi, and the familiar smell of family. Our modern smart fridge is immaculate, intelligent, organized—and strangely empty. There's no trace of fingerprints, no scent of a shared life. Clean, but distant.

I think of the mortar my mother used to crush garlic.
Its steady rhythm filled the mornings like music: tok, tok, tok. That sound woke the house and started the day. Now, the blender finishes in seconds, loud but lifeless. Speed ​​has won, but waiting has lost.

When the telephone used to ring, the whole house would listen.
We could tell from the tone of a voice if it was good news or bad. Afterward, everyone would ask, “Who was it? Why are you smiling?” It was more than communication—it was connection . Today, we have texts, emojis, and video calls, but our conversations feel thinner, lighter, faster—and emptier.

Even cleaning has changed.
Our robot vacuum glides silently across the floor, mapping every inch of the room.
It's brilliant, efficient, tireless. But I miss the sound of my mother's broom, the rhythm of bristles meeting wood, the faint scent of dust and soap in the air. The robot cleans better, but it doesn't leave warmth behind.

Technology is wonderful, but it has quieted our homes too much.
There's no heartbeat in the hum of modern machines. Once, tools followed our rhythm; now, we follow them. I often open the drawer where I keep old tools—a hand grinder, a wooden broom, a rotary phone. They are slow, clumsy, imperfect—but also tender .
They carry a warmth that no screen can imitate.

Progress isn't the enemy.
But I've learned that true comfort isn't in speed or automation. It's in the pause between actions—the time to breathe, to feel, to notice. I still pour coffee by hand into an old ceramic cup, still cook soup in a worn pot. The world around me runs faster every day, but I move slowly on purpose. Because warmth—the human kind—can't be powered by electricity.

As I stand in my kitchen each morning, the steam rising from my cup, I smile and think,
“Maybe real convenience isn't about doing more.
Maybe it’s about doing it slowly—and meaning it.”