Why We Can’t Look (or Listen) to Each Other Anymore

The Hurry Virus — Wednesday Deep Dive | June 4

I have a home on the edge of a wilderness where predators—including wolves—often pass through our property. One thing I’ve learned: wolves don’t just go for the weakest. They look for the one who becomes separated from the herd. Distracted. Fragmented. Out of sync. They look for isolation.

That image comes to mind when I think about what the hurry virus is doing to us—not just individually, but relationally.

Because let’s be honest: most of us are not okay in our relationships.

We’re distracted in conversations.
We half-listen to our kids or our spouse while scrolling.
We can’t sit still without wondering what we’re missing elsewhere.
We forget names. We interrupt. We disappear mid-sentence.
And we rarely look each other in the eye—or truly listen.

We blame it on stress, or busyness, or modern life.
But the truth is simpler—and more dangerous.

We’re not being hunted by wolves.
We’re being hunted by speed.

What Hurry Is Doing to Us

Hurry is not neutral. It doesn't just change your schedule—it changes your soul.

Psychiatrist and spiritual writer Curt Thompson describes how our brains require safe, attuned presence in order to connect deeply.
That means being fully seen and emotionally available—with someone who is truly with us.

But when we're rushed, preoccupied, or anxious, our nervous systems shift into a subtle state of threat.
We scan. We react. We pull back—or get aggressive.

We may not feel panicked.
But we’re no longer present.

“You can’t be curious and in a hurry at the same time,” Thompson writes.

You also can’t be empathetic. Or attentive. Or loving.
Because all of those require space.
And space is the one thing hurry steals first.

Eyes and Ears

One of the first things to go when life gets too fast is eye contact.
We stop seeing each other.

We glance instead of gaze.
We scan instead of connect.
Even in moments that should be tender, we’re looking past one another—toward the next obligation, the next text, the next box to check.

But just as often, we stop listening.

Not just hearing—but listening.
The kind that picks up tone. Hesitation. Emotion.
The kind that’s only possible when our internal RPMs come down.

I’ve noticed this on long walks—especially with my wife. When we walk together on a trail, we can’t always look at each other as we talk.
Once, in the middle of a great conversation, I turned to keep eye contact and missed that the trail turned—and promptly walked full-force into a tree.

We laughed. Then we walked on.

Even without constant eye contact, we listened.
We heard each other.
We caught shifts in voice, subtle emotions, buried questions.

And because we are listening—really listening—we can stop walking… and turn to look.

Slowness activates both: eyes and ears.
And without both, relationships suffer.

Why This Matters for Spiritual Formation

Spiritual formation is, at its core, learning to pay attention to what God is doing in and around us.

But if hurry has eroded our capacity to attend to one another, it has almost certainly eroded our capacity to attend to God.

We skim the Scriptures.
We glance at God between appointments.
We expect transformation without presence.

And presence is what’s missing.

You can’t live a hurried life and expect an unhurried soul.

If God is always with us—but we’re never fully with anything (not our breath, not our bodies, not our relationships)—
how can we possibly be with Him?

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A Personal Shift: From Fast Lane to Trailhead

I didn’t always notice what hurry was doing to me.

But somewhere along the way, I started hiking more.
At first, I loved the beauty, the quiet, the movement.
But over time, I discovered something else:

You can’t hike fast.
Not really. Not when the trail is steep or the rocks are loose or the air is thin.
You have to go slowly. And when you do, something shifts.

On those trails, I found myself fantasizing about living that way all the time.
Slower. More present. More grounded.

Of course, the moment I returned to “real life,” the speed returned, too.
Deadlines. Commitments. The rush of Northern California.

So I started experimenting:

First, I moved into the slow lane on the freeway—on purpose.
(When I told my faith community, they laughed. “Not happening,” they said. I got it. In our packed freeways, with drivers rushing to get ahead, slow can actually feel more dangerous than fast. But I’ve persisted.)

Then, I bought a bike—and rode instead of driving when I could.

Eventually, I began walking to stores. Even when biking would be faster.

And something began to rewire in me.
Not overnight. But slowly, steadily.

And I noticed this:
When I walked, I listened.
To God. To others.
To what I’d missed when I was in motion.

Some of my best conversations – both with God and with others -- now happen when I’m walking.

Unhurried steps. Unscripted conversation.
And eventually… we look at each other—and listen to one another.

Could That Be the Starting Place?

Maybe the first step in recovering your soul isn’t a class or a journal or a retreat or even a prayer.

Maybe it’s just this:

Choose to move slower somewhere—on purpose.
Choose to stay present with one person longer than you normally would.
Choose to see someone in the eye—and stay there.
Choose to listen long enough that your heart finally quiets down.

Spiritual formation is impossible without presence.
And presence is impossible without resistance to hurry.
You will not drift into depth.

But you can walk into it.

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💌 Know someone who’s worn out by hurry and slower life… or wondering if connection and community is even possible anymore?

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You never know what one shared story can do.

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More Tomorrow

—Gene