Systems are supposed to make life easier.
But what about human connection in a digital world, which can sometimes feel challenging to maintain?
Over the past year, I’ve watched what happens when technology, policies, and automated processes stop supporting people—and start replacing human thinking altogether.
And it reminded me of something important:
Systems are powerful. But humanity is irreplaceable.
Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about human connection—what supports it, what erodes it, and what happens when systems begin to replace people.
We live in a world where technology is everywhere. And to be clear, I am not anti-technology. I love systems. Systems make sense to me. Systems help me balance. They help me function. I rely on them, and I love when they work smoothly.
In fact, during one of the hardest seasons of my life, systems quite literally helped me survive.
Loving systems — because I need them
After my head injury, my memory wasn’t reliable. My energy was limited. My nervous system was overwhelmed. I needed structure outside of myself while I was healing.
Alexa became my assistant. She was my timer. My reminder. My shopping list.
She helped me organize my days when my brain couldn’t hold everything on its own. She helped me stay engaged with my life instead of withdrawing from it. And in that role, she was brilliant.
I still use those tools today.
So when I talk about boundaries with technology in our home, it’s important to understand this: our choices were never about rejecting systems. They were about using them intentionally.
Using Technology Intentionally
Our family has always had clear boundaries around technology. And people sometimes assume that comes from being rigid or old-fashioned.
Maybe. But it also comes from awareness.
After my head injury, I became deeply aware of how overstimulation affects the nervous system. Then our son was diagnosed with epilepsy when he was two. This started our journey with technology and the developing brain. Along the way, we saw—very clearly—the impact of short videos, endless scrolling, and constant stimulation on attention, regulation, and addiction.
Technology isn’t evil. But it’s powerful. And powerful things require boundaries.
One of the boundaries we set early on was simple: when we go out to dinner, there are no devices at the table.
Five people. Eye contact. Conversation. And yes—there are exceptions. But it is never our default.
As our kids have gotten older, I’ve grown more appreciative of that boundary. Our children look at the waitress/waiter when they order. They make conversation. They know how to regulate themselves in public without escaping into a screen.
That didn’t happen by accident.
We practiced being uncomfortable together. We practiced being present. And honestly, a lot of that came from survival—we had to learn how to regulate ourselves. I wasn’t willing to put something in front of my children that diminished our shared experience or replaced the work of learning how to be human together.
When systems stop thinking
This past year, that lesson about systems and humanity showed up in a completely different way.
Our son had to go back on epilepsy medication. Anyone familiar with seizure medications knows that it’s not something you can just start at a full dose. The process is called titration—slowly increasing the dosage over time because these are powerful brain medications.
The neurologist would adjust the prescription. The pharmacy would fill it. And then, month after month, the system would reject it.
Because the dose had changed.
The pharmacy system didn’t understand titration.
Insurance systems flagged it as inconsistent.
Overrides were required.
And often, we didn’t even know there was a problem until I showed up to pick up the medication—only to be told it wasn’t available. Insurance only approves the medication a few days before you physically run out of the med. So it could never be handled a week (or two) before he was due for a renewal. Always, with a last few pills left and an inevitable scramble with only one dose left.
This matters because epilepsy medication timing is not flexible. If he misses a dose, he is at risk of having a seizure.
I spent half a dozen hours every month, sometimes more, on the phone, explaining the math. Explaining the dosage. Explaining that he was taking multiple pill sizes to reach the correct amount. Walking people step-by-step through calculations they couldn’t seem to grasp.
And still, the system would bounce it back.
What was hardest wasn’t the complexity. It was the absence of human thinking.
People were relying entirely on a system instead of listening, understanding, or reasoning through a real human situation.
And month after month, the system bounced it back.
At some point, the problem stopped feeling like a prescription issue and started feeling like something deeper—like no one inside the system was actually thinking anymore. I was exhausted. What I didn’t realize was how much I needed someone to simply show up as a human on the other end of the phone.
Then I connected with one.
The pharmacist named Zen.
Not as a concept, not as a philosophy—but as a person on the other end of the phone call, calm and present in the middle of a system that had felt anything but. Zen, meaning balance. Presence. Attentive awareness. A steadiness that comes from actually being with what’s in front of you.
The moment she said it, I knew we were aligned for a reason.
Not because everything would suddenly be easy—but because she was listening. Because she was thinking. Because she was willing to stay with the problem instead of handing it back to the system.
That connection mattered. And it helped. More than any override code ever did.
Zen listened. She understood titration immediately. She applied human thought to the system instead of deferring to it. Zen, the person, heard my exhaustion and my fear—not as an inconvenience, but as a parent trying to keep her child safe.
And because she showed up as a human, she got us through the final three months of titration.
The system didn’t change. A person did.
Tools are meant to stay tools
I still use systems and I rely on them. I still believe they can support us—especially when life is hard.
But I don’t want them to replace thinking, presence, or connection. I want them to stay tools.
Systems can organize information. They can process requests. They can make life more efficient.
But they cannot replace human judgment.
Systems cannot recognize fear in a parent’s voice. They cannot pause and consider the real-life consequences of a delay. Systems do not understand what it means when a missed dose of medication could lead to a seizure.
Only people can do that.
Technology is powerful. Systems are powerful. But they were never meant to replace humanity.
They were meant to support it.
This past year reminded me of something simple: the system didn’t change. A person did.
And sometimes, the difference between chaos and stability, between fear and relief, between a system failing and a family getting through a hard season, is simply one person willing to think, listen, and show up as a human inside the machine.
Because systems may run the world—but humanity is what holds it together.
Why do I teach nervous system regulation to children?
More about my passion for nervous system regulation here and my journey as an Epilepsy Mom here.
The Epilepsy Foundation is an excellent resource if you are looking for more information about epilepsy.