Life Beyond FOMO

An interesting question someone asked me a few days ago was this: Do you get FOMO? It took me a moment to understand this modern city expression. FOMO, she explained, means the fear of missing out.

When I thought about it, I realised that by the standards of the modern world I miss out on quite a lot. I miss out on the latest trends. I miss out on the hottest discussions circulating on social media. I miss out on visits to malls, parties with friends, and the endless excitement of owning the newest gadgets and devices.

So yes, in a literal sense, I do miss out on these things. But there is an important difference. I do not fear missing out on them.

It is a conscious decision. In fact, the more I observe the world around me, the more I feel that much of this excitement has a certain superficiality about it. It is noise rather than substance. It seems meaningless to me.

For me, the real fear would be something else entirely. The real fear would be missing out on life itself. Missing out on quiet, meaningful time with family and close friends. Missing out on the conversations that wander gently from one thought to another while sitting in the sun on a winter afternoon. Missing out on those simple shared moments that later become the most precious memories.

I remember reading about a study in a book where people who were in the final years of their lives were asked a simple question. Looking back, what did they feel they could have done better? What did they wish they had more of? The answers, across different lives and backgrounds, were strikingly similar. Most people did not speak about money they wished they had earned, or possessions they wished they had acquired. They did not regret missing the rush of a fast life or the endless chase of material things. Instead, the answer that kept appearing again and again was much simpler and far more human. They wished they had spent more time with the people they loved.

There are so many things in life worth giving attention to. So many wonderful books waiting patiently on shelves. I already know that I will not be able to read all the books I would like to in this lifetime. That, to me, feels like a much greater loss than missing the latest phone or the newest trend.

A walk through the orchard with family, talking about the fruit trees, watching the buds swell in spring or the leaves fall in autumn, spotting a bird calling from a distant branch. These are moments that never feel wasted. They feel like time properly lived. Such small experiences carry richness.

Compared to that, sitting in a crowded multiplex watching a film often feels strangely hollow. The story may be grand, the sound loud, the visuals spectacular. Yet stepping out of the hall one often carries very little of it back into real life. The hustle and bustle of cities too seems to me a curious kind of performance. Everyone appears busy, rushing somewhere, chasing something. Yet when one pauses to ask what exactly is being chased, the answer often remains unclear.

Many people who visit here tell me they long for a quieter life. They speak fondly of silence, of open skies, of mornings without traffic noise. On the other hand, I rarely feel the urge to go to cities. Perhaps once in a while I might enjoy wandering through an old crowded market, observing people, tasting some street food, absorbing the colour and chaos for a few hours.

The slow rhythm of nature has a way of reminding us what truly matters. And perhaps that is the real antidote to the FOMO that city folk mention. When one begins to pay attention to the quiet abundance around us, the fear of missing out slowly dissolves. Because one realises that life is already happening here, in the present moment, in the rustle of leaves, in a shared conversation, in a walk through the orchard, in company of family and friends.

The real tragedy would not be missing the world’s noise. The real tragedy would be missing this.

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