World’s on Fire, But At Least I’m Caught Up
In 2025, as we wobble through life juggling laundry, existential dread, and an uncharacteristic obsession with gluten-free croutons, something remarkable has happened: most of us now spend more time scrolling through the world’s latest disasters than pondering what socks to wear today. And yet – here’s the rub – they’re disasters we can’t do a damn thing to change. It’s like tuning into a horror movie and then checking your phone to see if anything real popped up during the credits.
Welcome, dear reader, to the oddball club of doom‑scrollers, where everyone’s quietly wondering: Why do I keep reading about stuff that makes me feel both helpless and annoyingly informed?
The Addiction That Doesn’t Exist (Except That It Definitely Does)
First, can we talk about how irresistible bad news is? It’s basically the writing equivalent of a junk‑food binge. You know you’ll feel sick after you’re done, and yet – dang if you don’t click “Next” like it’s the last slice of pizza. Maybe it’s because bad news is dramatically entertaining. It’s like reality TV for morality: “Tune in to see if civilization collapses before I finish my coffee.”
Or perhaps it’s the “self-satisfaction bonus”: we consume tragedy for free while maintaining a cozy distance. Think of it: “Look at me. I’m informed. I care. But also I’m sitting on my couch in pajama pants, eating oatmeal, and simultaneously very powerless.” And that paradox? That’s practically a dopamine cocktail.
When Information Becomes a Hobby (Like Beekeeping, But More Depressing)
In the golden days, hobbies were harmless: knitting, watercolour, or stalking your high school crush on Facebook. Now, a hobby is reading about floods, wars, corrupt politicians, and AI gone rogue – all before breakfast. You might argue that these are responsibly informed citizens doing their civic duty. But let’s be honest: it’s more like compulsive worry with a side of procrastination.
Meanwhile, actual action – the sort of messy, inconvenient, sweaty kind – is awkwardly absent. Because yes, you could donate, you could volunteer, you could write to your representative. But instead, you choose to read the 27-part thread about it, because threads are easier and faster and come with epic side‑eye GIFs.
Because Doom Is a Conversation Starter (Even When Our Conversations Are Basically Spaghetti)
We scroll not just for the news – but for the reactions. Reading about calamities gives us something to talk about besides the weather or our latest existential crisis. “Did you hear there’s a heatwave in Siberia? But it’s winter there. Isn’t that… weird?” Almost every life story now begins with “So I read something horrible today…”
It’s not just small talk. It’s apologetic empathy. “I read this terrible thing, and I thought of you. And then I felt despair. And now we’re both, like, emotionally exhausted, and yet connected.” It’s a social glue forged in tears, outrage, and capitalism’s newest offering: emotional labor-as-entertainment.
The Illusion of Control
Here’s the kicker: reading about doom gives you the illusion of control. You can’t stop a hurricane. You can’t reverse policy. You can’t sing a sad song and make the drought go away. But you can know what’s happening, feel outraged, write a grammatically correct tweet (oh boy, what a thrill). It’s like spinning the wheel of doom and landing on “climate collapse!” but still feeling like you’re winning… at nothing.
It’s comforting in a twisted way. Like carrying an umbrella when it’s not raining, just in case. You might still get wet, but hey, at least you tried. And that’s what counts, right?
The Self‑Flagellation Trend (Woohoo, We’re Emotionally Exhausted)
At some point, doom‑scrolling became its own form of productivity. “I spent three hours looking at killing, rioting, and existential dread – so obviously I’m contributing to discourse.” It’s like an emotional CrossFit. You didn’t like the post, but you supported it. You didn’t share the article, but you internalised it. You didn’t solve anything…but you felt things. That counts.
And then, of course, there’s the inevitable guilt. “Why am I watching this? I’m overwhelmed. I’m doing nothing.” So you doom‑scroll some more, because maybe the universe will reward you with a “Well done, you are sufficiently ashamed of humanity.” (Spoiler alert: It won’t.)
The Real Reason: Because It’s Human (And Also Kinda Ridiculous)
In the end, we keep reading about the world’s plunge into chaos for reasons more human than high‑minded. We read because, well, something has to be happening. If we didn’t, the world would feel benign, paused, or worse – boring. And nothing makes us feel alive like watching everything fall apart…from a safe distance, with popcorn.
It’s a paradox: we’re drawn to nonsense we can’t fix, because in some perverse way, it makes us feel like we matter. We become guardians of information, even while living in structural impotence. We become minor witnesses to the planet’s melodrama, and somehow that’s…comforting?
Maybe the cure isn’t to unsubscribe, delete your news apps, or smear yourself in SPF 100. Maybe it’s to admit we’re addicted – and that’s okay. We don’t have to be heroes. We don’t have to solve global crises while folding laundry. We just have to keep one small, defiant ember lit (even if that ember is one heck of a snarky blog post).
In Conclusion (With a Side of Snark, and a Dash of Sanity)
So yes, dear doom‑scrollers, here’s your official permission slip: keep reading the news you can’t change. Keep feeling powerless, fueled by outrage, and morally fatigued. Because it’s human, it’s absurd, and, if nothing else, it’s really entertaining.
But full disclosure: I don’t do it. I don’t let myself drown in the quicksand of tragedy headlines or scroll until my thumb begs for a sick leave. Instead, I live my actual life. I go outside. I sweat on purpose (working out, not just panicking). I read books that don’t require trigger warnings and I write words that aren’t optimised for algorithms. I sit with my family at the table and actually notice them – their laughter, their small complaints, their weird quirks.
While the world collapses in another browser tab, I’m over here trying to be alive – properly alive. Which is, ironically, the least doom-scroll-y thing a human can do.
So maybe the punchline is this: you can keep feasting on digital despair if that’s your preferred flavour, but don’t forget there’s a whole buffet called Real Life. It’s messier, yes, but infinitely tastier.
Erika Matic is a writer of sharp edges and sideways grins, committed to poking holes in the inflatable pool float of modern existence. She observes, she skewers, she laughs, and occasionally she takes a break to live – because if you’re not paying attention to your own life, then really, what’s the point?
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