by Andrea Crowley-Hughes

The day I went to get my MacBook, the commuter train that connects Newark, New Jersey to lower Manhattan was packed and slow. Although it was only the beginning of spring, I remember the overwhelming heat, exhaustion and lightheadedness that caused me to crouch on the floor when no seats were available. A woman who looked to be in her late 20s or 30s—about my age—was being helped by paramedics when we got to 14th Street because she had fainted on the ride.

For years, I imagined having the same technological tools as my peers, or the people I wished to be. Long stretches of time waiting for programs to load would dissolve into minutes, or seconds. I could breezily pull a silver Mac out of its case and get to work on a design for a client before we even finished our conversation. I could make things with code without being denied entry into a world I longingly looked into from behind the barrier of cryptic error messages.

Maybe my mind, trained by years of readings and sermons that extolled the value of personal sacrifice, I half-expected to endure a treacherous passage to “earn” the privilege of having this shiny thing once outside my realm of possibility, but my body was shocked. Cooled by light raindrops and enlivened by the bittersweet taste of a pineapple smoothie, I headed to the Apple Store for one of the shortest transactions I ever made. It was simple: here’s the one with the best processor, work will reimburse me, the end.

Minus the physical exertion of getting there, it all seemed too easy. When I opened the black box to begin setting it up, and the iconography of the apple on packaging made sense to me given the Garden of Eden story that is familiar in American culture. This thing was decadent, a light, airy and elegant-looking version of something associated with work, with patience and duty. It must have been revolutionary to design something that threw pleasure into that very mundane mix. My self-denial roots go deep, and at the beginning of my career I am always checking myself: voices from another time nag, “do you really need this?” “Do you really deserve this?” But here I was, touching a gateway to knowledge, to possibility and to power. It felt like a sin.

It was a strange, new feeling to have devices that would obey the commands of my fingers so easily (replacing exertion, effort, confusion and space for self-doubt). I had also upgraded my phone, but felt the impulse to keep reminding myself that when I was riding home from grad school, all my attention on Twitter, 8 GB was enough.

At least my low-tech past instilled in me an eternal sense of gratitude. I will never not remember the days before: being the one kid who had to hand-write science reports, staying late at the school’s new computer lab, finally having access to a computer at home, even if the screen occasionally wobbled. Remembering all the stages is akin to the Passover song Dayenu – each new screen a step out of having less, a step into being able to do more. A step away from the embarrassment of the previous one.

I sometimes wonder, though, if the memory of being without and being different prevents me from owning the ability and power that comes with having new tools. If there was once a lack, that lack can return (especially in today’s uncertain work environment). Plus, I see possibility as stressful and overwhelming. I have not done half of the things I dreamed I would do with my new technology. The infinite expanse of what is possible is met by a tendency to get frustrated when I don’t understand how to do something, my limited time and my still fledgling self-confidence.

In the days after I secured this machine I went through literal pains to obtain, I thought about the new problem of uncluttering our digital space. Inbox Zero will condense your conversations so logging into Gmail is not an assault to the senses. Most every social media platform filters content through an algorithm so we don’t see the full breadth of everything our friends and acquaintances share. Simplicity is also helpful for creative pursuits, and an ironic tool of the trade for people who make digital and interactive art. In Rise of the Video Game Zinesters, game designer Anna Anthropy recommends starting to design games on very simple programs that offer the constraints we need to jog our minds into thinking differently. While I haven’t designed a game (yet?) I can appreciate this sentiment – in my experience, simple interfaces often lead to the most harmonious graphic designs.

Less is more. But because technology is an industry where you need certain equipment to enter the ranks of technologists, less is more for people who already have more. For people who once had less, now have a little bit more and are constantly worried they are less, it’s a constant maze. Looking back on my late-adapter saga, I see resilience but also shame, a fear of being left behind, shut out or shut down that no new device or program will fix.

The long work of becoming confident is done internally, and there are no cheat codes. But people like me — we’ll figure it out.

Andrea Crowley-Hughes is a Refresh co-editor, former print journalist and recent graduate of The New School Media Studies program. Her work has also been published in The Culture Trip. Follow her on Twitter and Instagram.