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Loving in the Age of Battery Percentages


After a long hike, when every step has chipped away at my energy, I finally sit down to send a message. The phone screen glows faintly—10% battery remaining. Not enough for comfort, but enough to reach out. In this small digital window, I grasp a tenuous connection to something larger than myself.

There’s a peculiar irony in how much attention we pay to these lifeless numbers—percentages that dictate the limits of our communication, our connection, our presence. We monitor the battery like it’s a metaphor for our own emotional reserves, a visible measure of something invisible and infinitely more complex.

In an age where connectivity is assumed, where distance is bridged by pixels and signals, it’s striking how often we feel disconnected from ourselves. Our phones warn us of dwindling power, but who warns us when our capacity to engage, to care, to truly be present, begins to fade?

The battery percentage is a daily reminder that everything—attention, affection, patience—has limits. We ration our energy carefully, hesitant to expend it too freely, as if love were a resource to be hoarded rather than a force to be lived. Yet, ironically, it is this very rationing that dulls the vitality of connection.

We forget that presence is not merely a signal sent or received but a commitment to show up in the unfiltered, uncharged moments. Love cannot thrive on low power warnings; it demands a fullness we rarely allow ourselves to inhabit.

So, I send that message with 10% left, knowing the fragile thread may snap at any moment. It is a quiet reckoning: to love in an age of finite charge is to recognize the limits of technology, and more importantly, the limits within ourselves.

The real question isn’t how long the battery lasts, but how fully we choose to live before it dies.

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