Please Stop Popping Up At My House Unannounced

You Better Text Before You Teleport into My Personal Space

I know this is about to make me sound eighty-seven years old, but I don't like FaceTime. I don't hate the technology. I think it's impressive.

What I hate is the assumption that I have to use it because it's become socially acceptable. FaceTime isn't a phone call. It's a surprise visit. And I don't particularly enjoy surprise visits.

If someone knocked on my door right now without calling first, I'd peek through the blinds just to see who it is, but I'm not opening the door. FaceTime feels exactly the same.

One second, I'm minding my business. The next second, your forehead is filling my entire screen. Why is it always a forehead? Why am I suddenly looking into somebody's nostrils before we've even exchanged greetings? Did you text first? Did you ask if I was available? No. You just appeared. Digitally. Like a Jehovah's Witness. And I don't like it!

Now, before the FaceTime Enthusiast Association starts drafting a strongly worded response, let me clarify something. This isn't really about FaceTime. It's about access.

Lately, I've been noticing how much modern technology assumes that just because something is possible, it should be welcomed. Somewhere along the way, "Can I?" quietly disappeared and got replaced with "Here I am." People don't just call anymore. They arrive. Suddenly. With no warning. It's the digital equivalent of "popping up" at my house unannounced. And what fascinates me is how normal we've made this.

We're expected to answer texts immediately. Respond to messages immediately. Pick up calls immediately. Share photos immediately. Be reachable immediately. Available immediately. Visible immediately.

It's like humanity collectively decided that boundaries are an afterthought.

Maybe that's why FaceTime bothers me so much. Because there used to be a little ceremony around seeing people. There used to be a little effort...a little anticipation. You had to put on pants. You had to leave the house. You had to drive somewhere. You had to coordinate schedules. You had to decide someone was worth the gas money and the trip. In this generation, that may sound ridiculous, but stay with me... the effort wasn't the point; the intention was the bottom line.

A person didn't accidentally show up at your house. They made a choice. They thought about you. They carved time out of their day.

Sometimes they brought food. Sometimes they brought a story. Sometimes they brought gossip and pound cake....they brought something. The visit itself carried weight because it required something...it required an investment of sorts.

There was something different about knowing somebody had to come through traffic, park the car, knock on the door, and stand there holding whatever they brought with them. Even if it was just a plastic grocery bag with paper plates and a two-liter soda, it still said, “I came over here on purpose.”

But NOW, someone can summon my face with the same level of effort required to check the weather. And somehow we're supposed to treat those two things as equivalent. They're NOT.

Some access requires a drive, an understanding, or purposeful intention (There, I said it). It's not because people need to earn my affection, and not because connection should be difficult, but because effort communicates value in a way convenience never can.

Feelings of resonance and access require effort. There. I said it. Some access requires a drive, an understanding, and purposeful action. Not because people need to earn our affection, and not because connection should be difficult, but because effort communicates value in a way convenience never can.

Think about the people you cherish most. The people whose presence settles your nervous system. The people who know your history. Your quirks. The stories behind your stories. The people who can tell you're upset by the way you say "I'm fine."

Those relationships weren't built because somebody pressed a button. They were built through accumulated effort, sitting with you, showing up, shared experiences, time, investment, and choosing each other repeatedly. And maybe that's the thing I've been trying to put my finger on.

I don't think technology is making us less connected. I think it's making us confuse access with connection.

Access and connection are not the same thing.

And listen, FaceTime has its place. I understand it for long-distance families, emergencies, babies showing grandparents their missing tooth, friends who live states away, and people who genuinely use it with care. I’m not mad at the tool. I’m side-eyeing the assumption that the tool automatically grants access.

Just because someone can reach me doesn't mean they're close to me. Just because someone can see my face doesn't mean they're seeing me. Just because we're communicating doesn't mean we're connecting. That's a completely different thing, and a completely different feeling.

I think about this every time someone says they haven't seen a friend in months but they "talk all the time." Do they? Or do they exchange content all the time? Do they share memes? React to stories? Send links? Because those things aren't bad. I do them too — in fact, I enjoy them —but sometimes it feels like we're living off emotional appetizers and calling it dinner.

A reaction isn't the same thing as a conversation. A FaceTime isn't always the same thing as being together. Convenience is wonderful for maintaining connection. I'm just not convinced it can replace creating a sense of true connection and feeling seen. And maybe that's why I instinctively decline random FaceTime calls. Not necessarily because I'm antisocial, not because I'm hiding, and not because I don't love people. It's quite the opposite. I think presence is sacred. I think attention matters. I think seeing someone should feel intentional. I think access should feel invited, welcomed, and received.

If I'm being honest, there's something about unannounced FaceTime calls that feels oddly entitled. Not always. Not for everybody. But enough that it makes me squint. It's the assumption that because you want access right now, access should automatically be granted. And maybe that's where my old-school heart starts acting up. Because I still believe in knocking. I still believe in asking. I still believe in texting first.

Call me ancient. Call me difficult. Call me technologically resistant. I'll accept all charges. But if seeing me requires no consideration whatsoever, then seeing me starts to feel cheap. Not because I think I'm important, but because I think presence and intentionality are important.

Presence deserves reverence. A little intention. A little thought. A little "Hey, are you free?" ...Before we go teleporting into one another's living rooms.

Maybe I’m not rejecting technology as much as I’m refusing to let convenience become the new measure of closeness.

Maybe I’m not rejecting technology as much as I’m refusing to let convenience become the new measure of closeness?

Crowning Thought

Maybe FaceTime isn't the problem. Maybe the problem is how quickly we've normalized unlimited access to one another. Maybe we've confused availability with intimacy. Maybe we've mistaken visibility for closeness.

Or maybe I'm just an old soul who still thinks some things are worth a drive.

Either way, if you plan on appearing in my living room digitally, do me a favor.

Text first.

Because not everybody needs my face on command...some access still requires a drive.