I have a very particular relationship with new technology.
Not with technology itself. I’ve worked with it for decades. I’ve edited on it, taught it, built entire courses around it.
I know my way around systems.
But new technology? That’s a different species.
Each platform arrives with its own ecosystem.
A login.
A sign-in.
A companion software.
A separate time-tracking software that does not speak to the main software.
A verification code sent somewhere mysterious.
Every freelance company I work with has its own portal. I bookmark them diligently under their names, like a responsible adult.
And then at some point they all blur.
A row of tabs.
Alphabets and colors.
Dashboards that look almost the same but not quite.
Was this the blue one?
Or the blue-with-green one?
Is this where I log hours or where I submit deliverables?
My brain begins to hum in protest.
I open the new system.
I stare.
The screen glows back at me.
And in that glow, I see it clearly - an articulate dinosaur in linen, staring suspiciously at a glowing computer screen, unsure where the “post” button went on LinkedIn.
It is not a flattering image.
And then, almost immediately, I need tea.
The timing is extraordinary.
Sometimes I need water.
Sometimes I need to wipe the counter.
Sometimes there is an email that absolutely must be answered before I proceed.
I become astonishingly productive in every direction except forward.
If I don’t click, I don’t have to not understand.
And competence has always mattered to me.
I have built things. Led things. Taught things.
So when I hesitate over a dashboard, it feels less like learning and more like slipping.
That’s when the internal voice grows dramatic.
“If I don’t stay up with this, I will become a dinosaur long before I was meant to be one.”
But here is what I have started to understand.
It isn’t the technology itself that overwhelms me.
It’s the layering.
The companion software.
The separate logins.
The tiny procedural steps that stack up while my brain is already carrying a full day.
And - this part took me longer to admit - I almost always try to tackle it after 5:00 p.m.
Which is unreasonable.
Because somewhere between 5:00 and 6:00 p.m., my brain quietly shuts down.
Not dramatically.
Just… done.
Morning-me and evening-me are not the same person.
Morning-me is curious. Strategic. Mildly heroic.
Evening-me looks at a new interface and feels her head begin to ache.
Of course it does.
I have already thought all day.
Decided all day.
Managed all day.
By 6:00 p.m., I do not need a new login. I need mercy.
For years I called this avoidance.
Now I call it architecture.
Technology is a morning sport.
New systems before four.
No onboarding at night.
No “let me just quickly figure this out.”
Because quickly, 8:30 p.m. becomes confusion.
Confusion becomes frustration.
Frustration becomes self-doubt.
And none of that was ever about ability.
Dinosaurs went extinct because they couldn’t adapt.
I stall.
I sigh.
I steep tea.
And then I adapt anyway.
The bookmarks may blur.
The alphabets may multiply.
The companion software may continue to breed.
But so does my capacity.
Evolution.
With drama.
With tea.
Always with tea.