09/23/2025
How To Disrupt the Doomscroll and Let Life Speak
May I show you some good evidence?
Rachel Macy Stafford
Sep 23. 2025
(The following is a substack post by Rachel Macy Stafford
about a trip she headed of women in Zion Canyon. there were wonderful photos in her post which I couldn't transfer.)
"I knew I needed to put my phone away as I zipped the last items into my suitcase, but I couldn’t stop refreshing my feed. More tragedy. More commentary on the tragedy. More finger-pointing.
By the time I boarded the plane to lead a group of ten women through Utah’s breathtaking national parks on the morning of September 16th, I had consumed hours of doom and fear. I felt as hopeless as I ever have in my life.
My instinct was to shut down. To close up. To give up.
Instead, I gave myself a compassionate but firm talking-to and reached for the binder I’d created for our six-day journey — pages of Trailhead Talks I’d written to connect the landscapes we’d walk through with the landscapes within us. I reread my notes, remembering the heart behind each day’s lesson.
A few hours later, the twelve-passenger van was full of laughter and introductions as we headed toward our first stop: Zion National Park. I’d already taught the first session and posed our opening question:
What do you think will be your biggest obstacle to getting the most out of this experience?
For me, the answer was obvious. If I kept chasing the constant stream of breaking news, I’d block myself from experiencing life as it was unfolding right in front of me. I’d fail to fulfill my purpose—cultivating community and ensuring each traveler felt seen, heard, and valued.
And as the red rock walls of Zion Canyon rose up around us and the Wi-Fi dropped away, something shifted. With every mile, I felt less drawn to the chaos I’d left behind and more connected to my actual life, right there in the van, right there in the canyon.
What I was experiencing has a name. Psychologists call it “doomscrolling”—that compulsive urge to keep swiping through bad news and divisive commentary, even though it heightens stress and erodes hope. Our phones, so often a lifeline, become misery machines, and by design, they’re hard to power down.
As communication scholar Jennifer Mercieca explains, these devices and apps are created to hijack our attention. They keep us hooked by exploiting something deeply human: our instinct to scan for threats. Outrage, negativity, and tragedy rise to the top of our feeds because those are the things most likely to keep us engaged and the algorithms know it.
One way to fight back, she says, is by practicing hopescrolling—seeking out stories that point toward solutions.
In that spirit, I want to offer you hope and a sense of agency today. Because I was fully present on my recent trip, I came home with something worth sharing.
While I was gathering my thoughts from the trip, a profound essay by Hannah Brencher, founder of The World Needs More Love Letters, landed in my inbox. Building on the Quaker saying, “Let your life speak,” Hannah wrote about leaving good evidence at the end of each day, proof that we lived with presence, peace, curiosity, and love. Too often, she noted, our evidence ends up online in likes, shares, reposts, while the tangible markers of our offline lives go neglected.
Her words, and the poetic way she shared her own good evidence, inspired me. I don’t want a digital footprint; I want my life itself to reveal I showed up fully, believed in things bigger than myself, and lived as a conscious creator of my days.
And that is what happened last week, in the company of ten brave women and one incredible guide in one of the most beautiful places on earth:
My life spoke.
Using Hannah’s poetic structure as my template, may this hopescroll inspire you to look for the tangible ways life is speaking to you today… and what it might be saying.
My life spoke with morning light gracing the canyon walls. With aching calves. With side-splitting laughter.
My life spoke with switchbacks that never seemed to end. With views that rewarded the climb. With bronchial spasms reminding me that healing has its own timeline. With new friends who said, “I’ll wait for you.”
My life spoke with homemade pies eaten shoulder to shoulder at picnic tables in the heart of red rock country. With journals filled with hard-earned truths. With birds quietly witnessing our growth.
My life spoke with a mule named Lisa — sometimes lagging behind, sometimes galloping so fast my life flashed before me. My life spoke with quiet assurance that she and I loved each other even in our worst moments, that even the most unpredictable rides can carry us closer to trust.
My life spoke with the smooth zipper of my sleeping bag. With the M&M blanket once belonging to Avery—her hand-me-downs, now my comforts. With the morning sun whispering, “You are here.”
My life spoke with plastic dishes passed hand to hand beneath headlamps, ordinary chores turned into communion. With the soothing vibrations of a van in motion. With towering cliffs and ancient stone, inviting me to stand small in childlike awe and wonder.
My life spoke with birthday candles bought at a camp store. With heartfelt wishes for a woman turning 65 we’d only known three days. With the words, “This was the best birthday I’ve ever had.”
My life spoke with a slick rock climb and a pounding heart. With fear faced and hands clasped in triumph. With the sudden unveiling of Delicate Arch—freestanding, magnificently alone, waiting at the trail’s end.
My life spoke with walking sticks tapping against slick stone. With red dirt sneaking into places no packing list ever mentioned. With questions from curious onlookers, “What is this group?” and “How do I sign up?”
One of my favorite inquiries came in Bryce Canyon, where an older couple sat outside their camper one evening, watching us cook dinner and fix fallen tents. After a warm hello, the woman smiled and asked, “Are you in some kind of club?” She said they could tell we were something special.
I explained that I’m an author with a background in special education, and that my work — centered on connection, inclusion, compassion, and self-awareness — had brought these women together.
“It’s amazing,” I told them, “This group of strangers, each with a unique story and background, has come together to listen, learn, and support one another through emotional and physical challenges, and in doing so, we will all leave transformed and more connected than when we arrived.”
I was surprised to see the man wiping his eyes.
“Thank you for talking to us,” he said quietly. The woman got up from her chair and asked if she could give me a hug.
As she embraced me, I recalled one of my earliest lines from my Hands Free manifesto: To hug and not be the first to let go.
And so that is what I did. I held on… until the woman’s arms slowly released.
My life spoke with a full-circle moment, returning me to why I began writing Hands Free Mama: letting go of distraction to grasp what really matters years ago.
· Face-to-face conversations matter.
· Looking into people’s eyes matters.
· Hearing stories we have not lived — and responding with curiosity — matters.
· Investing our energy in solutions that bring us closer matters.
The connections this group made with each other and those we encountered from around the globe were as stunning as the landscapes themselves. I believe it was because we showed up fully – ready to be seen, to be heard, to be held. And in that openness, people felt welcomed in.
We began as strangers, but by the end, we were evidence:
Evidence… that presence fills in the blanks.
Evidence… that hope finds its footing.
Evidence… that life, when spoken, speaks love.
I am committed to answering the call.
Will you join me?
My hand in yours,
Rachel"
