There's a growing inefficiency in love, I fear, that comes in our rush to simplify life.

​We are a culture hungry for efficiency.

We have apps that help us do a million things at once. Alexa turns on our lights and off our television and even lets us know if someone's at the front door. I can push a button on my keys and my car starts before I ever leave the house. A meal service delivers me dinner; I'll never have to cook again.

I get it. We're busy. Why not automate as many processes as possible so we can get busy doing the meaningful stuff in life.

Only, what is the meaningful stuff? What exactly is it we're trying to create more time for?

I fear it's not each other.

Some days it feels like we're looking for the mic drop moments with each other - what's the quickest way possible to move through this conversation - so we can get home just in time to ask Alexa to turn on the kitchen lights. Your meal service is here, she announces.

The problem is, not everyone has Alexa. Not everyone has a meal service. All some people have IS that conversation. When the mic drops and the talking ends, some people are not left to rejoice. They are left, instead, to wonder when will that happen again?

I fear in our rush to automate the world we've found a way to automate our connections.

A world that once had no choice but to stand face to face with one another to be heard, is now a world that can communicate a 30 minute conversation in a two sentence text message - and even that is filled with abbreviations and acronyms.

There's a sadness, I think, that comes with a world where the loudest voices are named Alexa and Siri.

There's a growing inefficiency in love, I fear, that comes in our rush to simplify life.

And maybe that's why some days life feels more complicated than ever.