By Jade Edwards

I first heard the term “doomscrolling” somewhere down my algorithm throughout my internet-viewing career. I probably heard it while doomscrolling. At a time when everyone is zoned out on social media, this term has carved out an identity in popular culture.

“Doomscrolling isn’t just trendy social media jargon. It’s a term coined in scientific research,” says Dr. Chekesha Jack, an executive leadership strategist. As an avid doomscroller herself, Dr. Jack admits that It’s easy for anyone to fall down that rabbit hole.

“I’m addicted to it, and I didn’t even know I was,” she said. “I didn’t know how bad I was until people criticized… the things I repost because it’s so negative. When I’m looking at it, I don’t feel depressed. It’s almost entertainment for me. I disconnect that it’s news and they’re human beings.”

News overconsumption triggers a surge of stress hormones, such as cortisol and adrenaline, that flood the brain. Those hormones can produce the same type of bodily reactions you would have if you were directly involved in the news story you’re reading about. Your brain and body believe you’re the cashier who was robbed at gunpoint rather than just reading about it on your couch.

But instead of just being an internet fad, is there a way to transform this anxiety-producing habit into a form of connection? I think my father and I have found the answer to that question.

Doomscrolling is a ritual I share with my father, a Nigerian immigrant, who came to the United States in the early 1990s.

Some of my earliest memories are of sitting on my living room couch, curled up against my dad’s side as we watched “60 Minutes.” He watched the news incessantly. I’ve always marveled at his media stamina. He even has a special place on the living room couch. Whenever I asked the reason for his constant news engagement, he’d respond with the same answer: “The news will tell me when the world is ending.”

But all that news consumption can take a toll on someone.

“With the way things have been going with Trump… I watch a lot of news,” My father explains, “I have a lot of anxiety from watching the news…I get a lot of anxiety about the future of this country. I wish the best for the United States. ”

My father is optimistic about the future of this America. Although he’s an immigrant, he cherishes this country deeply. He grew a family here; he grew a life here. Through all the hours of doom-channel-switching, he believes there’s a future for him and his family in his country. I want to believe too.

But my father comes by it naturally, “My father, especially, watches a lot of news…He watches the news at 9 o’clock every night in Nigeria…I think I learned from him as his son.” Though he may be scared, he doesn’t allow it to stop his life. He uses his news consumption to steer himself away from panic–it’s a center of conversations with his friends; he treasures the inheritance passed down to him by his father, and (seemingly) passed on to me by him. In some pseudo-coping mechanism, my father manages to fill his days with social gatherings meant to celebrate every milestone under the sun. Even if the world is ending around him, he won’t allow his life to end along with it.

I often wonder how we are supposed to carry on with life as if there isn’t so much anxiety? The answer to this question is that even in the most trying times, when all seems hopeless, people will always find ways to connect with one another.

Similar to how people came together during Y2K, there’s always going to be light outside the apocalypse bunker. I believe the human ability to love and find commonality is the greatest remedy to the all-consuming anxiety that comes with simply living.

Rest assured; You aren’t the first person to feel the world is ending all the time, and you won’t be the last. There are people out there waiting to debate, discuss, and develop plans to stop the asteroid. They’re waiting for you to turn off your phone, push yourself off the couch and find them.

My father is living proof of this. I think I’ve always known his designated spot on the couch held the secrets of humanity in it–even back when I was molded into his side, watching news I couldn’t even comprehend at the time.

I don’t remember when that time in my life ended–when I hopped off the couch, threw my father’s arms off my shoulders, and began watching my own world end and begin every news cycle. All I know is that now, like many others, I’m on a designationless journey to find the people waiting for that connection.

I can turn my phone off, press the power button on my television, and let the people I love tell me when the world ends instead of the news.