For years, whenever a new piece of technology appeared—a different operating system, a messaging app my friends adopted, a smart home device that promised convenience—I would quietly resist. I told myself I was being minimalist. I told myself I did not need the complication. But if I am honest, the real reason was simpler and far less noble: I did not want to feel incompetent. I had reached a point in life where I knew how things worked. The thought of sitting down with something unfamiliar, of fumbling through menus and feeling foolish, was genuinely uncomfortable. So I avoided it. And in doing so, I was unknowingly letting something else atrophy.
What I did not understand then is that the discomfort of learning something new is not a sign of decline. It is the precise mechanism by which the brain stays vital. The organ we rely on for everything—memory, judgment, creativity—is not a static machine. It is a living tissue that responds to challenge. Neuroplasticity, the brain’s ability to reorganize itself by forming new neural connections, does not shut off at a certain age. It simply requires the right conditions. And those conditions include novelty, effort, and a willingness to be bad at something before becoming good at it.
A 2013 study published in Psychological Science followed older adults who learned a new skill—digital photography, quilting, or both—over three months. Compared to groups who engaged in more passive activities like socializing or listening to music, the skill-learning group showed significant improvements in episodic memory, the kind of memory that tends to decline with age. The key variable was not the skill itself but the process of sustained, active learning. The brain was being asked to build new pathways, and it responded by strengthening its capacity across domains.
This is where the modern obsession with convenience works against us. We have engineered friction out of daily life. Devices remember our passwords. Apps predict our words. Navigation systems tell us exactly where to turn. These tools are not inherently bad, but they rob us of something valuable: the cognitive effort that comes from figuring things out. Effort is not a bug in the system. It is the signal that tells the brain to build.
I think of a neighbor in his seventies who, after his wife passed, decided to teach himself how to use a video editing program. His children had sent him old family footage, and he wanted to compile it. The first weeks were brutal. He called me twice, frustrated, convinced the software was broken. But he kept at it. Six months later, he showed me a short film he had made, not just stitching clips together but adding transitions, text, even a simple soundtrack. What struck me was not the film itself. It was how he talked about it. He was sharper. More engaged. He had discovered something he had not felt in years: the pleasure of mastery after struggle.
The research supports this. A 2018 study from the University of Texas at Dallas found that older adults who engaged in demanding, novel activities over a 14-week period showed enhanced memory performance that persisted for over a year. The activities—learning digital photography or quilting—required sustained attention, problem-solving, and the integration of new information. The control group, who engaged in familiar activities like crossword puzzles, showed no comparable gains. The distinction matters. Doing what we already know does not stimulate neuroplasticity. It is the uncomfortable stretch of learning something that does not come easily that drives change.
There is a natural impulse, as we age, to simplify. To stick with what we know. To hand over the unfamiliar tasks to younger people or automated systems. This instinct is understandable. But it may be one of the most costly conveniences we embrace. The belief that “I am too old to learn that” is not a statement of fact. It is a self-fulfilling prophecy. And like any prophecy, it shapes the future it predicts.
I have since changed my relationship with new tools. When a piece of software updates and the interface shifts, I no longer groan and search for a workaround. I sit with it. I let myself be confused. I treat the confusion not as a failure but as the feeling of a brain being asked to grow. The same goes for new devices, unfamiliar apps, even a different way of organizing files. Each small stretch is a reprieve from the comfort that slowly dulls the mind.
The next time you feel the impulse to avoid a new tool—to say “I don’t need this” or “it’s not worth the hassle”—consider what you might actually be avoiding. Not the tool itself. But the feeling of being a beginner. That feeling is not a sign of decline. It is the only reliable signal that your brain is getting exactly what it needs.
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