I grew up in Lima, Peru, during the 1980s, when terrorist attacks often targeted electrical towers, leaving us in the dark for hours; sometimes days. No lights. No television. No distractions. Just my parents, my brothers, and me sitting at the dining room table by a candle. We played games, we talked, we sang, we told jokes. We learned how to be together in the quiet and stillness of the night.

When I look back, I treasure those dark evenings. I miss what that imposed OFF switch brought to our family.

Today, kids grow up in a very different world. Phones buzz and ding. iPads glow with addictive games. Bright-colored videos engineered to keep you watching for hours. Constant stimulation has become normal.

Recently, I spoke with a children’s therapist about the rise in ADHD diagnoses. She echoed what many of us are seeing: “From infancy, screens deliver endless highs, colors, sounds, and instant feedback. When that stimulation disappears, kids feel like something is missing. They fidget. They struggle with stillness. They tune out ‘boring’ conversations and classrooms because silence feels uncomfortable.”

Take Maxwell, an energetic six-year-old who joined our karate program a few months ago. At first, he couldn’t keep eye contact. He bounced in his seat. He talked a mile a minute. His teachers at school complained that he struggled to finish assignments and often distracted other kids too.

In karate, every class begins with “mokuso”, a moment before class when we close our eyes and sit quietly to clear our minds. For some children, even for ten seconds of mokuso feels like an eternity.

Maxwell squirmed at first. He peeked around the room. He struggled being still. But week after week, with guidance and the steady example of his peers, something began to change. He started holding still longer. He listened more carefully. He followed instructions faster.

Soon, he was leading drills confidently. When I speak to him now, he looks me in the eye and responds clearly, “Yes Sensei.” He even helps new students who are struggling.

The best part? His teachers have noticed the difference too. That makes me incredibly happy.

As a parent, and now a grandparent, I understand the temptation to hand a child a tablet for a few minutes of peace. It feels harmless. It feels helpful. But I also believe something important happens in those quiet moments. In boredom, imagination wakes up. In stillness, focus grows. In silence, creativity begins.

Family games. Outdoor play. Paper books. These simple things build attention and connection in ways screens cannot. We don’t need blackouts to rediscover that lesson. But we do need to intentionally create
space for “off.”

In an always-on world, we must teach the power of turning off. Because sometimes our greatest growth happens in the dark, when the noise fades and our own thoughts finally have room to speak.