Are We Training Ourselves to Make Mistakes?
I’ve noticed something lately, my typing has gotten sloppy. Not just a little off, but consistently riddled with mistakes. Words come out mangled, letters jumbled. I backspace more than I should. It’s not just fatigue or distraction; it’s something deeper. And I think I know why.
We are, quite literally, training ourselves to make mistakes.
Think about it. Every time we type on our phones, we’re encouraged to go fast, accuracy be damned. Auto-correct will clean up the mess. Just keep moving. Don’t slow down. There was a time when accuracy was the foundation—when typing was a skill to be mastered, where precision mattered more than speed.
I remember my high school typing class, sitting at those heavy, mechanical keyboards. Accuracy first, speed second. That was the rule. Every mistake meant stopping, backspacing, correcting. If you got sloppy, you paid for it. There were no shortcuts. You had to be deliberate, methodical. And over time, as accuracy improved, speed naturally followed.
Now? The entire philosophy has flipped. Speed is the priority, and mistakes are an afterthought. The iPhone, from the very beginning, ingrained this idea: “Just type. The software will fix it.” But what happens when we train ourselves to accept errors as part of the process? When the very way we interact with technology reinforces sloppiness?
Imagine if this principle applied to learning the piano. If, instead of practicing with precision, you were told: "Just slam the keys. The piano will fix it later." You wouldn’t be learning music. You’d be learning noise. The discipline of careful execution would be lost.
And that’s the thing—this isn’t just about typing. It’s about how our brains adapt to technology. We train ourselves through repetition, through patterns. If our daily interactions reward inaccuracy, what else is suffering?
The reality is, this technology isn’t going anywhere. We can’t turn back the clock. We’re not going to abandon our phones, our computers, or the conveniences they offer. But maybe that makes it even more important to embrace a counterbalance—a discipline that keeps us sharp.
Maybe it’s as simple as slowing down on purpose.
Practicing accuracy before speed.
Challenging ourselves to write or type without corrections.
Committing to deep work, where we resist the urge to let technology "fill in the gaps" for us.
It’s not about rejecting technology—it’s about consciously deciding where we let it shape us. Because if we don’t push back, even in small ways, we risk something more than just sloppy typing. We risk losing the ability to focus, to refine, to think critically.
So maybe the question isn’t how do we stop making mistakes?
Maybe the real question is: How do we keep making precision matter?
