A recent conversation with a thoughtful person offered an idea worth considering: modern children often struggle with studying. Today there is far more information than thirty years ago, yet this overwhelming flood and its rapid delivery to the brain seem to disrupt the systematic learning process. A child who struggles with math may wonder why it matters if a calculator exists. Adults face a similar challenge in explaining that the orderly absorption of large information volumes helps build neural connections that form most effectively in childhood. Trigonometry may not be useful in itself, but the capacity to absorb knowledge developed through its study is essential for life.
Is this idea persuasive? Perhaps, yet it fails to convince the child because neural connections are invisible and not immediately tangible, while a math problem feels urgent and uncomfortable. The impulse is to recast it into something clearer and lighter, more cheerful.
Observe how children consume content today: not lengthy videos or thick books, but 15-second clips that change with astonishing speed. What can be learned in this mode, what can be extracted from the stream?
This pace also reshapes a child’s world. If there are so many options, what should be pursued seriously and for a long time? In one family, a daughter participates in multiple activities—aikido for a few months, then swimming, then drawing—eventually leaving music school after a year and a half without mastering the basics. Parents face the burden of transporting her everywhere, or paying a nanny, which means working harder to manage the schedule.
A friend’s child struggles with concentration: a book is picked up, dropped, another is grabbed, a new distraction appears. The cycle is fast and distracting. Even if the child were to pull a lamp from the wall, the outcome would be chaotic, but at least it would establish what is expected over the next hour.
Does this diversity of activities indicate comprehensive development? Not really. It suggests a lack of depth. Everything gets touched, but nothing is reviewed to a satisfactory degree.
Meanwhile, daily life pushes forward at a relentless tempo—everyone striving not to be left behind. Maintaining this rhythm becomes harder as the world seems to place new barriers in the way.
Consider a renovation project at a music school that stretches into summer. The children then receive distance education as a substitute. Imagine choir lessons via computer: for some, the headphones fail; for others, the connection is slow; for still others, sound is lost altogether. Ideally, this would be a coordinated choir able to compete and perform. Instead, online learning stretches for six months. Parents bear the burden of reshaping ordinary life to accommodate at-home lessons—quiet spaces, control, time—all of which requires energy and adaptation.
Then a daughter expresses interest in drama. When asked about other arts, the reply is clear: she wants drama, not a mix of activities. On a Saturday morning, a father trudges through snow to a theater, only to find the studio closed for an anniversary. The mood is discouraging, but other departments and clubs are available. The plan remains to pursue many activities, to absorb as much scattered information as possible, in the hope that similar neural connections might form.
One may doubt this approach. The lingering question is whether this multitude truly fosters development or simply disperses effort.
Ultimately, the author offers a personal view, recognizing that the perspective may not align with editors’ positions. The central issue remains: how to balance breadth and depth in a world of rapid information, varied activities, and changing routines, while keeping the child’s learning meaningful and manageable.