Presence over Proof: The Rarity of Being in the Moment

The need to be in the moment

“In the moment” is one of those phrases that’s everywhere now, repeated so often it risks losing its meaning – in writing, wellness advice and event descriptions. And yet, in practice, it’s something we rarely achieve.

Because being “in the moment” in real life requires breaking some deeply ingrained habits: letting go of everything else.

I was reminded of that recently, stepping into Lost – a hybrid nightclub, cinema and performance space tucked inside the former Saville Theatre.

Disorientation, by design

Lost doesn’t reveal itself easily.

There’s little online. No clear sense of what the night will hold. And once inside, the usual anchors quietly disappear. Payments aren’t frictionless – you need a physical card. Time becomes abstract as I realised at some point I hadn’t checked the hour in what felt like ages. It was disorienting, in a way that felt entirely deliberate.

Without the constant micro-checks (the time, messages, notifications), the night stopped being something I was managing. Instead, it became something I was moving through with other people, in real time.

At one point, I got chatting to a woman at the bar. She mentioned there are plans to turn the space into a hotel – and said, almost wistfully, how glad she was to see people really enjoying it while it still exists in this form.

It stuck with me. The idea that presence itself had become noteworthy.

Presence over proof

A few weeks earlier, I’d felt something similar at a one night only show with Harry Styles.

Phones were sealed away on entry. Not suggested but enforced. In their place: disposable cameras handed out to the crowd.

A subtle shift, but a powerful one.

You couldn’t check your photo. Couldn’t rewatch the videos. Couldn’t half-experience it through a screen while thinking about how it might look later.

And so, people watched properly and together.

The absence of phones didn’t just remove distraction – it changed the atmosphere of the room. Attention felt collective. Reactions travelled faster. Moments landed harder, because they weren’t being filtered.

And that’s part of what makes it feel special – the moment exists for you, in your memory, not on a feed or a screen.

A growing resistance

What’s happening in these spaces reflects a wider shift.

Across Amsterdam and London, concepts like The Offline Club are building communities around intentional disconnection – carving out time and space to be unreachable.

At the same time, “unplugged” holidays are on the rise. Experiences where guests pay a premium to hand over their phones and live offline, even if just for a few days.

And at a policy level, the conversation is ongoing. In Australia, proposals to restrict social media access for younger people point to a more interventionist future. In the UK, trials of digital curfews and social media limits for teenagers are beginning to take shape.

Different contexts, but a shared undercurrent: a recognition that constant connectivity might be eroding something fundamental.

Rarity, redefined

What these experiences tap into is not just novelty but need. A need for connection that isn’t filtered through a screen, and for environments shaped by the people in them, rather than organised around them.

In that sense, rarity today isn’t about scale or exclusivity. It’s about presence.

Because in a world where everything can be captured and shared, the rarest thing is the moment that isn’t.

In the moment, together

Take away the phones, the notifications, the pull of elsewhere, and the dynamic changes.

The experience stops being something to watch and becomes something you participate in.

Attention settles. Conversations last longer.

Which is why “in the moment” feels so elusive. Not because we don’t want it, but because so little is designed to require our participation.

And that’s the real impact of these experiences. The value isn’t in the content you take home. It’s in being actively part of what’s happening.

Written by Olivia Gunning

April 2026

Photo credit: Lost Nightclub, The Cold Magazine