Somewhere between the hum of air conditioners, the blue glow of screens, and the rise of back patios tucked behind fences, we lost something quiet and good: the art of porch sitting. 

Once a Stage, Now a Relic 
I’m sure many of us remember our childhoods spent outdoors, for hours at a time, cruising up and down the block on bikes. But that was when our parents were watching. Other times, we were stuck in “porch jail,” confined to the open walls of the front steps. We’d sit, arms crossed, convinced it was the most boring place ever. 

But in hindsight, there was something grounding about it. You watched the world go by. You counted cars. You eavesdropped on neighbors. You learned the rhythm of your street. 

In decades past, the front porch was a kind of stage. It was where children played on steps (or were subject to “porch jail”), grandparents sat in wicker chairs, and passerby were courteous as to give a nod of acknowledgement or stop for a quick chat.  

There was a gentle, unhurried sense to it all. You didn’t have to schedule porch time—it just happened.  

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But today, while many of those porches still stand… they’re empty. Wicker chairs sit as decoration, unused. Swings sway in the wind with no one in them.  We’ve become indoor (or at least backyard) creatures, obsessed with productivity, convenience, and privacy.  

And perhaps we’re lonelier for it. 

Why We Stopped Sitting 
‍What pulled us inside?

It’s curious how we began inching closer to our comfortable couch. We subconsciously offer a slew of excuses… it’s too hot out, too cold out, the bugs are bad, there’s nothing to look at, the neighbors might talk to us. Over time, these little reasons stacked up until the porch became more of a decorative feature than a living space. 

Perhaps the modern lifestyle accelerated the shift. We have air conditioning and endless streaming services. We live in meticulously planned suburbs that stretch us farther apart. The rise of backyard decks symbolized a turn inward. Fences got taller, lives got busier, and spontaneous neighborly interaction became an endangered species.  

Spontaneous neighborly run-ins are less likely to occur because of this.  

And then… privacy became a commodity. The idea of being visibly idle in public—even just sitting—started to feel like something only old folks partake in, if not a downright uncomfortable act of vulnerability.   

And so? We chose the curated comfort of being out of view. We traded open-ended evenings spent on the porch for climate-controlled silence.  

In doing so, we may have lost more than we realized.  

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It’s Becomes a Radical Act 
Many of us have grown accustomed to “grind culture,” the pressure to be constantly on-the-go, always doing something. Because of this, our lives are fast, noisy, and our brains are “always on.” And even then, we tend to schedule rest like it’s a task.  

This rarely makes space for slow, idle moments—the kind where nothing is expected of you except to simply be. That’s what porch sitting offers: unscheduled time, uncurated experience, and unfiltered presence. In contemporary times, stepping onto the porch without an agenda, without headphones or a phone in hand, is practically revolutionary. 

And perhaps more than anything, it’s a subtle but powerful refusal to let the modern pace of life consume every last bit of us. 

So, sitting still on the porch while being in the public eye can feel radical.  

It’s a quiet reminder that presence matters more than pace, and that connection can happen in the most simple of places—just a chair, a porch, and a little time to spare. 

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Porch Sitting Isn’t Just For Old Folks
You don’t have to be 65+ to enjoy an evening spent out on the front porch. For everyone, it invokes nostalgia; it’s therapeutic. It invites stillness. It encourages observation—of weather, of people, of the way the light changes as it shines through the tree canopy. It fosters small talk, and small talk as we know, has received a poor reputation. It keeps us tethered to where we live and who we live near.  

Older generations tend to be more deeply rooted in their homes—and perhaps porch sitting has something to do with that. When we become immersed in a particular place—tuned in to the rhythm of the neighborhood, the flow of traffic, and the familiar faces next door—it becomes much more difficult to leave.

By contrast, younger generations often up and move from place to place, living in apartments that lack front porches or backyards—features that naturally encourage a sense of belonging. A lack of these physical touchpoints makes it easier to remain detached and indifferent.

Some suggest that younger generations feel less grounded overall, and maybe that has something to do with the decline of porch sitting—or a broader shift away from spontaneous, face-to-face connection.

Perhaps the younger generation should take a hint at this. The front porch is not merely a place to put perfectly puffed throw pillows; it’s a place to foster stillness—to ease our minds.  

It’s an antidote to constant motion, a quiet rebellion against hustle culture, and a way to feel rooted, even in a world that encourages us to keep moving.

Bringing It Back
What would it look like to bring porch sitting back?

Quite simply, a chair, some time, and maybe a cold drink if you so choose. (You might also want to dust off a few cobwebs that have moved in as a result of your vacancy.)

It starts, more specifically, with intention. You must choose to spend time on the front porch. Leave your phone inside. Notice what you see. Wave to the neighbors walking their pup (whose name you don’t even know because you were always in your backyard). Invite a friend over for a front-step conversation. Walk downtown for a coffee and enjoy it on the porch steps.

Let boredom arrive—and then let it pass.

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And if you don’t have a front porch? Sit on your stoop. Your three front steps. Even a lawn chair near the sidewalk will do. The point isn’t where you sit. It’s that you sit.  

It may be a stretch to say that people will be inspired to return to the golden age of the front porch. But maybe—just maybe—we can borrow from its purpose. Because sometimes, the most radical thing you can do in our fast moving world is to slow down and take a seat. Right there… on your porch. Where life occurred in slow motion. And still can.