How I quit my phone

The towering presence of my phone looms over me like a dark cloud. The weight of the little rectangle in my pocket drags me down into a state of meaningless urgency that never disappears, no matter how many times I check my emails.

This perfect, personalised Panopticon follows my every move and knows everything about me—even the things I ignore about myself. My nervous system is caught in a battle between cortisol-driven panic and what feels like absolute apathy. I don’t care about things. Nothing surprises me. All I want to do is get an iced coffee and look at shoes online. I have fully embodied the Gen Z nihilism cliché.

My eyes hurt, my brain hurts. I can’t remember or distinguish relevant things from the sea of dancing cat videos, unnaturally blonde women trying to sell me bikinis, and clickbait articles that pop up before my eyes every day.

I feel bad, but not in a way that comes from within. I know that this sinking sensation doesn’t belong to me, that it can be extracted from my body like a tumour once I tune out the horrible, scratchy noise of the digital world. I wonder how much my life would improve if I could be fully present, like the main character in a Nora Ephron 90s rom-com.

I love daydreaming. I love fantasies, so I make this one my new project. My mission is to be in the moment at all times: to think about the changing seasons, look at interesting buildings, notice fun hairstyles on the Tube, find meaning even in walking to Sainsbury's, be bored sometimes, and be okay with that.

I know that to succeed, I’ll have to take extraordinary measures. I imagine moving to an abandoned farm, embracing off-grid lunacy, and throwing my phone off a cliff—along with all the apps, spam emails, and phone numbers; friends, foes, ghosts of disappointing infatuations, and the 14,763 photos (naturally, with no cloud backup).

I opt for a less extreme solution. One can’t just go about buying a farm—especially not in this economy.

My first attempt is to leave the phone in a drawer all day. I fail within ten minutes. My hand finds its way back to it, and my fingers know the exact path. Besides, I do actually sort of need the phone—sometimes, for real reasons: work, directions, to take pictures.

I contemplate buying another one and using it for work only. This makes sense on paper but could backfire terribly, ending with not one but two little devices of doom in my hands.

In the end, in my quest for intentionality, I find an in-between solution: a paid app called Opal, powered by, ironically, the very same tech-bro industry I’m trying so desperately to escape. It blocks all phone distractions, including websites, preventing me from using anything not strictly work-related. For most of the day, my phone is left with only camera, some music, Google Maps, calendars, and the call function.

I can no longer read the news, text, or send silly videos to my sister all day. I can't shop online or despair over my declining Instagram presence.

I love it.

My closest friends have been warned; they can call me if they need anything urgent. I'm known for being terrible at texting anyway, so no one will miss me.

Within three days, I feel renewed. I have so much time on my hands. I read voraciously, I clean my flat like a maniac—cupboards and everything. I listen to Jane Birkin songs and make a courgette quiche, I write 15 pages in one go, I do a hair mask, and I forgive everyone who has wronged me. I feel almost religious. Isn’t this what life should be about?

Within a month, it’s like my brain cells have regenerated. I don’t even feel stupid anymore. I can’t even remember why I liked using mind-numbing apps in the first place. As I write, I look at the little rectangle lying on the table, and I find it uninteresting. Its only value resides in the calls it can make and the new Charli XCX songs it can play while I speed walk to Pilates.

Each morning, I wake up without the glare of the screen shining in my eyes. At night, I rest my head, knowing I'm on the right path to escape Mark Zuckerberg's bony claws, and I sleep soundly.