Once upon a time, I knew how to be bored.
When I was a child, my imagination alone could occupy me for hours on end. My parents largely saw TV (and, later, the computer) as a time-suck and even corruptive to my siblings’ and my developing minds, and our screentime was thus strictly limited to an hour or so a week (aside from educational use, of course). And while I may have wailed about the unfairness of it all at the time, in retrospect, I know that learning to entertain myself helped foster the creative thinking that drives my life and career now. I look back at the long afternoons I spent outside with my siblings and our neighbors, dreaming up games and universes until we were called inside for dinner. It was practically idyllic.
And now? Now I’m just like most members of my tech-minded generation: addicted to every one of my devices and shouldering all the crap that comes with that. I fall asleep to Netflix, I’ve swapped my Snapchat compulsion for Instagram Stories, and it’s not unusual for me to browse the internet while watching TV and scrolling through my feeds. If I’m stopped for just a moment at a red light, I feel the itch to check my phone. I voraciously consume the news and media on a minute-by-minute basis—so much that I often feel as though my mind is on the brink of a cartoonish information overload, not unlike that hilarious “Technology Loop” sketch in the pilot episode of Portlandia. (Another symptom of the disease is that I often speak in topical cultural references or memes à la Lorelai Gilmore.)
The irony of all this is that I have all the tools to properly disconnect. I love yoga, I know the benefits of meditation and have experienced them in practice, and I’ve had a fierce, undying connection with nature since birth. I live for music and travel, and I enjoy art and creating things with my own two hands. And I spent my formative years embracing boredom away from electronics.
Still, I often come home from work and immediately turn on my TV. Vegging out is something I do well. On the occasional weekend afternoon that I don’t have plans, I revel in the silence for just a moment, thinking of all the things I could do with my free time. I could paint! Go for a walk! Cook something new! Dive into the stack of books I’ve been meaning to read! Work on writing that book I’ve always talked about! But then my gaze lands on my laptop, and the moment passes.
When I’m with my friends, my phone is always in my death grip, as if it’s another appendage. When I’m traveling, or if I happen upon something beautiful, I instinctively swipe open my camera to document it and move on. And because of this, I feel as though I’m never completely present. I never really see things. By perpetually putting a screen between myself and the world, I’m surveilling my life from the same vantage point as my social media followers rather than experiencing it.
To be clear, I think technology is, in many ways, a wonderful thing—I’ve built my career in the digital space, after all. I love that even though I spend most of the year on the opposite coast from my family and many of my friends, I still feel connected to them on a daily basis. I think it’s amazing that in some ways, we can travel around the world just by going online; I love interacting with and learning from people who would otherwise be strangers.
However, because my job is already so digitally focused, I’ve found it increasingly harder to feel off-duty when I’m online for leisure—it’s like part of my brain immediately clicks into work mode whenever I open up my laptop or log onto Instagram, even from the comfort of my own bed. Yet I can’t stop logging on, to the point where I’m seeing my addiction manifest in physical ways. My ability to sleep well has always been precarious, and at this point, I haven’t felt well rested in months.
I’m not as active as I know I could be, and I can see that impact on my body. The compulsion to stay on top of the latest headlines leaves me feeling anxious most days and downright depressed on others. Above all else, I’m so nostalgic for those childhood days when I could revel in the silence and make something out of the nothingness—a far cry from the perpetual noise I surround myself with now, which I know is stifling so much untapped creativity, productivity, and real-life connection with others and myself. Can’t I exist alongside this virtual chaos without being plugged into it all the time?
And that’s the thing—it can’t be one or the other. There are retreats and even “adult summer camps” devoted to the art of unplugging; cell phones, Wi-Fi, and all forms of connectivity are typically banned. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t consider going cold turkey, either via one of these getaways or through a little staycation of my own. It only makes sense to remove the temptation altogether, right? But given that my job requires me to be online for most of the day, completely cutting myself off from technology would be the equivalent of a juice cleanse: unsustainable and impractical. If my ultimate goal is to find balance, I would need to learn to practice moderation.
Thus, my challenge was cut out for me: For one week, I would quit all forms of technology that weren’t necessary for my job, meaning no IG, no mindless social media, and no Netflix. Who knows? Maybe I would, like, read a book or something.
Keep reading to see how the challenge panned out.
For most of the day, I don’t even need to remind myself I’m on a detox—I’m working and traveling today, so I’m hustling as soon as my alarm goes off. I’ve spent the weekend at my parents’ house, and as my mom drives me to the airport late in the afternoon, she points out the sky—it’s absolutely gorgeous, littered with cottony, opalescent clouds. I automatically document it for Snapchat and Instagram, and then I post another snap alerting my friends that I’m headed to JFK because they need to know what is happening in my life at all times. Then I realize that I’ve already broken my own rules. Oops.
I get some more work done on the plane, and then I purposefully stow away my laptop and take out the book I’ve been working on for a few weeks now—Haruki Murakami’s Norwegian Wood. I’ve resented myself for taking this long to finish it because I love the author’s work and should have theoretically torn through it within a matter of days. But there’s this thing called Netflix, and lately, I’ve been too easily distracted. Sure enough, I’m engrossed in the novel for about an hour before I become painfully aware that my butt is numb, the couple seated next to me is making out, and there are still two hours left on this godforsaken flight. I turn on the TV screen in front of me, hating myself. And when I get home around 1 a.m., my apartment feels eerily quiet, so I turn on Netflix at a low volume, and I fall asleep.
I wake up feeling enthusiastic about recommitting to my detox. Then as I’m perusing headlines and breaking news for potential stories, I land on this fantastic article about the ethical and environmental implications of virtually everything on our grocery list. This technically qualifies as work, since I cover health and wellness for a living. I cannot, however, justify the three-paragraph spiel I write about it on Facebook. Once again, I don’t even realize what I’ve done until after I hit publish.
Going home from a long, rather stressful day of work—especially after getting minimal sleep the night before—is all the less appealing knowing that I’m not allowed to properly veg. But I surprise myself when I put on a record instead of Netflix and realize that I feel perfectly relaxed. Without my devices to distract me, I even manage to clean my kitchen before collapsing in bed and falling asleep almost immediately.
No joke: Last night was the deepest, best sleep I’ve had in recent memory. I wake up feeling refreshed, not to mention much better about my detox in general. I make it through the day only logging on to Instagram once—to post a work-related photo, promise!—and after clicking on the Facebook icon on my bookmarks bar a few times out of habit, I remove the button altogether. Out of sight, out of mind?
More significantly, Snapchat doesn’t even cross my mind—a true feat, considering I’ve always been pretty convinced that’s where my true addiction lies. When I make it home from work and a doctor’s appointment in a puddle of exhaustion and painful cramps, I’m this close to reaching for the remote. Instead, I throw on a heating pad, grab my book, and pass out in minutes.
Christian Vierig/Getty Images
When I embarked on this whole process, I figured that whenever I got bored, I’d just throw on some leggings and go hiking—my favorite way to work out and un-muddle my brain in one go. But my agenda hasn’t allowed for that this week, so by the time today rolls around, I’m dying to get out on my favorite trail.
As I start climbing the hills at Griffith Park after work, I become frustrated for a moment when my Spotify playlist starts stalling due to the spotty cell service. Then I take a deep breath, wrap up my earbuds, and stride on, allowing myself to be fully present in my surroundings. While I love the way music spurs me on during tough inclines, it’s really wonderful just to listen to the birds and crickets on this quiet evening.
I feel completely peaceful and content as I take in the gorgeous, panoramic views, and though I’ve done this trek countless times, it’s never felt so beautiful or meditative. It’s not until I’m driving home that I realize I didn’t take a single photo. Coincidence? I think not.
Another welcome side effect of the detox: By removing a few channels of screen-to-screen communication from my life, I’ve been craving some face time with real human beings. As a born introvert, I welcome time to myself and often need it to recharge and relax. But when things like Netflix come into play, it’s a little too easy to step into social hermit territory. This week, I haven’t flaked out on any plans with friends, much to their (vocalized) astonishment. I’m even excited to brave rush-hour traffic in order to pick someone up at the airport this afternoon. Who am I?!
After running a bunch of errands this morning, I’m not feeling well, and all I want to do is while away the hot afternoon at home. “Yeah, a Netflix detox does not work when you’re bedridden,” says my fellow editor Amanda when I inform her of my predicament via text. But then, she has an idea: “Read The Girls!” she says—we’ve both been talking about the buzzy new book, which arrived on my doorstep a few days earlier. “That’s the perfect sick-day activity.” I take her advice and get lost in the (amazing) novel before falling asleep at a ridiculously early hour.
It’s the last day of my detox, and while I’ve certainly had a number of slip-ups this week, I can’t get over how great I feel (illness notwithstanding). I’m content and productive, and even though I’m still a little under the weather today, I knock off a dozen tasks that have been sitting on my to-do list for months. I even sit down and spend a couple of hours writing just for myself—and note that the last entry in my journal is dated January, seven months ago. I feel a flicker of disappointment with myself. How could I have neglected something that feels so good?
But in a way, I’m glad that I landed on Facebook and Instagram a few times this week, despite my best efforts. These instances serve as proof that I can still indulge in those habits without going overboard. And that realization alone leads to another: This ultimately wasn’t a detox but a lifestyle overhaul.
It isn’t until the following day that I understand just how true this is. After a productive day at work, I sit in bed catching up on Snapchat and browsing the internet, half expecting to feel the relief of lifted restriction—and instead, after just a couple of minutes, a wave of anxiety washes over me. I snap my laptop shut, throw on my sneakers, and get ready to head out for a walk to clear my head. As I’m walking out of my apartment, I instinctively grab my keys and phone… and then I put my phone back down again and walk out the door. I don’t need it.
This post was originally published at an earlier date.