Before I was fully awake, my fingers crawled toward the glowing brick on my nightstand.
I hesitated before looking at it. My eyes were crusted. My thumb ached. I winced, knowing what I would see: my “screen time” clocked over six hours; a stream of messages from a stranger on Tinder; a new subscription to some obscure streaming platform; a notification that something I couldn’t afford shipped from Amazon.
I threw my phone, disgusted. Another night lost in a blur of scrolling. When I picked it up from the floor, I saw my haggard reflection in the cracked screen.
…
Like many of our kind, I started young. The first time I used a smartphone was at a party in junior high. A friend got his hands on one from his uncle and was passing it around, urging us to try. When it reached me, I felt a sudden rush—the sense that a new world had opened up. He pulled it from my hands, and I watched the others take their turn. I needed one.
But I had to wait until my parents said I was old enough. When they gave me my first smartphone—an iPhone—it felt almost ceremonial. I paused, looking to them before I turned it on, and they nodded with permission. They watched my face light up and smiled. I was one of the grown-ups now. I could finally join them scrolling at the dinner table.
At first, my use was limited to the home. I looked forward to spending the evenings with my parents on the couch, each of us sliding through reels until it was time for bed.
In college, I carried my smartphone everywhere. Naturally shy, it gave me the confidence I didn’t have on my own. On apps, I dared to talk to women I would never have approached in person.
Soon, I couldn’t start the day without it—perusing Instagram and the headlines before getting out of bed. Sometimes I woke in the middle of the night needing a scroll.
But I didn’t miss classes. I got good grades. I was still functional.
That changed once I started working. By the time I reached the office, I was already buzzed from my morning feeds. My focus lasted about fifteen minutes before the urge became unbearable, and I succumbed. I hid my use from my colleagues—scrolling under my desk or retreating to a bathroom stall to indulge.
I even used it behind the wheel—driving under the influence of the screen—knowing I was putting others at risk.
At home, alone, I’d set it on my coffee table, staring at it. I anxiously awaited its next demand: respond to a text, read an email, watch this video, check an order status. I obeyed late into the night until everything went black.
With the uneasy sense I was losing control, I attempted to limit my screen time on my own. Here are some of the methods I tried: Setting time limits for certain apps, turning on airplane mode, not using it in bed, never using it in the morning, putting it in a drawer, not using it during business hours, never using it when I’m with family or friends, reading books about limiting smartphone use, researching smartphone-free retreats—I could increase the list ad infinitum.
These half-measures availed me nothing. My screen time continued to rise.
No one pronounced me a smartphone addict—but I could diagnose myself.
…
That morning when I threw the phone and saw my reflection in the cracked screen—a moment of incomprehensible demoralization—I knew I needed a way out.
That night, I stayed up late searching for an answer. Many results led to r/dumbphones—a group I imagined was for extreme cases, Luddites even.
But I was desperate—so I quietly entered the room, unsure if I belonged. At first, I noticed all the differences. Later, I began to recognize myself in the stories they shared. I joined in the discussions, hoping they couldn’t tell I was still actively using my smartphone. They told me not to worry. They assured me the only requirement was a desire to stop scrolling.
As I shared more about my use, they didn’t shame me, but they told me I sounded like a serious case. One day, I finally said the words out loud: I’m a smartphone addict.
They told me the answer was simple: a phone with no apps or internet. I didn’t believe it would work. I listened anyway.
With the solution finally in my hands, I locked my smartphone in my desk drawer—swearing off it for good.
Out of habit, I pulled out my dumbphone, but there was nothing to scroll. I wondered what posts I was missing. I wondered if I had a new like. I felt restless, irritable, and discontent.
I learned that smartphones are cunning, baffling, and powerful; one day, I unlocked my desk drawer, and before I even turned it on, I knew how it would go. Within seconds, I was back in the same cycle—only this time it was worse. I spent weeks alone in my bedroom, disappearing into the screen, as if I were trying to make up for lost time.
I was exhausted—right back to where I was before. Lying in my bed with the glowing brick on my chest, I noticed the dumbphone sitting untouched on the counter, reminding me of a way out.
Returning to r/dumbphones felt harder than the first time. I didn’t want to admit what had happened, but they took me in anyway. They reminded me that relapse is sometimes part of the process. They told me to keep coming back.
This time, they told me what I didn’t want to hear: I would never be able to control my smartphone use. If I really wanted to stop scrolling for good, I would have to take certain steps:
- Admit I was powerless over my smartphone—that my screen time had become unmanageable.
- Come to believe that a dumbphone could restore me to sanity.
- Make a decision to turn my will and life over to the care of the dumbphone as I understood it.
I knew what I had to do: I sold my smartphone—removing all temptation. And for the first time, I was on a real path to recovery—a new freedom and a new happiness I hadn’t known before. I was no longer alone.
Your reaction to my story may be—“What an order, I can’t go through with it!” But do not be discouraged. No one can maintain complete abstinence from all smart devices. The point is that we are willing to try new ways to reduce our screen time. If you have decided you want to stop scrolling and are willing to go to any length—then you are ready to take similar steps.
…
I didn’t wake up one day transformed. But slowly, I stopped thinking about my next scroll. Life began to open up in small, beautiful ways.
The hours I lost were suddenly mine again, simply by removing the device that had been consuming them. I did the things I’d always told myself I didn’t have time for. In the morning, I journaled. In the evenings, I played guitar. In bed, I read a book. On weekends, I worked with my hands—fixing and building things.
I was present. Notifications no longer fractured my focus when I was with friends or family. My connections deepened. Instead of communicating through social media, I called—hearing their voices again, with their pauses and laughter.
I stopped measuring myself against others. I wasn’t fed content designed to stir the feeling that I was missing out on something better. My need for validation from strangers on social media went away.
Days pass without being sold to—no targeted reels, no personalized deals. No more impulse purchases.
The smartphone no longer consumed me. The obsession went away. My last scroll was over three years ago—I should have a three-year chip.
Those of us recovering from smartphone addiction take it one day at a time. We stay close to what works—the dumbphone—knowing a relapse is only one scroll away.
There is hope—for you, and for all smartphone addicts currently glued to their screens. No matter how far down the scale we have gone, if we are painstaking about ditching the smartphone, we will all be amazed before we are halfway through:
- We will know a new freedom and a new happiness.
- That feeling of uselessness and self-pity seeing “screen time” will disappear.
- We will lose interest in apps, and gain interest in our fellows.
- The craving for “likes” will slip away.
- Our whole attitude and outlook upon life will change.
- Fear from doomscrolling will leave us.
- We will intuitively know how to handle situations in which we used to rely on apps.
- We will suddenly realize that our dumbphone is doing for us what our smartphones could never do for ourselves.
Are these extravagant promises? We think not.
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This Post is republished on Medium.
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Photo credit: iStock
