How to Take a Break From Your Screen (and Actually Enjoy It)

I had this strange feeling in my head. Not that it was making any noise. At least, more or less, it seemed to b functioning in the way he thought it would, only just stuck at 97%.

I was just sitting at my apartment in Atlanta — having two mugs of coffee, laptop shining too bright, emails multiplying at the edge of my inbox like flies. I can’t remember what I was working on. Anything, maybe. Or nothing. Deadlines do that; they feel urgent, and you close the tab, and they simply disappear.

All right –. What was I saying? Oh yeah. I just blew up. No theatrics, no breakdown. Just shut everything down. Laptop, phone, tabs, Slack, that damn “urgent” folder of his. And then … nada.

Awkward Sound of Quiet

Peaceful silence wasn’t there. It was loud. As if my brain couldn’t breathe without something in the background. I was twitching toward my phone. You know that weird phantom reach? Like muscle memory, but scroll-scroll-scroll instead of gunfight. I swear I even went as far as picking it up once, pretending I needed to “check the time.” Classic denial.

I sat staring at my living room as if it were an exhibit in a museum. The plant in the corner looked judgmental. Maybe because I hadn’t watered it in … let’s not count.

So last night, I found an app — ironic, right? An app made by this mobile app development Atlanta crew. Supposed to help you “disconnect mindfully,” whatever that means … but I downloaded it because seriously, I can’t even take a break without tech watching me. Nudges from the app look like:

“Look up.”

“Go outside.”

“Touch something real.”

Touch something real. Like, OK, poetic robot voice, but also … fair.

So I did. I went outside. Barefoot. The grass was cold and scratchy and alive. It made me laugh for no reason, which felt like the most human thing I’d done all week.

Losing and Finding Time (In No Order)

I wish I could say I immediately found peace or whatever. Nope. I got bored out of my mind. I boiled water and stared at it like it was a live stream. I realized I hadn’t felt boredom in years. Boredom’s supposed to be bad, right? But it’s kind of underrated. Like the universe’s “refresh” button.

A few days, and I was drawing again. Not to post, or for anyone, just…to see what came out of my hand. It was bad. I loved it. I was cooking slower too, watching the onions turn translucent, like some tiny time experiment.

Somewhere in between, I chatted with a friend from California who’s working with the Los Angeles mobile app developers, and she said ‘Yeah, our team is building these apps to help people stop using apps.’ It’s funny, isn’t it? The same industry that got us hooked now designs the rehab. Poetic justice, she called it. I call it capitalism with self-awareness.

Well, I’ve lost my train of thought – oh, no, here it is. I don’t believe technology is bad. It’s not really even the screen’s fault. It’s that little itch inside of us that always needs to scratch for the next hit of noise, the next ping, a tiny digital pat on the head.

The Quiet Feels Weird, but I Think I Like It

Still find myself at times slipping back into those endless ‘just one more scroll I’ll check one thing’ scroll holes that put me at midnight. But I notice it now. That’s the difference. I’ll throw the phone across the couch, look at the ceiling, and–this is silly–count how many shades of gray in the shadows.

It’s mundane. It’s wonderful.

And maybe, I don’t know, maybe just we do not erase everything or go off-grid or go into a monastery. Maybe this is just to remember. Remember that we had lives before screens. We were still daydreaming. We were staring still out windows.

I think about that a lot- like, how did I live before all this? I think I used to doodle more. Or read cereal boxes. Or just sit.

And at that moment – me alone, the fridge humming, and my breath making that sort of awkward rhythm – I’m feeling closer to peace. Or quiet, maybe. At this point, I’m not really sure there’s a distinction anymore. It feels like now and then if my phone is left in the kitchen, am a small-scale rebellion. Very tiny, but still.