Taking the ‘i’ Out of iPhone

and finding myself.

I kicked off 2025 with a bang.

The “bang” was the sound of my iPhone hitting the wall. I stared at it on the floor. Still glowing. I longed for relief, but all I felt was apathy. One more minute and I’ll pick it back up. I always do.

Can I just take a hammer to it? I wondered.

I started to imagine how good it would feel.

But then that voice returned.

How would you stay connected?

Ugh.

Then I thought about the news. The doom. The gloom. The sheer tidal wave of it all. I want it to stop.

But you MUST be informed. It’s 2025, for crying out loud. What’s your excuse?

Is there even an alternative these days?

And how do you expect to build your brand? Your business? Share your music? AI can help, have you tried? Have you even tried it?

I sank a little deeper into the couch.

It’s really hard to argue honestly. I could go on - calendar! email! facetime! banks! Every part of modern life lives inside these glowing rectangles.

I crawled back into my scroll. And after a few minutes of defeat, that mental conversation caught fire in my head.

This isn’t right. I feel stuck trapped. I’ve gotta try something.

TRYSOMETIHNG

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Detox Origins

If you think this is where I turned on my screen limits. Please… I’ve been plowing through those things without blinking since they released in 2018. Worthless. As far as I can tell, features like these are just PR for Apple to appear like they are helping to alleviate the issue they pour the other 99% of their resources into. I mean truly, who does those actually work for? (insert tangent on “hide like count” and all these other supposed features that somehow make it all ‘healthier’)

But this isn’t about Apple or Meta.

This is about me. Me and my barely-there, decaf, La-Croix flavored presence.

Well, it sure feels like it’s just me.

Me against the entire big bad internet. The same one I can’t get enough of. “David vs. Goliath” feels too generous (for my side). Somehow, this all-knowing and ever-present villain lounges comfortably behind a humble 5.42 inch piece of glass. Fortified by the most brilliant colors, unpredictable rewards, entertainment, and socially-engineered conveniences ever known to mankind. It’s my own personal portal. And I never leave it anywhere, because, uh, step counts! Genius, Apple, genius!

And for the last 15-ish years, I have had the luxury to enter this portal. Any time I wanted. Any time the real world wasn’t enough. Any time the real world wasn’t interesting enough, comfortable enough, productive enough, going my way enough, entertaining enough, fast enough.

A-n-y-t-i-m-e

t-h-e

r-e-a-l

w-o-r-l-d

w-a-s-n-’t

e-n-o-u-g-h

After this minor mental breakdown (let’s just call it a spiral, sounds a little less weighty), I decided to turn off the firehose of social media for the month of January. I also committed to not reading or digesting any news. No podcasts, no browser news, and of course no news from the socials (where the news goes fishing for our clicks anyways).

My goal? Well, I didn’t have one. I just couldn’t stop thinking about this quote from Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird:

Later in the book, she basically says that if you can’t do this… something is off.

And that stuck with me. I felt called out.

Something was off.

I deleted Instagram, Facebook, TikTok, Strava and LinkedIn.

The First Two Weeks - Tweaking Out

I rode the honeymoon phase for… a good 36 hours. And then the withdrawals kicked in. Muscle memory did its thing. Gmail. Surf report. Photo App. Amazon. Group text. Spotify. Back to Gmail. Perfect recipe for anxiety because these other apps aren’t able to deliver the highs I was used to. I was irritable, lonely, and searching for ANY other way to still get my digital-drug fix. I was targeting social media, but I was addicted to the entire internet. The escape. The constant cheat-codes for life.

There was, however, one positive that almost immediately kicked in. Leaving the 24/7/365 news vortex was liberating. Like I was just handed the keys to a new mental space. Unfurnished, quaint, and quiet. It resembled Patrick Star’s house. I did not realize how much impact the news was having on my perspective, mental clarity, and emotional well-being.

Well, I knew, but I didn’t know.

I thought I was just being a responsible and informed citizen. No. I was being ripped back and forth, tossed around by the tides of polarization, beaten up, and then asked—demanded—by everyone and everything to hold the entire weight of it all, all the time. And well, I got so far removed from the dizzy drama and tragedies of the world that my peace began to reestablish itself. So much so that one day my roommate left the news on the TV in the living room. I walked by and I was immediately repulsed.

*Click*

The TV went black.

Not today. I thought.

I heard about the “Gulf of America” first and only from a coworker. I was so glad I didn’t have the means to indulge in the hundreds of TikTok commentaries about it. Overall, it was such an enlightening experience that I plan to extend my lease under this rock. I’ll figure out how to “be informed” later.

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The Second Two Weeks - Japan with No Escape

The first few weeks went by, and I kept fumbling along with my slightly-less-addicting version of my smartphone. Still irritable and anxious. I guess I was naïve to expect a smoother ride. The ups and downs were more than I signed up for.

And then I left for Japan, and little did I know, this trip would crank up the intensity of my cute little experiment even more.

Context: I had a work trip to speak at a few middle and high schools (uh somebody pinch me?). I also took an additional week off for some solo travels.

Japan Part 1: Shock-Landing

I landed in Tokyo after seven hours of peacefully sipping green tea… straight into chaos. A stressful, confusing, and down-to-the-wire transfer for my flight to Sapporo. I buckled my seatbelt on my Sapporo-bound plane and wiped the sweat from my face. It’s just not as funny when you are confused and alone. I was just glad I made it. And then moments after my heart rate returned to normal, it spiked again. My shuttle to the mountain left an hour ago. And I’m 2 hours from landing.

Huh?

Now I’m half smiling and half freaking out because this trip went from the lazy river to whitewater rapids in record time. I did not have a $170 drive through a snowy mountain pass in a teeny-tiny Japanese taxi at zero-dark-thirty on my trip’s bingo card.

While it might sound exhilarating, the language barrier, the navigation struggles, the sheer confusion—it all sent my detox anxiety into overdrive. And now my phone, my old crutch, was barely functional. The foreign data plan turned it into a sluggish brick.

Around 1:00 AM, I rang the desk bell. It echoed in the empty lobby and a tired man in sleep clothes appeared. “Bow-mahn?” he said. I nodded. He handed me my room key, and disappeared.

I collapsed onto my bed. Every part of me wanted to just scroll until my eyes hurt. Let my brain escape. But I couldn’t. There was nothing to scroll besides my already clean email inbox. No digital safety net. Just me, my thoughts, and the raw discomfort of it all.

Japan Part 2: Nowhere to Hide

Day one, I sat at breakfast alone, pushing around Japanese bacon on my plate. Solo-mode wasn’t coming naturally. I was anxious, restless, and super aware of my own awkwardness. Skiing alone. Eating alone. Alone at the bar. I melted under the gaze of every giddy group, convinced they all saw my little secret—yep, I’m alone.

What was I so afraid of? I think it was the withdrawals—the sudden absence of an audience. No ability to curate…capture…escape. Just me, standing in the raw discomfort of real life. A turtle without its shell. Even something as simple as waiting in line at a ramen shop felt excruciating. No phone-shield. Nowhere to hide. Hands shoved deep in my pockets, I just… waited.

Japan Part 3: Small Wins

Day by day, something shifted. I started out as a sheep at continental breakfast and by the last day I was… a slightly more confident sheep. I started to find my rhythm as I pushed through. Made some friends—Ralf was one. Flew all the way from Poland. We met on the lift, skied together, laughed over a couple of beers, and shared stories like old friends—all despite a slight language barrier. I finished one of my lunches next to a guy also named Zach and spent the rest of the day skiing with him. I even emcee’d a tiny nine-stool sushi bar to the point where all the different groups were participating in the same conversation. It was so fun and light. It’s like my personality was thawing.

Japan Part 4: From Discomfort to Clarity

I continued onward to Osaka—Japan’s Kitchen. It was loud. Swirling. Full of movement and neon signs. I pushed myself to try pufferfish (“fugu”)—the one that can kill you if it’s prepared wrong. I found a highly-rated spot and ordered the set — fugu, seven ways.

I was quite nervous.

Thank God they sat me in the corner, hidden behind dividers, so I could journey through this meal without the public eye.

Cross-legged, I took a sip of beer, steeled myself, and swallowed the first piece of sashimi. Chewy. Interesting. Cold. The gronions were a nice touch.

Then I looked down and noticed my foot fell asleep.

Why can’t I feel my foot?

There’s a non-zero chance I could die right now.

I took a deep breath, uncrossed my legs (ha), and I ate. All of it. Even the nastiest course (the glassy ultra-chewy skin noodles).

No distractions. Just me, my mortality, and the taste of my own choices.

This was when I realized: I wasn’t anxious anymore. I wasn’t craving an escape. I was just there.

I embraced it all. Even when I accidentally boarded the all-women’s train car. Woops! Thankfully the overwhelming scent of “who’s going to tell him?” was so pungent that I came to my senses all on my own.

Days went by, and my mind felt different. Clearer. Sharper. Like stepping out of a dark theater, forgetting it was daytime, and being blinded by the sunlight. My thoughts weren’t tangled in an endless scroll—they were my own again.

By the time I left Japan, the same thing that crippled me with fear—being alone, being bored, being present—had become something I actually craved.

And I wasn’t sure I wanted to go back (to the fear that is, I’d love to get back to Japan!)

Slowly but surely, my worry and fear faded, and I slipped into full travel mode. I woke up and knew exactly where to find my yogurt, two rice balls, and a sugar-free latte at the nearest 7-11.

Yes, pay with card. No, no bag. Finish with my poorly pronounced arigato gozaimasu and a smile and a slight bow.

That little pocket monster? It wasn’t nagging me anymore. A few photos and some maps and I was free! This is where I hit my stride.

Excited for breakfast.

Excited for work (hanging with kids = the best!).

Excited for dinners and whatever other adventure might present itself.

My jaded perspective began to melt into gratitude.

I feel like me, I thought.

Been a minute, I thought.

---

The Flipturn

On my flight home, I was feeling good. Really good. I felt like I was onto something. I wanted to keep the momentum for February. So what’s next? I wanted to double down. My first idea was to go a full month without any phone at all.

Hmmm.

But then—lightbulb.

The next morning, I was the first customer through the doors at Best Buy. Black Friday style. And wow—this whole place felt nostalgic. I think I actually laughed out loud when I walked in.

Online order pickup line. The cashier handed me a small, white, rather forgettable box.

And a receipt for $83.59.

I walked back to my truck and couldn’t wait to rip open the box. Inside, my new Nokia Flip 2780. Without hesitation I put it together and popped my iPhone’s SIM card right into it.

A classic jingle played as the screen lit up. And just like that, I was transported. Back to a forgotten time when phones were tools, not lifelines.

And right then…the spell broke.

The magnetism evaporated. The screen was still glowing, but it had nothing to say. The genie hissed and went back into the bottle.

In the days that followed, I watched in real-time as my autonomy returned. Even if it was partly because I felt so incredibly silly pulling this little artifact out of my pocket.

And my screen time?

Tanked.

It’s been just over two weeks, and let me tell you—it’s been a hoot. A mix of heartwarming nostalgia, typo-ridden texts, green-bubble witch hunts (don’t worry Apple, my group chats have already called the authorities), and yes—missed turns. Lots of missed turns.

But most importantly—FREEDOM.

But as they always say, freedom isn’t free.

The Cost of Presence

Oh and I’ve spent money on it. I have longed to be more “present” for years. Books. Meditation apps. Gratitude exercises. Workouts. Diet. Yoga. Sleep. YouTube Gurus. But really, what’s the price? The true cost of presence? Is there a number?

Eighty-three bucks.

No app, no habit, no self-improvement hack has done more to increase my ability to be present than taking the SIM card out of my iPhone and putting it into this little time capsule. And honestly, all these tradeoffs were not nearly as scary as my weekly screen time reports. Every Sunday morning, I’d brace for impact—waiting for that inevitable buzz. And there it was. My internet report card. A week spent living elsewhere.

A painful reminder of all the hours I’d never get back.

Funny, I’m finalizing this piece on a Sunday morning. I just got my report. It’s not perfect. But it’s lightyears better than it’s ever been.

It’s crazy, yet unironic, that once I took my brain-soup off the max-heat stovetop burner, my mental state began to calm down. Stopped bubbling and splashing over. And what remained was just me and a wooden spoon. Stirring gently. And oh, my thought-factory didn’t slow down though. It regained its autonomy and went on overdrive. Catching up for lost time. Uninterrupted. Free to roam. The highs and the lows have been reestablished. Feeling things again!

Was all this “overthinking” even my fault? Or was someone else in the control room?

I’ve been asking so many questions.

And yes, I have the social apps back on my dead-phone (Wi-Fi only now). And I’m checking them. But I’m not scrolling. Something has changed. All these apps say “welcome back! see what you missed”, but I don’t feel like I’m missing anything. I’m so much more aware after I drink from the internet’s toxic fountain. I feel it. And there’s a foul taste to it now. Not extreme. Subtle. Just enough for me to clue in and put my phone back down.

In Bloom

What I was really missing, the ultimate point of all of this, was my moments. They have gone from being hollow and pitiful to being large and round and full and vibrant. From white-knuckled to open-handed. I was jamming the other night with my friend Jack and we played through a James Taylor song I’d never heard. I just about cried by the end of it. It struck me in the deep. It was moving. I couldn’t remember the last time something truly moved me like that. The next day, I cried on my way home from work listening to my friend Chris’ new song. It was so beautiful and honest and I was just so blown away at his piece of art that so obviously came from the deepest parts of him. Tears and more tears. It felt so good. It was so beautiful.

I’ve cried like four times these last two weeks. Half grief-driven. Half joy-driven. And both are bringing me back to life. Back to being human. More awareness. More presence. What used to be 95% mental has become more balanced. My other senses are getting some air time again. I feel (and appreciate) the breeze, hear (and appreciate) the morning’s song, smell (and appreciate) the scent of flowers blooming on my walk. It’s cheesy and simple and profound all at once.

For the three-plus years since my dad passed, I’ve always told my friends, therapist(s), and family that I simply wish my reality were different.

Can I have a different one? I’d ask the clouds during my morning walks.

Not a better one. Not a perfect one. Just one where he was still here.

This whole process has stripped away so many layers. Slowed me down. Somewhere in it all… I stopped wrestling.

I’m not saying I don’t miss him. I always will. But the grief isn’t as sharp, not because it’s gone, but because I’m not gripping it so tightly anymore.

It’s like I finally let it sit next to me, instead of fighting to hold it all.

We watch the sunset together.

We surf together.

We listen to his favorite oldies together.

Maybe I’ll keep the flip phone. Maybe I won’t. Maybe presence will always be a fight, and the next battle is just around the corner. But for now, here feels pretty awesome. And not because it’s perfect. It’s actually quite scary. Not because I’ve figured it all out. But because, for the first time in a long time, I’m okay with where I am.

Acceptance snuck up on me.

Wowwee.

iPhoneHuman

You know, when the iPhone came out in 2007, the “i” meant “internet”—or so they said. But maybe it never stood for “internet” at all.

Maybe the “i” has always been me.

My phone has 31,442 photos and videos on it.

31,442 attempts to capture the moment.

Still missed it.

I have always searched for more presence. But I’ve been seeking it in the wrong ways. “Editor’s Pick” apps. Viral 60-second opinions. How-To-Maximize-Everything. Blah, blah, blah. It’s all been an attempt to be a better me—my “best self.” It’s too much.

It’s like I’ve been so obsessed with maximizing and hacking life that I didn’t have any time left to live.

I just want to be human. It’s crazy… cause I don’t need nearly as much self-help since cutting out the self-destruction.

All this time, all these years, something felt off. But no—something was ‘on’.

I wasn’t lost. I was just overstimulated, overconsuming, and overconnected. One day, I’m convinced, all these devices will carry a Surgeon General’s warning—just like a pack of cigarettes.

Turns out, I don’t need an app to be alive.

And I don’t need an iPhone to be me.

“Try walking around with a child who's going, "Wow, wow! Look at that dirty dog! Look at that burned-down house! Look at that red sky!" And the child points and you look, and you see, and you start going, "Wow! Look at that huge crazy hedge! Look at that teeny little baby! Look at the scary dark cloud!" I think this is how we are supposed to be in the world--present and in awe.”

- Anne Lamott