unplgd.

handed over my phone, played board games, took a polaroid picture. nothing terrible happened.

i went along to an event the other evening that asked something quietly radical: to take our phones away. Voluntarily, of course. But once mine was dropped into their lockbox, i felt a flicker of panic. There was no going back.

i’d invited my daughter. She’s home from university for the summer, and i’ve watched her slowly, steadily begin to detox from her devices. Less scrolling. More reading. More silence. i’ve been watching her loosen that grip we all have, and i thought maybe i could (should?) try it too. Or at least sit beside her while she read her book.

There was a cardigan draped over a chair. Tables stacked with board games. We tucked ourselves into the furthest corner, not to hide exactly, but to observe. To ease ourselves in.

The first stretch was jittery. i kept reaching out, out of habit, towards the place where my phone should be. The urge to fact-check mid-conversation was real. To show a photo. To quietly disengage. Each time, i would catch myself. A small grief, over and over again. Until it wasn’t.

Then something shifted.

We started talking. Nothing major. Just bits and pieces. Half-stories, inside jokes, the kind of exchanges that only happen when there’s no easy exit from silence. And then the games began. Coloured pencils, Guess Who, Connect 4. Turns out i am terrible at Dobble. My daughter is smug and fast. i pretended to be annoyed. Honestly, i loved it.

No one was filming. There was no playlist filling the gaps. Just a room full of people, sitting together. We passed around a tiny digital camera, the kind with a flash that makes everything feel like 2008. Later, a Polaroid. i took a photo of her. She took one of me. We quietly pocketed them.

When our phones were returned, it happened without fanfare. Just a quiet thank you and a handover. i held mine for a moment before taking a look. It felt heavy. Not in a dramatic way, just heavier than it had two hours earlier.

One missed call. No emergencies. A few notifications that could wait.

Things that did wait.

Lately, I’ve been craving that kind of quiet.

i’ve already made a few changes. My phone is on do not disturb all the time. Only a short list of people and apps can get through. i’ve turned off almost every notification. No red dots. Not even a gentle buzz. Definitely no news alerts. There was a time that breaking news about my pet serial killer floored me. Now i read the headlines when i choose to, not when their clickbait chooses to scare me.

i’m not off-grid. i haven’t binned my phone. But i have dumbed it down and started using it differently. Slower. Less often. On my own terms.

Because here’s the thing. In a world that’s always on, being offline is starting to feel like the real luxury.

Not in a grand or curated way. Just in the sense of having space. No nudges. No demands.

There’s a quiet movement growing. More and more people are dumbing down their smart phones or switching to minimalist devices. No apps. No scroll. Just calls and texts, and sometimes not even that. A kind of disconnection you can still carry in your pocket.

And after the other evening, i get it. More than ever.

There aren’t many rooms left where the phone disappears and no one panics. It felt soft. Present. Like something we’d all silently agreed to. i want more of that. For me. For her. For anyone willing to sit in the corner with me and not reach for anything.

i might start leaving my phone behind more often. Or just forgetting about it for a while.

You in?

Love,

Lyss. x