I can’t tell you how frustrated I get when I notice myself seeking distraction. I try to sit still, and my brain immediately starts throwing suggestions at me like:

Like… my goodness, brain, please stop.

I don’t need to do any of those things. I just want to sit still and be.

Back in high school, my family moved to a new house when I was in 9th grade. For three weeks, we had no internet or TV — the cable company had to do a full install, and this was long before Day 0 WiFi setups.

At first, it was torture. I couldn’t play my online games or chat with friends on AIM. My brain — addicted to entertainment — panicked.

But something strange happened around day 4.

I started to settle. I stopped craving the fix.

I started reading. Calling friends. Leaving the house. Sleeping better. Holding deeper conversations. Feeling less frazzled. By the end of those three weeks, I felt like I had a superpower. My brain was quiet. I felt rooted. Clear. Genuinely happy.

And keep in mind: this was baby internet. No TikTok. No YouTube. No social media. Even then, it was a huge shift.

When the internet finally got connected, I told myself: Don’t go back. You feel too good.

You can guess how that turned out.

Within days, the calm was gone. I didn’t even try to resist. I fell right back into the screen. The noise. The pings. The mindless scroll. And honestly? I’ve been stuck in that place ever since. Only now it’s worse — because I carry it with me. In my pocket. All the time.

I’ve tried everything.

Books. Boundaries. Digital detoxes.

I even use a separate phone with social apps just for work, and carry a cellular-enabled Apple Watch so I can walk my dog without a phone but still have emergency access.

I am literally solving my tech addiction with more tech.

Why did we let it get this far?

Just the other day, I was enjoying a calm Sunday afternoon when my brain chirped: Go grab your laptop.

And without thinking, I did. I opened it. Pulled up my browser. New tab. Blank screen. No destination. No task. Nothing to do.

Just a muscle memory of distraction. Just comfort in knowing I could click something — even if I didn’t want to.

What the actual f***?

That’s when I started writing this.

I feel like there’s an iPad-addicted toddler living in my brain.

He wants Bluey. He wants to tap the screen. He wants colors and sounds and hits of dopamine. And when he doesn’t get it, he throws a tantrum.

Well guess what? Screen time is over.

Scream all you want. You better get used to the discomfort.

Because I am done serving this addiction.

My brain needs to learn that:

I want to be in conversations without mentally checking for notifications.

I want to read books because they’re beautiful, not because I want to “log” them.

I want to go outside just to be outside — not to document the fact that I did.

Our brains evolved to crave information because information kept us alive.

These berries: good. Those: deadly.

Giant cat = danger. Small cat = cuddles (then danger).

But now?

Information is everywhere. Every tab. Every app. Every ping. Every product, podcast, post, carousel, comment, trend, and notification. Our brains still crave it. But we don’t have to give in.

We can be bigger than our brains. We can say no. We can sit still. We can choose discomfort. And we will be so much better for it.

You know what really helps?

Movement.

When I run or lift, the last thing I care about is my phone. I’m back in my body. In the moment. I run 90% of my runs without music or headphones. It was hard at first — I craved stimulation. But now? I love it. Those silent runs are meditative. They ground me.

On race days, I feel it even more. I’m tuned in. Focused. Listening to my body. Navigating every hill, every breath, every mile. That flow state? I don’t get it in front of a screen. Movement taps into something primal. Something real. Something we’ve forgotten.

Clearly, if reading about this was enough, I’d be cured by now.

But what I do know is this: The days I’m disciplined with my tech are the best days.

I read. I journal (with pen and paper). I walk my dog. I talk to friends. I stare into space. I live for the sake of living. Even just sitting in stillness — once I get past the inner scream — feels like a gift.

We catch ourselves.

We don’t leave our phone in the other room — we leave it alone. We sit in the discomfort. We brute-force our way back to sanity. And we keep doing it. Again and again and again. Even if it only lasts for one quiet afternoon — it’s worth it.

Because that silence? That slowness? That clarity?

It feels like freedom.