Save All of Your Work and Log Off

Reflecting on the back of my head.

The Gray Lady.

I recently admitted to a group of friends in recovery that I deleted Instagram and Facebook from my phone last month after recognizing a disturbing pattern. I was caught in a dopamine-fueled closed circuit on my cell phone, clicking into one app and refreshing only to jump into the next, even checking my email obsessively, hunting for new content, something to respond to, something to fill my brain. I recognized the obsessive compulsive behavior that had characterized my drug use in the 90s and felt sick — sick that I had allowed myself to return to that kind of behavior, sick at the recognition that addict behavior follows wherever you go, sick that I'd allowed myself to be both a user and a pusher of this technological opiate of the masses. The truth is social media and these phones are built to addict. That’s the point, so this should be of little surprise, and I am alone here. I think we are all a little trapped.

This is not exactly new. In 2004, I studied in the Brazilian rainforest over a summer to earn my required science credits for my undergraduate degree. (The class was lovingly called Science for Poets. This is another story for another time.) Before I left, I asked Ben if he would miss me. He joked that he would, but that he'd just create a cardboard image of the back of my head, hunched over my laptop screen in our tiny Upper West Side apartment – my face illuminated in the corner, his primary view of me most days. Then it would feel like I was home. I laughed it off, but 21 years later I know he was right. That cardboard cutout has become less joke and more prophecy, a prescient warning about how screens would come to mediate our lives, our relationships, our very sense of presence.

The cost of digital dependency becomes particularly stark during times of crisis. When tragedy strikes — fires, crashes, political coup — we seek information and connection just as our feeds flood with a thousand ignorant hot takes drowning out expert voices and contribute to the spread of misinformation, disinformation and downright confusion. We scroll compulsively, seeking understanding and connection, but find only noise.

The irony doesn't escape me — seeking connection through platforms I've grown to distrust, watching their steady descent into toxic masculinity and white supremacy. Each scroll feels like a small betrayal of my values. And the sense of being overwhelmed actually keeps me feeling more separate from people. We are, as The Atlantic's Derek Thompson put it, "donating our dopamine to our phones rather than reserving our dopamine for our friends." The very thing I long for is within arms reach, yet I give in to the distance between my thumb and phone.

And yet, I hesitate. The fear of missing out takes over — what conversations am I not part of, what cultural moments am I missing, what career opportunities might slip past? I tell myself it's about staying informed, about maintaining connections, about professional necessity. But when I'm most honest with myself, I know I am letting fear run the show. My principles end where my comfort begins.

Even my chaise looks more exciting than this gray screen.

What to do? My experience of quitting drugs was that it is not enough to just stop using. Much like diet culture has taught me, we must abstain from the behavior that is harmful while adding in new healthy behaviors to fill the well. In recovery, that meant going to meetings, finding a sponsor, working on steps, building relationships through the fellowship of the 12-step group I attend.

In this case, I’ve started replacing pre-bed scrolling with reading a chapter of my book, either physical or audiobook. In the morning (and the middle of the night), I resist the urge to pick up my phone upon waking by charging the phone across the room (my phone is on silent after 9 pm, but if a loved one calls two times in a row it will ring).

I've also adopted Tristan Harris’ best practices to minimize my dependence on this tiny capitalist machine – one I need to function in the modern world, one designed to monetize my attention at all costs (to me). I’m reintroducing practices like reading or meditating or writing before I get out of bed and am considering buying the same brick a friend uses to keep her screen time in check.

In the short time I’ve managed to quiet some of the noise, I can see that this communal anxiety and static isn't just about social media, cell phones, or addiction – it's about how we want to live in relationship with ourselves and others. Every time we reach for our phones instead of sitting with discomfort, every time we scroll past real connection in search of digital validation, we're making a choice about who we want to be. What parts of ourselves are we avoiding when we dive into endless feeds? What conversations are we not having? What life are we not living? That's what I am asking myself now. Do you ask yourself this too?

I am trying to move toward those conversations and connections. This past week I celebrated a dear friend's incredible 40 year anniversary in recovery in a church filled with tear-filled testimonies, just days after he survived a heart attack; enjoyed a loving homemade post-holiday dinner with two of my dearest friends, punctuated by a crustless lemon tart as we opened holiday gifts; and listened with care at a book salon as five incredibly thoughtful and smart (and funny) women my age shared wisdom about this stage of life that made me feel less alone. I walked away from each of these gatherings pleasantly surprised that I’d never wanted to reach for my phone.

Can I keep this up? My anxieties creep in. Just for today. I repeat my mantra and turn my phone over onto its face.

Recovery has taught me that change doesn't happen in grand gestures but in these small, daily choices that build to something bigger, learning to feel lonely or bored or afraid without reaching for something to drown or numb it out, actively reaching for community. These aren't just habits to break or form, but invitations to return to ourselves, to genuine connection, to the present moment – one day at a time, one choice at a time, and it only has to be a choice I commit to just for today. The same principles can act as a compass and salve for all that roils us: honesty, community, and the courage to sit with discomfort rather than scroll it away. May it be so.

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An invitation:
Join me for an evening of poetry and prose at the IAWA New York Literary Series, where I'll be reading alongside Pete Solomita. The event takes place on Thursday, February 13 at 6pm at the Calandra Italian American Institute (25 W. 43rd St., 17th Floor). The evening will include an open mic portion, inviting audience members to share their own work. I would LOVE to see and hear from you.