Drowning in the Digital Pool

In August, I slipped the SIM card from my smartphone and inserted it into a tiny Punkt MP02. This pocket-sized, tactile delight came with no apps, no camera, no glowing lure. Armed with this stripped-back device, I was attempting a month-long digital detox to see if removing my smartphone would reshape my relationships — with others, with technology, and with myself.

This wasn’t just an abstract experiment. Over the past few years, my relationship with my smartphone had become all-encompassing, particularly during my wife Emma’s illness.

In July 2024, she was diagnosed with stage three bowel cancer and underwent a gruelling year of chemotherapy, radiotherapy, and multiple surgeries. Being in touch with friends and family was crucial during this awful time. Messages and social media posts helped create an amazing network of care and solidarity, but they also pulled me into a cycle of oversharing, non-stop notifications, and an almost compulsive need to broadcast. My phone became a lifeline, but also a heavy weight.

“We shape our tools and thereafter our tools shape us,” wrote Marshall McLuhan in Understanding Media back in 1964. This line rang in my ears as I began my month without a smartphone. What if this devotion to digital connection was silently eroding my capacity for personal connection?

Instagone

One of the starkest differences throughout the month was my near-total absence from Instagram. With only calls, texts, and Signal messaging available on the MP02, I posted on the platform only twice, as a practical way to ask for donations in the lead-up to running the Great North Run half marathon in support of the cancer charity Macmillan. Beyond that, silence.

Instead of scrolling through curated feeds and endless targeted advertisements, I found myself spending more time in my allotment.

Snacking on raspberries, feeding the tomatoes, and watering the slow-growing leeks, the quiet rhythm of tending the soil, pulling weeds, and laying bark paths became a feed for the soul. I wasn’t broadcasting — I was simply being. And that distinction felt transformative.

I barely noticed the absence of stories or reels, but I did notice how much better I felt. I watched birds rather than videos, paying attention to my tiny patch of land.

Replacing Playlists

For as long as I can remember, Walkmans, iPods, and then smartphones have provided me with a perpetual soundtrack. Whether out and about or at my desk, I filled silence with noise centred around me. This month was different.

Instead of endlessly revisiting my favourite tracks, I bought a small DAB radio and tuned into a variety of stations. Something about their curation — and the unexpectedness of it — slowed me down.

It wasn’t my usual playlists on repeat; it was a world of music beyond my choosing. I wrote down the names of pieces that resonated: Mozart’s Violin Concerto No. 1, Hank Mobley’s Split Feelin’s, and Drought’s End by Behn Gillece, to name a few.

At my desk, the beautifully minimal Ldial website became a constant companion: a stark white homepage serving a selection of independent and community radio stations in the US. A “random” button removed the element of choice and provided an entirely different listening experience.

Gambuh from Ingram Marshall’s Fragility Cycles is a beautiful 18-minute meditation I would never have discovered without WREK 91.1 FM in Atlanta. The same was true of the late seventies hard rock track Armageddon by Split Image, courtesy of KBOO 90.7 FM in Portland. I even worked on this piece while listening to the uplifting Sun in Aquarius by Pharoah Sanders on WFMU 91.1 FM.

Shifting from Smartphone to Notebook

Another profound shift was how I processed my thoughts. During Emma’s illness, I poured so much into daily updates, posts, and messages. Sharing her journey was a way to cope, to release worry, and to draw support from friends and family. But it also meant my inner world was always public, always shaped with an audience in mind.

Over the month, I returned to the notebook.

Instead of typing updates, I wrote reflections. Instead of posting, I scribbled and doodled. Creative ideas, fleeting thoughts, sensed emotions — they all stayed on paper.

This piece is informed by thirty-one days of notes from my now well-thumbed pocket notebook. The act of writing privately felt deeply different from the state of pseudo-broadcast many of us seem trapped in. It wasn’t about likes or comments; it was about giving my thoughts space to exist.

I’ve since bought a diary to continue this practice. There’s something incredibly grounding about pen on paper that no app or subscription service has ever replicated.

A Camera, Not a Phone

The few times I reached for a device to capture life, it was my camera, not my phone.

At a match for our local football team, Dunston UTS, instead of half-watching while scrolling, I was fully present, occasionally taking photos of the players. On a lunchtime walk through the market town of Hexham, I stopped to watch elderly men bowling, their quiet concentration etched into each movement.

Much like with a simplified phone, there is real intentionality in using a camera. It wasn’t about firing off dozens of photos — it was about crafting an image worth keeping.

In contrast, at my sister-in-law’s 40th birthday — the only time I briefly returned to my smartphone — I immediately felt the difference: the thoughtless immediacy of the smartphone versus the slower, more deliberate act of photography.

Everyday Technologies and Their Limits

Of course, not everything was smooth.

I had expected some friction, but I quickly realised how much society depends on smartphones. QR codes in hospitals, banking apps (Monzo, my main bank, doesn’t even have a fully functional website), and transport apps all highlighted the awkwardness of living without one. Even paying for car parking now often requires an app.

Using my laptop to access websites often felt clunky compared to the slick apps I was used to. This dependency showed me how difficult it would be for many to step back — not just because of habit, but because of infrastructure.

I occasionally returned to my SIM-less smartphone for essential tasks, but even brief use led to immediate distraction. A simple glance to pay a bill quickly turned into checking email or browsing Reddit.

The phone still exerts a strong pull — rows of colourful apps drawing you in, offering just enough to keep you coming back.

Running Without Data

In keeping with the spirit of the month, I also stripped technology from part of my running.

No smartwatch, no music, no tracking — just running by feel.

Some runs were slow, others faster, but none were dictated by numbers on a screen. Without constant feedback, running felt freer, more human. The run itself became the point — not the data it produced.

Relationships in a Digital Detox

What did this mean for relationships?

Surprisingly, I felt more connected.

On my first day using the MP02, my uncle called me. He had messaged earlier, but I hadn’t replied. So instead of exchanging quick texts and emojis, we had a real conversation — catching up and making plans to meet.

That call revealed something important: the power of a simpler device.

Without the constant pull of a smartphone, I became more aware of the world around me. I noticed people in cafés staring into screens, families sitting together but emotionally distant.

In stepping back, I saw more clearly the subtle erosion of presence that smartphones can create.

Neil Postman warned of this in Amusing Ourselves to Death: a culture where entertainment becomes the lens through which we experience life.

And yet, as he wrote:

“When a population becomes distracted by trivia… culture-death is a clear possibility.”

On a smaller scale, our relationships risk the same.

If every silence is filled with scrolling, when do we truly connect?

What I Took Forward

August has ended, but the lessons remain.

I still use my smartphone — modern life makes it hard not to — but now it is secondary. It stays in my bag, tethered when needed.

I use it less. I carry a notebook. I listen to birds. I reach for my camera.

And I notice how easily people disappear into their screens — and I try to resist doing the same.

As Sherry Turkle wrote in Alone Together:

“We expect more from technology and less from each other.”

Smartphones allow instant connection, but they can erode deep presence. They allow sharing, but reduce reflection. They capture everything, but weaken intention.

Technology isn’t inherently bad. It supported me through Emma’s illness. It connects us across distance. It gives us extraordinary tools.

But it must be used deliberately — otherwise, it risks diminishing our ability to think, feel, and relate.

How Technology Shapes Presence and Relationships

If the selfie stick is the wand of Narcissus, then the smartphone is his pool — a black surface we never stop gazing into.

Unlike the still water of the myth, this pool never rests. It flickers with curated images and endless feeds that reflect and distort in equal measure.

It doesn’t just mirror reality — it obscures it.

Where Narcissus wasted away at the water’s edge, we risk doing the same — not from thirst, but from distraction.

As Neil Postman warned, we may come to adore the very technologies that erode our capacity to think.

And now, with AI increasingly embedded into our devices, the waters grow murkier. Photos are edited automatically. Conversations are summarised. Reality is filtered.

These are not neutral tools — they are systems shaped by unseen data and hidden incentives.

They promise clarity, but often deliver distortion.

And when even our memories are mediated, we risk losing trust in our own minds.

I am deeply grateful to Punkt for the opportunity to step away from my smartphone.

This month reinforced what I had hoped to discover:

Technology can connect, support, and enrich — but it can also distract, confuse, and erode.

The cost of staying immersed in the digital pool is clear.

The benefit of stepping back is profound.

- Andrew Mitchell