Digital Hermit

What my failed attempt at a digital detox taught me about how much I still have to grow

I thought a digital detox would feel like freedom. Instead, it felt like panic. This is the story of how twenty-four hours offline left me restless, cranky, and strangely hopeful.

Have you ever had one of those days that looks perfect on paper? Friday was one of those for me. It was a day full of sunshine and connection, yet beneath it all a quiet dread was building in my body.

The morning started differently than usual. I’m typically the one who drives my Little Guy the twenty minutes to school while my husband does the pickup. That day we switched roles because I had morning plans and my Middle Son had the day off and wanted to join the drop-off, then stop for early voting and breakfast. The fact that he wanted to wake up early to vote was one of the day’s joys. He’s only seventeen, but will be eighteen by voting day and was thrilled to exercise his voice as a citizen for the first time. Very little makes me happier than seeing my kids engaged in the world.

Once they left, I met my friend for our weekly run. We’ve run together most Fridays since 2011. There’s an unspoken ease between us, and I love catching up with her. From there I went home to a blissfully empty house, a rare gift, and settled in to write. I soaked in the quiet, untangling of my thoughts and feelings.

Next was lunch with a former colleague at a Korean restaurant. We spent two hours talking about work and family and everything that had happened since we’d last sat down together. The food and the company were perfection.

After lunch it was time for afternoon pickup of Little Guy. On Fridays after school he heads to “soccer practice” with his friends at the park next to campus. And I use the word “soccer” loosely. His school is a preschool and lower elementary, so whatever happens on the field rarely resembles the game. Some of the older children play, but the little ones might be crying, smelling flowers, wrestling, or squealing with delight at something imperceptible to the adult eye. It may not look like soccer, but it is adorable.

While the kids “play,” the parents gather for their own version of connection. Over the last two years every soccer practice has ended with an unofficial playground date for the kids and a standing circle for a few parents, snacks in hand, diving deep into any number of topics. Through that ritual my husband and I have grown particularly close with one other couple. Their son now attends a different school, so he doesn’t get to join in the soccer chaos. And still, every week, they show up for the after-party.

On this particular day, the weather was perfect and the conversation was better. But it was also when my growing dread became impossible to ignore. Embarrassing as it is to admit, the dread wasn’t about anything bad. It was about something that should have been a celebration: our first attempt at a digital detox. My husband and I had agreed to log off every Friday night to Saturday night in honor of Shabbat. One night here and there, no problem. But committing to being a digital hermit for twenty-four hours every week? That thought was enough to send panic creeping in.

So there I was, in a beautiful moment, unable to stay present because I couldn’t stop the intrusive thoughts about how I was going to make it through those first twenty-four hours.

The truth is, I’ve been in a love-hate relationship with screens since they first came into my life. Like most people I know, I’ve become addicted to my phone. Somewhere along the way it got bad enough that I won’t even admit my average screen time. Most nights I fall asleep with the phone in my hand. I know how bad screens are for our minds and our relationships. Still, I reach for the little numbing device in my pocket whenever I find myself with a quiet moment. And I know better. I’ve read The Anxious Generation and Stolen Focus. I counsel patients on sleep hygiene, and rule number one is no phone in the bedroom.

And yet, as I’ve learned the hard way, knowing I need to change is not the same as actually changing.

Once I made the commitment to my husband, I knew I had to follow through. Driving home from soccer, the withdrawal was already setting in. I caught myself imagining how often I might sneak into the bathroom to check my texts or peek at my Substack comments. Even though I reminded myself that I was choosing time and presence with my three favorite people, the anxiety rushed in anyway.

I’m writing now from the other side of those twenty-four hours. I wish I could say they were a raging success. They weren’t. But maybe it’s not fair to call them a full-fledged failure either. I was on my phone less, absolutely. But I was also in a terrible mood.

The saving grace was that I talked about it with my husband, and now with myself. Instead of pretending it was fine, I admitted the truth: being away from my phone was uncomfortable, even painful. And once I said it out loud, something shifted. We started a conversation about how to lessen the impact of screens in our lives, even if we can’t pull off a complete detox. Maybe it looks like putting our phones away every Friday night. Maybe it’s simply being more intentional about how we use them in front of each other. We don’t have it figured out, but at least we’ve opened the door.

For now, we’re letting failure be our guide. Sitting with that discomfort reminded me of recovery. I “failed” at eating disorder recovery more times than I care to admit. While each relapse felt like proof that I was hopeless, in hindsight I can see that each “failure” showed me where I still needed to grow. This first attempt at a digital detox feels the same. It wasn’t a clean win, but it gave me a place to begin again. And if my track record holds, the next failure will bring me a little closer to getting it right.

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