I never imagined I’d be the person giving advice about digital habits. Five years ago, I was the definition of a screen addict – sleeping with my phone under my pillow, checking emails before my feet hit the floor in the morning, and scrolling mindlessly through social media until the small hours. My screen time reports were genuinely frightening. Twelve hours a day? How was that even possible? Yet somehow, between work, entertainment, and what I justified as “staying connected,” I’d managed to spend half my life staring at glowing rectangles.
The wake-up call came during what should have been a dreamy weekend away in the Lake District. Picture it: stunning scenery, a charming cottage with a fireplace, and me – sitting on a window seat with the most gorgeous view of mountains and water, completely ignoring it all while scrolling through Instagram posts of… other people’s scenic holidays. My partner took a photo of me (which I still keep as a reminder) where you can see this magnificent landscape reflected in the window, and there I am, hunched over my phone, completely oblivious.
“You haven’t looked up in forty minutes,” they said quietly.
Something about the gentle disappointment in their voice hit me harder than any accusation could have. I’d literally travelled 200 miles to experience this beautiful place, only to experience it through a 6-inch screen – and not even directly, but through others’ filtered versions of similar experiences.
I’d love to say I had an immediate transformation, dramatically tossed my phone into the lake, and spent the rest of the weekend in blissful digital detox. The reality was messier. I managed about three hours of determined “being present” before the familiar itch returned. What notifications was I missing? Had anyone replied to my morning post? Was that work email I was vaguely worried about actually important?
My relationship with digital technology – like most relationships – has been a journey of fits and starts, good intentions, backsliding, and gradual improvement. I’m still nowhere near perfect. Just yesterday I caught myself mindlessly opening Twitter (sorry, “X” – though I can’t bring myself to call it that) while waiting for the kettle to boil, even though I’d made a specific rule about not checking social media before breakfast.
But I’ve developed some practices that have genuinely transformed my relationship with the digital world. They’re not about rejecting technology outright – I’m not living in a cabin in the woods writing manifestos by candlelight. I still work online, keep up with friends through messaging, and yes, occasionally fall down YouTube rabbit holes about topics no reasonable person needs to know that much about (ask me anything about historical bookbinding techniques – seriously, it’s fascinating).
What’s changed is that I’ve stopped being passive about my digital consumption. I’ve stopped letting apps, websites, and platforms dictate when and how I engage with them. I’ve started treating my attention as the precious, finite resource it actually is.
The first breakthrough came when I realised that most digital products aren’t designed with my wellbeing in mind. They’re designed to keep me engaged for as long as possible, to collect as much data as they can, and to serve as many ads as I’ll tolerate. Understanding this changed everything. It wasn’t that I lacked willpower; I was up against sophisticated systems explicitly engineered to override my best intentions.
With this in mind, I started approaching my devices like a negotiation rather than a surrender. If an app wanted my attention, it would need to prove its value. Did it genuinely enrich my life? Did it help me connect meaningfully with others? Did it teach me something valuable? Or was it just a clever way of delivering dopamine hits that left me feeling vaguely dissatisfied afterwards?
I began with a brutal audit of my phone. I removed all social media apps and told myself I could only access them through a browser. The friction this created was revealing – if opening Instagram required typing a URL and logging in, did I really want to check it that badly? About 90% of the time, the answer was no. Those momentary impulses to check weren’t about genuine connection or even interest – they were just habits, automatic responses to tiny moments of boredom or discomfort.
Next came notification settings. This was properly eye-opening. I’d never realised how many apps had, by default, been granted permission to interrupt my thoughts at any moment. Shopping apps telling me about sales on items I’d glanced at once. Games reminding me I hadn’t played in a while. News alerts about celebrity gossip or sports scores for teams I didn’t follow. Each notification seemed minor in isolation, but collectively they were fragmenting my attention dozens of times daily.
I went nuclear – turned everything off except calls, texts from actual humans (not verification codes or delivery updates), and calendar reminders. The silence was initially unnerving. I kept phantom-checking my phone, expecting something to have happened. But gradually, I started noticing how much clearer my thinking became when it wasn’t constantly interrupted.
The hardest part wasn’t the technical changes – it was confronting the emotional needs my digital habits had been masking. Without the constant distraction of notifications and feeds, I had to sit with uncomfortable feelings I’d been avoiding. Boredom. Loneliness. Anxiety about work. Uncertainty about the future.
I realised I’d been using digital consumption as emotional regulation – a way to numb difficult feelings or avoid confronting problems that needed addressing. That late-night scrolling wasn’t really about staying informed or connected; it was about avoiding the silence and stillness that might force me to think about things I was avoiding.
This is where the real work began. I started setting intentional boundaries – not just technical ones, but psychological ones. I created specific times for checking email (twice daily, not hourly). I designated certain locations in my home as screen-free (bedroom and dining table). I established a digital curfew – no screens after 9pm – and while I don’t always manage it, I succeed more often than not.
What surprised me most was how these boundaries actually enhanced my enjoyment of digital content. When I watch a film now, I actually watch it – the whole thing, without simultaneously scrolling through Twitter or answering emails. I’m present for it. And guess what? Films are much more engaging when you’re not half-watching them. The same goes for conversations, books, meals, and practically everything else.
I’ve also become more intentional about what I consume. I curate my information diet as carefully as my food diet. I subscribe to thoughtful newsletters rather than following breaking news. I choose podcasts that leave me feeling enriched rather than enraged. I’ve cultivated a Twitter feed that educates and occasionally makes me laugh rather than one that stokes outrage.
The benefits have been profound. I sleep better. I read more books – actual physical books that don’t ping and flash and try to redirect my attention. My conversations are deeper because I’m not half-listening while checking notifications. My work is more focused because I batch-process emails rather than responding to each ping like a Pavlovian experiment.
But perhaps the most unexpected benefit has been the recovery of my attention span. For years, I’d noticed my ability to focus deteriorating. I’d blamed age, stress, caffeine – everything except the obvious culprit: my habit of interrupting myself every few minutes to check various feeds. Once I broke that pattern, I slowly rebuilt my capacity for sustained attention. I can read for hours now without feeling the itch to check my phone. I can sit with a problem at work until I solve it rather than bouncing between tasks at the first sign of difficulty.
This isn’t about technological asceticism. I still use digital tools constantly. I value the connections they enable, the knowledge they make accessible, the convenience they provide. But I’ve stopped confusing convenience with necessity, connection with consumption, and accessibility with obligation.
If you’re feeling overwhelmed by your own digital habits, start small. Pick one boundary – maybe no phones during meals, or no email after 7pm – and protect it fiercely. Notice the resistance you feel, the justifications your mind creates for breaking this boundary. Those moments of discomfort are where the growth happens.
Remember that tech companies have psychologists, designers, and engineers working around the clock to capture your attention. It’s not a fair fight if you don’t set your own rules of engagement. Your attention is finite and precious. Be selective about where you direct it.
And finally, be patient with yourself. Digital habits form over years, reinforced by powerful psychological mechanisms. They don’t change overnight. I still have days where I fall into old patterns, finding myself an hour deep in a social media vortex wondering how I got there. The difference now is that I recognize it sooner, redirect more quickly, and beat myself up about it less.
The goal isn’t perfection – it’s consciousness. It’s making active choices rather than passive ones. It’s remembering that technology should be a tool that serves your life, not a destination that consumes it.
