I Took a Digital Detox and Ended Up Talking to My Houseplants (And They Judged Me)

Have you ever willingly turned off your phone, shut your laptop, and decided, “Hey, I want to experience life the way our ancestors did — confused, bored, and way too emotionally invested in moss”?

No?

Well, I did. I took a digital detox.

And somewhere between hour three and a full-on conversation with my peace lily, I realized I may have underestimated just how dependent I am on screens to survive.

This is the story of how I unplugged my devices… and accidentally plugged into a weird version of myself who makes eye contact with succulents.

Day 1: The Bold Beginning

I started the detox on a Monday. Big mistake. Mondays already feel like emotional quicksand, and now I was going in without memes?

Still, I was determined. I turned off my phone, closed my laptop, and put my tablet in a drawer like it had wronged me.

Immediately, I felt powerful. Present. Slightly itchy.

What did people even do before constant stimulation?

I looked around my apartment.

There were books.

There was a notebook.

There was my houseplant, Sheila, judging me from the windowsill like, “Girl, it’s been ten minutes. You good?”

Hour 2: The Spiral Begins

I started hearing phantom notifications. My brain was convinced I was missing:

Life-changing texts

A surprise opportunity

27% off at some store I’ve never shopped at

I kept reaching for my phone that wasn’t there, like a ghost trying to haunt a charger.

I decided to go outside.

Fresh air. Sunshine. No screens.

Except I forgot that I use my phone for everything, including music, navigation, weather checks, and avoiding eye contact in public.

So instead, I walked in awkward silence while trying to remember how to exist without curated playlists.

The only thing playing in my head was the Jeopardy theme song and a vague sense of panic.

Day 2: Peak Weird

By the second day, I was deep into what I call “Analog Mode.”

I was journaling. I was cleaning out drawers. I alphabetized my spice rack, then immediately forgot the alphabet halfway through and had to start over.

At one point, I tried to meditate. Five minutes in, I opened my eyes and said out loud:

“Sheila, are you watching me?”

Sheila, my plant, said nothing. But I swear one leaf was drooping in judgment.

So I talked to her. I said, “You don’t know what it’s like to be addicted to TikTok, okay?”

She offered no empathy. Classic Sheila.

Things I Did to Avoid Touching Technology

Reorganized my books by color

Tried to remember my cousin’s birthday without Facebook (I was off by two months)

Started a puzzle that had 1,000 pieces and absolutely no edge pieces (rude)

Ate cereal three times because cooking requires YouTube tutorials

Considered sewing but remembered I once stapled a button to a shirt and never recovered emotionally

Social Interaction: The Missing Link

Without texting or DMs, I realized I don’t actually remember how to initiate conversation like a normal person.

I stared out my window for human interaction like a Victorian ghost, occasionally whispering things like:

“Someone just walked their dog. What’s their story?”

“Was that laughter? Are people… hanging out without me?”

Eventually, I wrote a letter. An actual paper letter.

I had to Google (before the detox, thank God) how much stamps cost now.

It felt dramatic. Regal. Unnecessarily hard.

I may have sealed it with a kiss. Don’t ask.

The Breakthrough (Sort Of)

By Day 3, something weird started happening:

I… kind of liked it.

My brain felt less like a pinball machine.

I wasn’t constantly comparing my life to influencers with a minimalist aesthetic and 47 matching beige mugs.

I stopped doomscrolling at 2 a.m. and started reading an actual book. With pages! And a spine!

Even Sheila seemed proud of me. She stood a little taller. Or maybe I just watered her properly for the first time in weeks.

Either way, we were thriving.

But Let’s Be Real… I Missed Stuff

Sure, I felt calm. But I also missed:

Memes

Group chats

The ability to ask Google, “Is this mole normal or am I dying?”

Seeing dogs in costumes on Instagram

The sweet chaos of online shopping and immediately regretting it

I missed sending gifs that say what I emotionally can’t.

I missed voice notes from friends that start with, “Okay, don’t freak out but…”

Mostly, I missed knowing what’s going on. I didn’t even know it had rained until I stepped outside and got personally attacked by a wet leaf.

Reuniting With My Phone: An Emotional Scene

On Day 4, I turned my phone back on like a heroine returning to her long-lost love.

It buzzed to life. Notifications flooded in. I whispered, “I missed you.”

I caught up on texts, updates, and way too many “Are you alive??” messages.

I watched three TikToks back-to-back and laughed so hard I scared Sheila.

I ordered takeout using an app and didn’t even feel guilty.

Digital me was BACK, baby.

But something had changed.

I didn’t want to be online 24/7 again.

I just wanted balance.

And maybe a little less screen-staring after midnight.

What I Learned From My (Mostly Accidental) Detox

Your brain needs a break sometimes.

Scrolling is fun—until you forget what silence sounds like. Unplugging reminded me that peace isn’t just for monks and people with noise-cancelling headphones.

Boredom is where the weird magic happens.

Without distractions, I got creative. I daydreamed. I reconnected with my plants (emotionally, not telepathically, I promise).

You don’t need to throw your phone in a lake to find clarity.

Start small. A screen-free hour. A no-phone morning. Or just no notifications after 9 p.m. Baby steps still count.

Houseplants make terrible therapists.

But they’re great at reminding you to water something other than your Twitter feed.

Would I Do It Again?

Yes. But next time, I’m preparing better.

I’m downloading playlists, warning my friends, and maybe buying a jigsaw puzzle that actually makes sense.

I might even do it monthly. A little digital nap for my brain.

Because as it turns out, I can live without constant internet.

I just need snacks, books, and a fern who doesn’t silently shame me for whispering to her during a mild identity crisis.