"I Spent a Week Living Like a 19th Century Aristocrat — Here’s What Modern Life Has Completely Forgotten"

My best friend, a history nerd with a flair for dramatics, challenged me to live an entire week like a 19th-century aristocrat. No electricity. No phones. No Uber Eats. Just corsets, candlelight, and carriages—or at least, their closest modern-day equivalents. I laughed. How hard could it be? A week of tea, long baths, and lounging around in lace sounded like a luxury spa retreat. Right?

Wrong.

Day One: The Corset Conundrum

Before I even opened my eyes on Monday morning, I was already breaking modern rules. No alarm clock. Instead, I’d instructed a friend to knock on my door at 7 a.m. sharp, like a loyal footman. He was less loyal, more amused. I woke up to the sound of him snickering outside my apartment door.

Getting dressed was the first hurdle. The corset I ordered online looked beautiful in the photo. In reality, it felt like a boa constrictor with anger issues. After 30 minutes of struggling and googling “how to breathe in a corset” (oops—cheated there), I was finally laced in and barely mobile. My gown, an explosion of ruffles and petticoats, turned a simple walk to the kitchen into a small-scale military operation.

Day Two: Tea Time and Typing Trouble

I swapped my usual iced coffee for a strong cup of Earl Grey, steeped using a stovetop kettle, naturally. Breakfast was toast and jam, made with ingredients I picked up from a local farmer’s market. So far, so good.

Then came the letter writing. Since aristocrats didn’t text, I decided to write a handwritten note to my landlord about a leaky tap. My cursive was atrocious, my ink pen kept blotting, and by the end, my hand ached like I’d just transcribed a Shakespearean play. Still, there was something oddly satisfying about sealing a letter with red wax, like I was sending battle plans.

Day Three: Candlelit Chaos

That evening, I banned all artificial light. Out came the candles—dozens of them—giving my apartment a warm, flickering glow. It was romantic in theory. In practice, it was a fire hazard. I nearly set my curtain ablaze trying to light the chandelier knockoff I’d found at a thrift store.

Bath time was another ordeal. I heated water on the stove and filled the tub, bucket by bucket. By the time it was ready, the water was lukewarm and I was exhausted. Aristocrats had staff. I had sore arms and a newfound appreciation for water heaters.

Day Four: Dining with Decorum

I hosted a dinner party, 19th-century style. No pizza. No takeout. Just roast chicken, potatoes, and an attempt at a pudding that resembled a Victorian jellyfish. My friends showed up in thrifted vintage outfits and were oddly excited to follow strict etiquette rules. No elbows on the table, napkins in laps, speak only when spoken to.

Conversation, though, was the highlight. Without phones, we actually talked. For three full hours. About books, relationships, ambitions. It was intimate in a way I hadn’t experienced in years. Nobody checked their notifications. Nobody posted their plate on Instagram. We were fully present. And it felt… revolutionary.

Day Five: The Great Outdoors (and Inconveniences)

I decided to “take the air,” as 19th-century folks called it. I strolled through the park with a lace parasol and drew a few confused glances and more than one compliment. Without earbuds, I noticed birdsong, wind in the trees, and even a child giggling on a swing set. Nature felt louder.

But so did the blisters from my leather boots. Fashion was pain back then—and let me tell you, they weren’t exaggerating.

Day Six: Letters and Loneliness

By now, the novelty was wearing off. My back ached from corsets, and I missed the convenience of streaming Netflix in my pajamas. The silence became louder too. Without constant digital distractions, I was left with my own thoughts. It was both peaceful and jarring.

I wrote long letters to family members, which felt more vulnerable than a quick text or meme. Somehow, putting feelings on paper made them more real. I began to see why people once treasured love letters and journals. They were physical proof of connection.

Day Seven: Reflection and Reality

On the final day, I lay in bed—corset-free—watching the morning light pour in through the window. I hadn’t touched my phone in a week. I missed it, but not the way I expected. What I craved wasn’t the screen itself, but the illusion of productivity it gave me. The truth was, I’d gotten more done this week than in a month of multitasking. I’d read an entire book. Cooked actual meals. Slept like a log.

I’d also learned what modern life has forgotten.

We’ve forgotten how to be still. To truly connect. To let one task, one conversation, or one moment hold our full attention. We’ve traded presence for productivity, speed for depth. Living like a 19th-century aristocrat was inconvenient, exhausting—and profoundly enlightening.

Final Thoughts

No, I won’t be giving up my phone permanently or writing every message with a quill. But I’ll be lighting more candles, writing more letters, and treating dinner like a sacred pause rather than a pitstop. The past isn’t a place I want to live in forever—but it’s a place worth visiting.

Because sometimes, the slowest way is the richest way.