Disconnected to Reconnect

It started with a cracked screen.

One accidental drop onto the sidewalk, and my lifeline to the world—my phone—shattered. At first, it was just a spiderweb across the glass. I told myself I’d get it fixed that weekend. But by the next morning, the screen had gone black. No more scrolling, no more notifications, no more excuses.

I panicked.

I didn’t realize how much I relied on it until it was gone. It wasn’t just a phone. It was my calendar, my alarm clock, my GPS, my camera, my way of keeping up with friends I hadn’t seen in years but still somehow felt “close” to. It was my shield from awkward silences, my escape from boredom, my go-to distraction during uncomfortable moments.

I scheduled a repair appointment, but the earliest available slot was four days away. Four days felt like forever. I’d have to actually... be present. Be alone with my thoughts. Be unplugged.

The first day was rough. I kept reaching for it, out of habit. At red lights. While eating. Even while walking down the street. I felt untethered, like I was missing a limb. But something strange began to happen on day two.

I noticed things.

Like the way the sunlight hit the leaves on the tree outside my apartment. Or how the barista at my local coffee shop smiled when she handed me my drink—something I never paid attention to because I was too busy replying to emails or doom-scrolling headlines.

With no phone to bury my face in during the commute, I looked around on the subway. Really looked. I saw an elderly couple holding hands and laughing at a private joke. I saw a teenager give up his seat to a woman carrying a toddler. I saw tired eyes, hopeful eyes, distracted eyes. And for the first time in a long time, I saw my own reflection in the train window and didn’t look away.

That night, I cooked dinner without a podcast playing in the background. I sat at the table and ate—no screens, no noise, just me and the sound of my own chewing and the occasional creak of the floorboards. It was weird. It was quiet. But it was peaceful.

By day three, something even more unexpected happened.

I started thinking.

Not just surface-level thoughts about deadlines or errands, but deeper questions. Am I happy with how I’m spending my time? When was the last time I truly listened during a conversation instead of half-hearing someone while typing or swiping? Have I become more connected to the internet than I am to the people right in front of me?

That evening, I went for a walk—without earbuds. Just the sounds of birds, laughter from a nearby park, and my own footsteps on the pavement. I ran into a neighbor I usually only waved at. We talked. Not a quick “hey,” but a real conversation about the neighborhood, about work, about nothing in particular. I didn’t check the time once.

It felt like life had slowed down—but not in a bad way. In a way that felt... right.

On the fourth day, just before my phone repair appointment, I hesitated. Did I even want it back?

Don’t get me wrong. Phones are useful. They help us stay informed and in touch. But mine had become more than a tool. It had become a filter between me and the world. And without it, I’d remembered what unfiltered life looked like—and it was beautiful.

I still got the phone fixed. But I made a choice.

No more checking social media first thing in the morning. No more using my phone at meals. No more mindless scrolling when I’m bored or lonely or anxious. Instead, I’ve started journaling again. Calling people instead of just texting. Going for walks. Making eye contact.

It took a broken phone to show me that I was the one who’d been disconnected—not from Wi-Fi or apps, but from life itself.

Moral of the Story:

Sometimes, life forces us to pause in ways we never expect. And in those pauses, we often find what truly matters—the quiet moments, the real connections, and the beauty that’s been there all along, just waiting for us to look up.

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Thank you for reading...

Regards: Fazal Hadi