Life & Self – The Day I Unplugged

I didn’t plan to unplug. It happened out of frustration. My phone had buzzed for the fifth time before breakfast—work emails, family group chats, and a string of news alerts that made my heart sink. Without thinking, I tossed the phone into a drawer and shut it like I was locking away something dangerous.

At first, it felt wrong. My hand kept reaching for my pocket, brushing against empty fabric. I’d glance at the table, expecting the soft glow of a screen. But there was nothing. Just me, the sound of the kettle boiling, and the unsettling quiet that followed.

Breakfast felt different. I wasn’t scrolling headlines or half-watching a video while gulping down coffee. I actually noticed the golden crust of my toast, the warmth of the mug in my hands, the sunlight spilling across the counter. It struck me that most mornings, I ate without tasting anything. This morning, I tasted everything.

By mid-morning, the silence was heavier. Normally, I’d have filled it with music or podcasts while moving through chores. But without them, I heard the tiny sounds of the house—the tick of the clock, the hum of the refrigerator, the faint creak of wood as the day warmed. It was unsettling at first, but gradually those sounds began to feel like companions.

I picked up a book I had abandoned months ago. The first chapters felt unfamiliar, like meeting characters I once knew but had forgotten. As the pages turned, I realized something: I hadn’t read without distraction in a long time. Usually, my eyes flicked down to my phone every few minutes, breaking the rhythm. This time, I lost myself completely. Hours slipped by in the company of words alone.

In the afternoon, I went for a walk. Normally, I would have earbuds in, music blurring the world around me. But without them, the neighborhood sounded alive. Birds chattered from rooftops. A dog barked down the street. Kids laughed as they chased a ball. I noticed the smell of fresh-cut grass and the way the wind carried it. I felt more present than I had in months.

Of course, the temptation to check my phone kept tugging at me. What if I was missing something important? A message? A breaking headline? A call? My stomach twisted with the thought of being “out of the loop.” But then I asked myself: out of whose loop? The world’s constant chatter wasn’t the same as my life. And for once, my life was quiet.

That evening, I cooked dinner slowly, savoring the chopping of vegetables, the sizzle of garlic in the pan. Usually, I rushed through cooking, distracted by notifications, eating while scrolling. But this time, the meal felt almost sacred. I sat at the table with no phone, no TV, just the taste of food and the comfort of stillness.

After dinner, I wrote in a notebook I hadn’t touched in years. My handwriting looked clumsy, but the words flowed. I wrote about fears I hadn’t named, dreams I hadn’t admitted, and gratitude I had forgotten to express. It felt like I was catching up with myself after a long absence.

When night fell, I sat by the window and watched the sky darken. The stars appeared slowly, one by one, like secrets revealed. Normally, I would have tried to capture it, snapping a photo, crafting a caption. But this time, I just watched. The world didn’t need proof of my moment. The moment was enough.

By bedtime, something had shifted. My mind felt lighter, calmer, as though I had set down a burden I didn’t know I was carrying. Sleep came easily, without the restless hum of a glowing screen.

The next morning, when I finally opened the drawer and picked up my phone, the screen exploded with notifications—emails, messages, updates. I smiled, set it back down, and made coffee before opening a single one.

Because after the day I unplugged, I realized something simple but powerful: the world keeps shouting, but peace whispers. And sometimes, the only way to hear it is to put everything else away.