Hooked: How My Phone Became My Drug

I never thought I’d be the kind of person who couldn’t put down a phone. Growing up, I watched adults at dinner tables, their faces lit blue from tiny screens, and silently promised myself I’d be different. I would read more books. I’d be present in every moment. I’d never let a machine control my mind.

But somewhere along the way, the glowing rectangle in my pocket turned into something I couldn’t live without.

At first, it was innocent. I downloaded a few social apps to stay in touch with friends. I told myself it was just for convenience—to answer messages, share photos, keep up with the news. I had no idea how easily it would all spiral out of control.

In college, my phone became an extension of my hand. I’d wake up in the middle of the night and instinctively reach for it, scrolling through notifications I’d already seen hours before. My mornings started with feeds full of other people’s highlights: selfies on beaches, engagement announcements, luxury vacations. I couldn’t look away. Each perfectly curated post seemed to whisper that everyone else was living a more exciting life, and I was falling behind.

The worst part was, I knew it was happening. I could feel my attention span fraying like a cheap sweater. I struggled to read even a single page of a novel without checking my phone three times. I started to notice phantom vibrations in my pocket, my brain conjuring notifications that weren’t even real.

I wasn’t alone. Every time I looked around—a waiting room, a bus stop, a classroom—everyone else was staring at their screens too. It was as if we’d all silently agreed this was normal.

But deep down, I felt sick.

I knew my phone was stealing my time. I knew it was rewiring my brain. But I didn’t know how to stop.

One afternoon, I decided to check my screen time stats. I was curious, maybe even a little smug—I imagined I’d be under the average. But when the number appeared, my stomach flipped: 8 hours and 37 minutes.

Almost an entire workday, wasted on mindless scrolling.

It was a slap in the face. I started to think about what I could have done with those hours. Learned a language. Exercised. Written a book. Called my grandmother. Instead, I’d watched strangers argue about politics, liked hundreds of photos I didn’t care about, and read the same headlines over and over.

That night, I lay awake wondering what my life would look like if I didn’t feel tethered to a screen. I realized I hadn’t been fully present in years. Every conversation was punctuated by glances at my phone. Every moment of silence felt uncomfortable without a distraction.

I wish I could say I woke up the next morning and simply quit. But addiction doesn’t work that way.

It took months of trial and error. I deleted apps and reinstalled them when loneliness crept in. I tried turning my phone off for a day, only to find myself restless and irritable, like I was missing some vital part of myself. I’d go hours without checking, then binge-scroll for an entire evening to catch up.

Slowly, though, I started to claw back control.

I began by charging my phone outside my bedroom. The first night felt unbearable. I lay in the dark, my mind craving the glow, the constant updates. But as the minutes passed, something surprising happened. I started to breathe more deeply. My thoughts slowed. When I woke up the next morning, I felt rested in a way I hadn’t in years.

Next, I set time limits for social apps—30 minutes per day. I turned off all notifications. I stopped bringing my phone to the dinner table.

The world didn’t end. In fact, it started to feel bigger again.

Without the constant drip of dopamine from my screen, I began noticing things I’d ignored: the warmth of sunlight on my face, the way my coffee smelled, the quiet joy of simply existing without an audience.

I read books. I journaled. I sat in silence without reaching for distraction.

It wasn’t easy. Some days, I still slipped. But over time, the grip loosened.

Now, I think of my phone the way I think of junk food. A little won’t kill you, but too much leaves you bloated and hollow. It’s designed to be addictive, to keep you craving more. You can’t rely on willpower alone—you have to set boundaries.

If you’re reading this and feel like your phone has become your drug, you’re not alone. It’s not your fault. These devices are engineered to hijack your brain. But you’re not powerless, either.

You deserve a life that feels real—not just another highlight reel on a screen.

Put the phone down. Look around. You’re still here. And there is so much more to life than likes, followers, and endless scrolling.