I'm On A Mission To Lose Touch With More People. Here's Why It Could Be Good For You Too.
Legacy tech is making a comeback. Gen Zers are ditching their smartphones and opting for flip phones instead, a resurgence that seems to have (ironically) started on TikTok. This technostalgia extends beyond phones. More than 43 million vinyl records were sold in 2023. NBA star Devin Booker documented much of his Paris Olympics journey with a digital video camera, embracing the comeback of 2000s-era “digicams.” Sony even released a new Walkman model last year.
These trends stem from a collective pushback against digital overload, which has been linked to poor mental and physicalhealth. It seems that the more digitally connected we become, the more disconnected many of us feel from the real world.
However, there’s another cost to being chronically online: We’ve created an environment in which every relationship and experience can be recorded and preserved in perpetuity.
Losing people is a good and necessary part of life. Constant connection robs us of this gift.
Seven years ago, I met a fun-loving Italian dude at a Las Vegas hostel. We had two conversations and exchanged Instagram handles before I left. Now, because we follow each other online, I know his running schedule, his girlfriend’s name and the last thing he ate on his trip to Bali. I can look up my ex-girlfriends on LinkedIn and see where they work. I have an abandoned WhatsApp chat with a Polish woman I danced with once in a Berlin discotheque.
I will never see these people again. Yet our faint digital relationships prevent me from losing them completely. These are the tenuous connections that overload our lives.
Anthropologist Robin Dunbar’s research on primate neocortex sizes offers some insight on this phenomenon. His findings suggest that human brains evolved to manage only about 150 meaningful relationships. Our neural architecture apparently isn’t equipped to manage all of the interactions our technology enables.
Of course, I’m not decrying all digital connections. Because of the internet, I was able to hold a video call with my nephew when he moved to Japan. When I visited Norway, Facebook allowed me to meet with some old friends in Oslo. Those examples are different; our digital interactions were mere extensions of our real-life bonds.
I’m talking about the digital version of hoarding — hoarding moments with our cameras and hoarding connections with people we’ll never see again.
In Japanese culture, there’s a concept called “mono no aware” — a sensitivity to the ephemeral nature of existence. It suggests that life’s finite nature, while sorrowful, actually heightens the beauty of our experiences and relationships. In short, losing adds meaning.
I’ve found resonance with this idea since I started using a flip phone last year. I couldn’t stand my iPhone anymore. My YouTube use was out of control. (How many hours did I need to spend watching five-minute clips from movies I’ve seen a dozen times?) I’d stopped reading books almost entirely. And, most importantly, I don’t need a smartphone for anything.
Unlike some of my friends, I don’t use a smartphone to unlock my apartment door, order rideshares or track the whereabouts of my kids. (I’m single and childless.)
So, despite trepidations from friends and family who worried I’d be harder to get in contact with, I bought a gray TCL Flip Pro for about $35. The adjustment period was strange, as you’d expect.
Throughout the day, I’d feel that familiar urge to look something up as I thought of it. “I must know who was the designated hitter for the Seattle Mariners in 2001— right now.” Then I’d whip out my flip phone and realize I could barely type “Seattle” without several spelling errors, let alone look up facts about the city’s baseball team.
I’d see a funny sign at the store and feel an impulse to send a picture to a friend. Then I’d remember my phone takes photos that look like they came from a Game Boy Camera. I’d start driving somewhere new, only to realize that I didn’t have a GPS device to guide me.
But these challenges inspired some welcome changes, which is exactly what I’d hoped for.
Rather than impulsively searching every question on Google, my friends and I try to reverse-engineer the answers using only our imaginations. Rather than sending pictures to people, I call to tell them the story. My mental map of my city has vastly improved. I’m reading again. I don’t hide in my phone during awkward social situations.
I don’t arbitrarily connect with people online as often. I’ve lost touch with some friends who don’t like phone calls. I don’t take many pictures, either — I’m forced to either commit moments to memory or let them fade away. I even misplace my phone sometimes. How retro!
These various “losses” with my flip phone have added depth to my experiences, just as mono no aware would suggest. Concrete endings have enabled my ability to wonder. I can imagine where friends I’ve lost touch with live now. For moments I no longer capture with a camera, I must stay present if I want to recall them from memory in the future.
More than ever, I find myself playing in that space between information and fantasy. It’s a space that, unfortunately, has shrunk in our hyperconnected world. If you meet someone in a park or at a bar, within minutes you can probably uncover their relationship status, who their friends are — even their dog’s name. This abundance of information robs us of wonder, mystery and romance.
Some scientists have gone so far as to condemn ubiquitous information as an environmental pollutant, with global costs thought to surpass $1 trillion amid impaired decision-making, lower job satisfaction, higher tolerance for errors and decreased social activities.
All that is to say, resisting the incessant fire hose of information we’re constantly encountering is more challenging than we’re equipped to handle. Maybe it’s easier to take the decision out of our hands entirely, which I believe explains the fascination that people express when they see my flip phone for the first time.
It usually plays out like this:
“Where did you even buy that thing?”
“Walmart.”
They make an impotent attempt to tap the screen.
“It doesn’t work like that,” I say gently.
Then, the most fascinating response of all: “I’m so jealous. I wish I could go back to a flip phone.”
There’s no need to be jealous — most of us don’t need a smartphone as much as we imagine. Of course, making the switch isn’t easy. If you ever choose to retire your iPhone, it has this uncanny ability to sense mortal danger. It will hiss with dark magic like it’s a Horcrux and you’re a Harry Potter character threatening to destroy it: “How will you scan restaurant QR codes without me? What about your Duolingo streak? How will you avoid eye contact on the bus?”
Like most good curses, there’s a nugget of truth in the trepidations: You will lose things with a flip phone. But that’s kind of the point, isn’t it? Mono no aware.
Without a constant stream of information, life will take on a different rhythm. You’ll find yourself pausing more — “staring at the wall,” as I put it — and reflecting on where you’ve been and where you’re going. Hopefully, though, you don’t watch as many YouTube videos on your laptop as I do.
All of this has inspired me to take my experiment a step further: I’m preparing to spend one year completely offline and write a book about it. I’ll use that time to strengthen parts of myself that have atrophied from being chronically online — everything from my handwriting to my social skills. It’s scary, but I’m looking forward to it, too.
I’m no Luddite. I’ve just found that in a hyperconnected, information-polluted world, disconnection is the ultimate form of luxury.
Greg Larson is a freelance tech journalist and author. His work has been published in Barely South Review, Culture3, Decrypt and others. He is the author of “Clubbie,” published by the University of Nebraska Press in 2021. Larson holds an MFA in nonfiction creative writing from Old Dominion University. He’s currently preparing for a yearlong digital detox, during which he’ll go offline and write a book about his experiences.
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