I live in a driver-centric 1950s suburb, a place built without sidewalks that is at worst dangerous and at best neutral to pedestrians and bike riders. I like where I live, but this is a fact.
Recently, however, the town installed a crosswalk on a very busy two-lane road that separates my neighborhood from a large park. Where before it would have been grossly negligent to try to bike to the park, now it’s safe—as long as you don’t mind waiting for people to notice the flashing lights and a family waiting by the side of the road.
A few weeks ago on a ride, my son (7) and I pressed the button and waited. As I always do for effect, I complained about all the distracted drivers blowing past us and ignoring our right of way. As he always does, my son chuckled at how quickly the traffic jams up after two semi-alert drivers finally stop.
Once we reached the other side and continued biking on, he said, “There are three things I wish would go away.”
“What’s that?”
“Cars, money, and cell phones.”
“But don’t you love cars?”
“Toy cars are okay.”
“Don’t you love money?”
“Yes, but I wish everything was free.”
There was nothing to say about cell phones. We both wish they would go away.
I like to think of myself as being somewhat disciplined: I keep my phone silent, I have push notifications permanently disabled, I avoid the most pernicious social apps. Yet, like many I’m sure, I still give the screen much more attention than I’d like. I am nostalgic about the before times—the before iPhone times, that is. I genuinely feel lucky to have navigated college and my mid-20s without a computer that runs on stress in my pocket.
My son, however, has never known that world.
There is a cliché about wisdom coming from the mouths of babes. Our children are our mirrors, reflecting what we do and what we say back to us, sometimes distorted, sometimes psychopathically, but almost always more bluntly and precisely than we could.
I am proud of my son and hopeful for his generation that he sees these things for what they are. Just seven, he intuitively understands several of the ways in which we are trapped: in a car-centric society, in the pursuit of wealth, and inside phones. We rely on these things, we kind of love them, but we also sometimes wish they’d, well, go away.
But when he listed phones alongside two logistical burdens of adult life, I felt a sense of guilt that I think all parents of young kids understand. I have heard him demand (not request) that I “stop looking at [my] phone” in the past. I bet most parents today have experienced this at some point. When this happens, you get a weird feeling of both “lol kids say the darndest things” and depression. Children are bottomless pits for attention, but this device is also going to cause me to regret not being actively thankful—a lot more often. This is what regret is made of, actually.
Truth be told, I have spent years trying to hack my way out of this distraction. My name is Tristan and I am an internet power user. I’ve been caught in the loop of browsing, posting, regretting, deleting. I’ve tried quitting in various ways, including apps to bulk remove all of my posts or make all my posts private. I’ve tried to create elaborate ways to make things less useful. This year, I even prototyped an AI workflow to summarize my daily deluge of newsletters, only to realize that even summarized noise is still noise. Weaning has rarely worked for me.
There’s also the question of how far I can really push it in a job like mine that requires attention to and use of technology, in a world that has moved on from the days before the smartphone.
The only thing that ever truly worked for me was a literal natural disaster—a catastrophic hurricane—that knocked out my power and internet for several days. The forced blackout was weirdly the only time I felt truly at ease. Once the internet came back, I deleted my Facebook and Twitter accounts, knowing I might not have that type of clarity again for a long time—and ideally not in hurricane form.
Eight years later, I’m still off those platforms but the digital overwhelm is fully back, even stronger than ever. Now—especially as a parent—everything that isn’t parenting feels like junk. I long for the slowness of the United States Postal Service—for stuff (even junk!) I can physically hold in my hands. There’s a part of me that even wants to turn paperless billing off, because I’m not confident something important won’t get lost in my emails. And yes, my local newspaper is something I treasure more than ever. I feel more strongly than ever about newspapers!
When my son so bluntly wished cell phones out of existence, it hit me like a ton of bricks. I believe that giving a child a smartphone is like handing them a pack of cigarettes. But what does it mean for me? And what’s stopping me from really listening to him?
Moving to a dumb phone, or a flip phone, isn’t practical. So I asked myself, what if I deleted all the apps that aren’t essential for work? This includes ostensibly enriching news sources like The New York Times, professional networks like LinkedIn—which has admittedly been a black hole for my compulsions for some time—and various shopping portals. What if I just accessed those things on desktop, which in 2025 is a device for work, not leisure, that I would rather not use if I can help it.
So I did it, and so far, it has worked quite well.
During the recent Thanksgiving break, unencumbered by my phone, I had the most concerted, engaged, prolonged fun with my son that I can remember. There was nothing to get between us and exploration, and he seemed to notice, too.
(During this time I also realized/remembered that between cell and internet service I’m paying someone $3,000 a year for something I fairly often hate.)
If this makes you feel sad, you’re right to feel that way. As we head into a new year, I’d just suggest you take a moment to think about your relationship with your devices—and your interruptions—too.
Last month’s shuffle
Each month, I put together a Spotify playlist of the songs that caught my ear. Some are familiar to me, some aren’t. Some are old, some are new. The playlist tends to span eras, genres, and sounds. It’s probably not for everyone but here it is!
2024