Is a 30-day phone fast what I need to develop a new relationship with my phone?
Can a working mom do it all on a locked-down phone?
I was thumbing through the only parenting book I ever found helpful — The Parent’s Tao Te Ching: Ancient Advice for Modern Parents by William Martin. when I was struck once again by a section called “A Quiet Place.” It reads:
It will be hard to create a quiet place
where your children can find their souls.
You must first quiet your own world
and then approach theirs.
They are accustomed
to the barrage of noise
and will complain loudly in its absence.
But you can find a quiet way.
What can you do today?
A walk?
A book?
A simple game?
Like the average American, I spend 7+ hours staring at a screen per day. Most days, much more. My tiny digital companion always accompanies me to meetings, out with friends, to bed, on hikes, and, if I’m being honest, to the ladies room. I check out with Apple Pay almost exclusively, QR-code menus and parking and theater tickets and train schedules with gusto, and have at least 86 apps I sorted on my iPhone screen in a rainbow, Home Edit-style.
As a co-parent to two teens, working in tech with nearly 2 hours of commute time and a very communicative group of friends, I average 75 texts a day, 4.5 hours listening to music and podcasts and an endless stream of multi-tasking — slacking at lights, driveway moments commenting on an asana task and accepting comments in google docs while in line at TJ Maxx. When in motion, I verbally command siri like a drill sargeant, directing her to get me places, bring up Audible, Spotify, and read and respond to texts about meet ups, kid pick ups and neighborhood thread essentials. This phone is how she does it all. If I am going to stay connected to people, do good work, be a loving parent, sister, and friend, I need to be in touch all day, every day, across every platform, right? But I know the insta-google for the answer is surface skimming, not real knowing. Time is flying by, I am seeing less and less of my kids’ eyeballs and they’ll be out of the house before I know it.
I feel like Alice in Wonderland falling down the rabbit hole with simpler moments of cups of tea and books and games on picnic blankets falling ever farther out of reach. Was I really going to spend my family’s one wild and precious life staring into the 6 inches in front of my nose? It has to start with me. I can’t teach my kids something I do not know myself.
I was in the Denver airport recently when I was drawn to the book How to Break up with Your Phone, by Catherine Price. Her book, The Power of Fun had nudged me join a ladies’ a capella group, which has increased my life’s joy 10-fold. Her formula of playfulness + connection + flow was pretty much my life’s mantra. And this phone was somehow snuffing out all three.
I took a poll in the first chapter — did I sleep with my phone? Wake up to my phone? Worry if I couldn’t send a text? The teen magazine style quiz key told me I was addicted, but so was every single person who owned a typical smartphone, that’s just how they are designed to be used.
So today is Day One to craft a more healthy relationship with this device. The more I rely on the phone, the more I need to rely on my phone. I needed a reset.
I decided 30 days would be my jam. I picked the craziest 30 days of the year — Thanksgiving through just before Christmas — because, as my friend, Jill says, Why under-do what you can overdo? Here’s what I agreed to:
- Swap my iPhone to a phone with no social media, limited apps and no web browser. I opted for the Gabb Phone and asked my kids to serve as my parents.
- Daily accountability check-in with a friend
- Default to print. When reading, I’ll try to do the majority on paper. I can use social media, but it would be limited to the laptop.
The Parent Swap:
I prepped for the phone fast by switching from an iPhone 14 to the first and currently free Gabb Phone. My kids, 13 and 16, would serve as my minders and would manage my device from the MyGabb app. They can’t read my messages, but can see all my contacts and would be notified by any flagged content.
Prep Steps:
- Forwarded — I auto forwarded my number from my iphone to the Gabb Phone since I was not porting over my number for 30 days
- Focused — I put my phone in Driving mode and set the auto response to this message: “Hi there! I’m currently doing a digital reset and am not using this phone. Thanks for your patience! You can still reach me on the device I swapped to for the time being — a Gabb Phone that just calls and texts — at xxx-xxx-xxxx. Much love, Lori”
- Warned — I sent a few texts to a few pals, my dad, brother, tested it all out with my kids, who would serve as my parent during the 30-day fast
- Synced — I gathered about 500 contacts from my iPhone and synched them with my macbook for holiday addresses & for any future manual importing
- Requested — I opted for music on the record player at home and radio in the car, but in a meta moment last night, I had to approve my daughter’s iPhone screentime so she could serve as my parent to review my request for the Gabb Music app. Here’s how it went:
I’m on the couch, next to my 13-year-old daughter making the case to her for music on my phone.
Her (savoring her newfound power): “So you want Music on your phone, huh? Doesn’t that just tie you more to your phone?”
I could tell she was loving this role reversal, but I could also tell she also really cared about my intentions.
Her, in the parent app: “How about you start with chess, weather and notes and let’s see how it goes?”
Me: “Sweet! I have Gabb Music!”
To myself: She approved it (and honestly, I think it comes automatically on this phone, but it took a bit to update). Either way, happy to have any music on my phone at this point. This is what fasting (even for one day) must do to a person, making me savor every sweet morsel.
My lingering concerns before I relinquished my iPhone — how much would I miss out on? How would I navigate life without Waze? I sheepishly texted a few new contacts who I was supposed to meet this week — “hey, I have a new phone starting tomorrow, so you might hear from there.” People were intrigued. The most common response was summed up with just — 💀 — emoji. “I could never do that.” “I would fall flat on my face.” “Good luck with that!” ‘You do you!” “I could never survive!” and “WHY?!?”
Day One:
I woke up a little before 6 to a lovely Gabb alarm (it sounded like chirping birds), I left my iPhone on the dresser, without so much as a glance. I left both phones actually, until later when I wanted to make sure the driving focus was on (this was my obsession about people thinking I was ghosting them, which was really a thinly-veiled version of my ego hoping people still liked me without my cool, connected tech assistant). I left my iPhone plugged in as it updated to the new ios. I pulled up my texts just to see the focus notification was working. I had to set it again after the ios updated. Tomorrow, I needed to move the phone downstairs. There, stay put, I told it. You don’t run this town any more.
Even after the first 12 hours, even with a few hiccups of learning how to text on a new keyboard and sending messages multiple times, I felt like my day had expanded. In the morning, I ran 5 miles, savored a cup of tea while listening to a Billie Holiday record and re-discovered my love of live radio on my commute. After dinner, I read a book (okay, it was short), took a bath, and still had time to journal. I folded an entire load of laundry in silence thinking about Carrie Newcomer’s song, “Holy as the Day is Spent” — how everything is prayer, everything is meditation — “folding sheets like folding hands to pray as only laundry can.” I already felt like a person resurfacing from a long swim underwater and it was just Day One.
Edited to include: I then turned on the TV and proceeded to binge the Golden Bachelor until 2am. My sneaky dopamine-seeking brain laughed maniacally. Maybe it wasn’t about the device after all. This screen-addicted reset might just be an inside job.