I Left My Phone at Home in New York City

By Evy Larsen

On Feb. 2, I started an experiment: I decided to leave my phone at home.

I am 29 years old. I live in New York City, and I am in graduate school—I don’t exactly fit the profile of someone opting out of a device that coordinates every meeting, message, and moment of modern life. When I told people what I was doing, no one asked why. They asked how.

“How will we contact you?”
“How will you get around?”
“But what if something happens?”

The anxiety in those questions shows how deeply we equate reachability with survival. In a city powered by QR codes, Apple Pay, group chats, and live locations, the smartphone has become a prerequisite for existence. 

Here is my new reality: While my phone sits on my nightstand, I tap my credit card at the subway turnstile. I email classmates when I need to meet them on campus. I show up where I need to be on time. The city still works. What disappeared was not my ability to function but the constant noise of digital connection. 

People in my generation spend roughly four to six hours per day on their phones, and many of us are on track to lose 25 years of our lives to screens. We unlock our phones dozens, sometimes hundreds of times a day, often without realizing. Nearly half of Americans say they feel addicted to their phones, even if a glance down at a screen starts with “just checking something.” 

I did not need statistics to tell me I was part of that group. My mornings followed a script: Wake up, phone. Weather, phone. Commute, phone. Texts, phone. Music, phone. 

By the time I entered the subway, I had already surrendered the most alert part of my day to a glowing rectangle. Last Thanksgiving, my screen time averaged six hours a day. Six hours distracted from the people who matter most: my family. I was in disbelief. Those six hours did not feel like a choice. 

A few weeks ago, I finally began the experiment. I went to school without my phone. I noticed the tops of buildings as I walked through the streets – details I had physically passed for months without seeing. I said hello to security guards I had previously walked past, sealed inside my headphones with a private soundtrack. I left my apartment each morning with a pep in my step. 

What surprised me most was not how each day began, but rather how it ended. Even after long, grueling days, that lightness stayed with me. Without the steady drip of notifications, the day was less exhausting and draining. 

But the moment I returned to my phone, the difference was palpable. A wave of stress washed over me as I was pulled in a dozen directions at once. Messages, emails, plans. Even though many of them were positive and exciting, they all demanded my immediate attention. I instantly felt overwhelmed.

I have been overwhelmed by competing priorities before. A little over a year ago, my dad was sick. I spent long hours with him in the hospital, trying to gather every one of his life stories, collecting details I did not want to lose. Cancer had narrowed his world to a bed and a room, yet that bright screen still drew his attention away. While his phone was a welcome distraction from pain, it was also quietly stealing our last moments together. These moments were lost not out of intention, but out of habit. 

Phones are engineered for this. Brain experts call it “dopamine hijacking,” where real life is muted by constant digital stimulation that leads to underfulfillment. My 1-year-old nephew, despite his parents’ best efforts, already knows how to swipe on an iPhone. Before he can walk, he can scroll. If screens can take time from the very beginning of life and the very end, what are they taking from us right now?

I understand that leaving my phone at home is a privilege. But I invite you to start small. Leave your phone in your pocket for your usual commute. Take your headphones off for a subway ride. You can be reachable without being consumed. You don’t have to start dramatically. Sometimes, all it takes is putting the phone down, even for one ride.