In an era dominated by digital media and technology, our lives are becoming increasingly intertwined with screens. It’s nearly impossible to escape their pervasive presence. Even something as simple as dining out now often involves scanning QR codes to access menus, with some restaurants no longer offering physical menus at all. Everyone seems to be tethered to their devices, whether it’s the phone that never leaves our pocket or the laptops that fill lecture halls as students type away. The vast expanse of human knowledge is now available at our fingertips, and many have become addicted to it. And it’s not just adults—children as young as one are adept at swiping through iPads or their parents phones, watching YouTube videos, or playing games at the dinner table. This reliance begs the question: what happens when the technology we’re so accustomed to is taken away from us? How do we react when our phones are suddenly out of reach?
For many, the answer is a sense of disorientation, even panic. We’ve become so dependent on constant connectivity that the mere thought of being unreachable can feel uncomfortable or even alarming. But there’s an undeniable power in reclaiming our presence, in stepping away from the relentless buzz of notifications to experience life more fully. My own journey toward understanding this came in the form of a series of school trips I took between the ages of nine and fourteen. These trips, designed to foster camaraderie and connection among classmates, took us to various parts of the United States, from the remote woods in upstate New York to the southern states, and even one trip abroad. On paper, it seemed like the perfect opportunity—forty-five students, a handful of teachers, and nothing to do but enjoy the company of our friends in scenic, often isolated locations. The only catch? We weren’t allowed to bring any technology. No phones. No laptops. No digital connection to the outside world. Even contacting our parents was an impossible task.
For a group of teenagers who were already deeply immersed in the digital age, this condition was met with outrage, every year without fail. We would spend the days leading up to the trip trying to argue our case for keeping our devices. Surely, we would say, there might be an emergency where our phones would be essential. Or we’d need them for “safety,” as if we couldn’t imagine navigating life without Google Maps or texting one another. But our teachers were adamant, always managing to present solutions that didn’t involve screens. Despite our protests, every year we were forced to leave our beloved devices behind.
In the final hours before departure, as we begrudgingly accepted our technology-free fate, we would engage in last-ditch efforts to maintain some semblance of connection. Friends would hand over their Snapchats asking friends to keep streaks alive. Some would even brainstorm elaborate schemes to smuggle their phones, only to fail once again. Eventually, the dreaded moment would come: we’d leave. Completely unplugged.
Initially, the absence of technology felt like a gaping hole in our lives. We fidgeted, reaching for phones that weren’t there out of habit. But slowly, something began to shift. The phantom buzzes slowly started to dissipate. We played card games with people we hadn’t spoken to in months, we told stories, laughed, and reconnected in ways that seemed foreign in our daily, tech-saturated lives. The only device we were allowed was an iPod Nano, a relic by today’s standards, but even then, its limitations felt freeing. We couldn’t scroll endlessly, make our precious Musical.ly’s, or get lost in notifications. Instead, we listened to music, shared earbuds with a friend, and simply enjoyed being in the moment.
We captured memories with disposable cameras rather than with Instagram or Snapchat—grainy snapshots that wouldn’t be seen until we returned home and developed the film. Journaling took the place of texting. We filled our notebooks with reflections, stories, and doodles, some meant for our parents, others simply to pass the time. And while there were moments of boredom, even frustration, it was in those quiet spaces that we rediscovered something vital: the art of being present.
For one week a year, we lived as our ancestors had—unplugged, without the constant hum of digital distraction. We were forced to look up and engage with the world around us in a way we hadn’t in years. It was an experience that, at the time, felt strange and uncomfortable but in retrospect, it offered a glimpse of the kind of freedom we didn’t even realize we had lost.
Looking back, those trips taught me that disconnecting isn’t just about stepping away from technology; it’s about reclaiming the ability to be fully present in our lives. It’s about recognizing that while the digital world offers convenience and connection, there is a profound richness in the moments we experience without a screen in front of us. Perhaps, in a world that’s increasingly defined by our digital presence, the real power lies in disconnecting—and reclaiming our presence in the here and now.
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