

I didn’t set out to take a break from technology in late April. There was no dramatic digital detox announcement, no fresh new habit tracker printed out, no neat little “unplug” box to check off each day.
I just… didn’t feel like being online.
And for once, I listened to that feeling.
I ignored the voice that said I should be posting more. That I might fall behind. That people would forget about me if I wasn’t constantly updating, creating, replying. Instead, I let my inbox sit. I didn’t open social media. I even forgot where I last left my phone a few times—and that used to be unthinkable.
The first day, I felt twitchy. Like my fingers didn’t know what to do without scrolling. Like I was missing something important. But by the third or fourth day, something shifted.
I could hear my thoughts again.
I could sense the tightness in my chest when I rushed through the morning—and also the peace that settled in when I made my tea slowly and sat down without checking the news.
I started noticing things again. The way the light moved across my bedroom dresser. How the kids' laughter changed pitch depending on whether they were truly joyful or just killing time. I started paying attention—not just to what was around me, but to me.
And it hit me: we miss so much when we’re always “connected.”
We say we want to live more intentionally, more peacefully—but we can’t do that when we’re in a constant state of reactivity. Always responding. Always consuming. Always comparing.
When we’re in survival mode—just getting through the day—we aren’t living with awareness. We’re not observing ourselves with compassion or curiosity. We’re just trying to keep up.
And honestly? That’s not living. That’s just existing.
I’ve been thinking a lot about change—how it often shows up quietly. How it starts with noticing. Observing. Taking stock of what’s working and what’s not. Not judging, just paying attention. Like a scientist, watching an experiment unfold.
But if we’re too busy, too distracted, too overwhelmed, we miss the signs. We miss the invitation.
I believe one of the most human things we can do is notice and adapt. To say, “Oh, this isn’t working,” and then gently try something else. To feel all our feelings—joy, frustration, excitement, anger—not rush through them or numb them away. To ask hard questions and sit with the discomfort of not having easy answers.
Questions like:
Am I truly content?
If I keep living like this, will I feel at peace with how I spent my days?
What have I been putting off—waiting for the “right” time that never seems to come?
And what would happen if I just did the thing?
Not out of guilt or hustle or because someone online said I should. But because I want to. Because something in me is ready for change.
My low-tech week didn’t give me all the answers. But it gave me a little clarity. A little breathing room. A quiet reminder that I don’t have to keep up. That I can step back anytime. That I get to decide how I want to live.
And honestly? I want to live slow. Present. Fully here. Not buried under apps and notifications and endless noise. Not trying to be the hero in everyone’s life while neglecting my own.
Just me. Living. Observing. Choosing again and again to be awake to my life.
Maybe you’re feeling the same nudge. The quiet whisper to unplug, to pause, to tune in.
If you are, consider this your permission slip.
Put the phone down. Sit in silence. Take a walk with no podcast in your ears. Let your thoughts catch up with you. You don’t have to do it perfectly. Just begin.
A cozy question or two to take with you:
✨ What might you notice if you gave yourself even just one low-tech day this week?
✨ Where in your life are you ready to adapt, shift, or let go?
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(And thank you, truly, for being here—whether free or paid. It means a lot.)
xo, Xuan
Resonated with this post? Check out these as well:
What Happens When You Step Away
“Almost everything will work again if you unplug it for a few minutes… including you.” — Anne Lamott
Breaking Free from the Scroll (Again)
It started with COVID. Like so many others, I found myself stuck at home, endlessly scrolling through Instagram and Facebook. The apps were designed for this—no natural stopping point, just an infinite feed of content, distractions, and dopamine hits. And I was hooked.