Last week, Rhik found solace by walking 10,000 steps a day instead of wasting time scrolling. But can he stand being completely phoneless at a forest retreat?

Monday

My last ditch plan: cold turkey in the woods. Ludicrous, that renting a cabin with nothing in it is now marketed to burnt-out professionals as a “digital detox”. Yet the urge to be off-grid is old: I’m talking Rousseau, Thoreau, Emerson. Inspired by these writers, I’m thinking three days of zero phone use will break its spell, returning me to nature, and ultimately myself.

Almond, my love interest, joins me. I’m talking Rousseau, but hoping Romance.

We arrive at a pine box to discover no food provided and an hour of daylight remaining. I panic. Setting off into the woods with just a credit card, I’ll get lost and freeze. Almond, who grew up on a farm, glowers as she uses Google Maps to walk us to a gas station several miles away, where I buy us a cup of mustard for dinner and argue for returning home.

Later that night, we grill burgers over the fire pit and talk. Her phone is now dead, mine stashed in the cabin’s lockbox. We’re unable to discuss our usual fare: AI-generated memes of Harry Potter with a Jamaican twist, the latest clips of Ben Affleck raw-dogging life. We go deeper than usual, talking about our childhoods, comparing hopes and fears. This is good.

Tuesday

“I’m leaving.” I’d been sleeping deep as dawn gently shredded the sky. I squint up at Almond’s sunny face, saying something about the point of this journey being to learn who I am, without distractions.

Alone, I’m shocked by how many hours there are to fill, without company, schedule or hope. I list between the bed, composting toilet and surrounding field, achieving little, thinking less. The birds are loud. So this is what I am without my phone. Nothing.

I try to read, but am exhausted after 40 minutes. As a child, I read for three hours at a time. I climb into bed at 9pm, as I did when I was a child.

Wednesday

Next morning, something has changed. I slept deeply. I boil water, my thoughts unhurried. Having no phone feels oddly luxurious – as if I’m too important to be accessible. It’s decadent.

Or maybe it’s fundamental. I see now that when I reach for my phone first thing, every email, text and news story punches a hole in my energy reservoir. It’s different here. There is sovereignty in entering the flow of a day at one’s own pace, before being responsive to others. I pledge to wake an hour earlier from now on, to make space for this feeling.

I walk, I read. I feel like I’ve been holding my breath for months, or years.

Thursday

Home. Struggling to keep the lessons of the cabin alive in my apartment.

A silent call comes through, during my evening phone check. A voice asks if I’m joining the video meeting, because it started 20 minutes ago. I have no idea what they’re talking about. I log on to discover 30 people waiting for me – it’s a transatlantic Q&A about how to be a professional writer. I’m in my pajamas. Among the worst outcomes of silencing notifications, this experience ranks high.

Friday

I meet my mother for a long walk. We sit on a bench and she texts her friends, while I stare at a bush. I estimate we’ve walked 13,000 steps but I have no way of proving, or enjoying it. I’m never leaving my phone at home again.

Saturday

I simply have to use my phone for too many things – work, maps, social logistics, transferring money. Once I pick it up, there’s always a funny message or exciting picture, something everyone’s talking about. I start keeping it on me again, compulsively checking it. I feel comforted and depressed. Cold turkey, reheated.

Sunday

The ambient feeling of being myself has, for some time, been one of constant, anxious chatter. It’s overwhelming and unpleasant, so I use my phone to calm or drown it out. Hence the constant podcasts, music, messages and social media. It’s like I’ve been sitting in a Porsche with earplugs in, revving the engine and complaining about the noise.

On the last day of my diary, I acknowledge I have failed. I thought this journey would be inspiring: that I would struggle, discover the joy of being present, throw my phone into a canyon. But I underestimated how colonizing this device is. I rely on it for everything, and the price of convenience is passivity, isolation and weakness. Faced with meaningful work that requires deep focus, or the demands of real friendship, I turn to it for a way out. It never lets me down.

I don’t know if I’ll continue resisting my phone. I haven’t discovered who I am, but at least I have some clarity. Tech companies hate you. Not individually – you’re an insignificant data point in a global matrix of profit. But they have dehumanised you, stolen and then sold your attention back to you, destroyed the social fabric and perverted the human need for connection into an infrastructure of pure alienation. This is what I think whenever I pick up my phone, which I can’t stop doing.

Thief of my life. Thief of my joy.

Next week: the final part of Rhik’s journey.