I didn’t go into this experiment to prove a point. I’m not anti-technology, and I run digital publications for a living. But a few months ago, I caught myself refreshing a news feed before my morning coffee was finished, scanning headlines without remembering a single one. As a mindfulness enthusiast, that felt like a red […]

I didn’t go into this experiment to prove a point. I’m not anti-technology, and I run digital publications for a living. But a few months ago, I caught myself refreshing a news feed before my morning coffee was finished, scanning headlines without remembering a single one.

As a mindfulness enthusiast, that felt like a red flag. My attention—my most precious resource—was being auctioned off in micro-bids I didn’t even notice making.

So I parked my smartphone in a drawer for 30 days.

I used a simple “dumb” phone for calls and texts. No social apps, no email, no maps. I let family and my team know how to reach me, printed the week’s key addresses, and carried a small notebook. The rules were straightforward: if it absolutely had to be done online, I’d do it on a laptop during dedicated windows. No exceptions “just this once.”

Here’s what happened, and what it taught me about happiness.

Week 1: Withdrawal is real—and instructive

For the first few days, my hand reached for a device that wasn’t there. Phantom vibrations. The instinct to “check something” whenever there was a lull—waiting for coffee, in a taxi, at a red light on my bike—was startling. It wasn’t boredom; it was a low-level anxiety that had been masked by perpetual stimulation.

Mindfulness calls this restlessness “monkey mind”—the jumpy urge to swing from branch to branch. Without a smartphone, I had to sit with the monkey. The first lesson arrived quickly:

Lesson 1: The pull to check is not a need; it’s a habit loop.

When I noticed the urge and didn’t act on it, it peaked, then faded. Like any itch, attention given to it makes it louder. Attention withheld lets it pass.

By Day 4, I’d already stopped looking for my phone in my pocket. The mind, given permission to slow down, does.

Week 2: Boredom becomes a doorway

Something surprising happened: ordinary moments developed texture.

Riding my bike through Saigon, I noticed the way the morning sun softened the edges of the old apartments. I chatted with a fruit seller about the sweetness of that day’s mangoes—in Vietnamese I’m still learning, which made the exchange slower and more intentional. At home, conversations with my wife lengthened by a few minutes simply because there was nothing to escape into.

Lesson 2: Boredom isn’t a problem; it’s a passage.

On the other side of that initial restlessness was a gentle curiosity. My mind began to wander in creative ways—article ideas, clearer phrasing, a simpler solution to a business challenge. The silence was not empty; it was fertile.

Lesson 3: Presence deepens relationships.

Without the micro-distractions of incoming pings, people felt more… three-dimensional. The quality of attention you bring to a person is felt, even when nothing is said.

Week 3: Sleep, focus, and the slow return of contentment

By the third week, the benefits were measurable.

I slept better. Without blue-lit doomscrolling at night, my wind-down routine grew simpler: a book and a cup of herbal tea. I woke with a quieter mind.

My work improved. With email and social channels confined to two scheduled blocks on my laptop, deep work reclaimed its rightful place. I finished drafts faster. I made decisions without reaching for a quick hit of novelty in between tasks.

And then the most subtle shift:

Lesson 4: Without constant comparison, contentment grows.

I wasn’t seeing curated highlight reels. The absence of “everyone else” reduced the background hum of “should.” I ate my mostly plant-based meals because they nourish me—not because someone on the internet had a new opinion about what I should eat. The day felt more mine.

Week 4: Friction and freedom

By the final week, I had a clearer view of both cost and benefit.

The costs were real. Logistics took more effort. Without maps, I got lost once or twice. Coordinating meet-ups required a little more planning. On long rides, I missed my podcasts.

But the benefits dwarfed them.

Lesson 5: Happiness loves boundaries.

Constant accessibility had trained me to be permanently “on call.” By creating edges in my day—windows for communication, windows for work, windows for rest—I felt lighter. The mind relaxes when it knows it doesn’t have to keep checking the door.

Lesson 6: Small frictions enable big freedoms.

It’s fashionable to remove friction from everything. But some frictions are guardians. Having to open a laptop to check social feeds or email made me ask, “Is this necessary?” Most of the time, it wasn’t.

Lesson 7: Your environment is stronger than your willpower.

A silent drawer beat my strongest intentions. I didn’t conquer my smartphone; I stopped bumping into it.

Lesson 8: Joy hides in micro-moments.

Without a camera always at hand, I stopped trying to capture moments and simply experienced them: the steam rising from a strong black coffee, laughter with a friend, the reliable rhythm of pedaling through morning traffic. Nothing dramatic—just small, unfiltered joys.

So… did living without a smartphone make me happier?

Yes—though “happier” came less like fireworks and more like a steady lamp. The change wasn’t euphoria. It was clarity.

In Buddhist terms, happiness (sukha) grows when craving (tanhā) loses its grip. My phone wasn’t the cause of craving, but it was an efficient delivery system. Removing it didn’t eliminate desire; it made desire visible. And visibility is where freedom begins.

I didn’t miss everything. I did miss maps, a quick camera, and the pleasure of a thoughtfully produced podcast on long rides. Those are real conveniences that enrich life. But the experiment taught me something I won’t forget:

I want technology that serves my priorities, not technology that assigns them.

What I’m keeping (now that the 30 days are over)

I did return to a smartphone—running multiple businesses without one isn’t practical. But the phone I returned to is not the phone I left.

Here are the boundaries that stuck:

Grayscale home screen, zero social icons . I keep the first screen boring on purpose. The most tempting apps live off the phone or behind Search, which adds just enough friction to invite a second thought.

. I keep the first screen boring on purpose. The most tempting apps live off the phone or behind Search, which adds just enough friction to invite a second thought. Airplane mode mornings . My first hour goes to meditation, movement, and writing. Notifications wait their turn.

. My first hour goes to meditation, movement, and writing. Notifications wait their turn. Two check-in windows for communication . Late morning and mid-afternoon. Outside those, the inbox isn’t my boss.

. Late morning and mid-afternoon. Outside those, the inbox isn’t my boss. No phone in the bedroom . It charges in the kitchen. My book wins by default.

. It charges in the kitchen. My book wins by default. One “offline Sabbath” each week . Usually Sunday afternoon to evening. We cook, take a walk, talk, rest. Nothing urgent has ever exploded.

. Usually Sunday afternoon to evening. We cook, take a walk, talk, rest. Nothing urgent has ever exploded. Paper first for thinking . A small notebook rides with me. Pen and paper slow me down just enough to think clearly.

. A small notebook rides with me. Pen and paper slow me down just enough to think clearly. Camera with intention. If I’m taking a photo, I’m taking a photo—then the phone goes away. No taking a picture and checking four other things.

These aren’t rules to admire; they’re guards I thank daily. If you try this, your guards may look different. That’s the point. Make the environment do the heavy lifting so your willpower can relax.

Want to try your own mini-experiment?

You don’t need 30 days to feel a shift. Start small. Try one or two of these:

Pick one context to go phone-free . Meals, workouts, or your commute. Consistency matters more than heroics.

. Meals, workouts, or your commute. Consistency matters more than heroics. Move all social apps off your phone for a week . Use a laptop during a 30-minute window. Don’t announce it—just notice what changes.

. Use a laptop during a 30-minute window. Don’t announce it—just notice what changes. Create a charging station outside the bedroom . Let sleep be sacred again.

. Let sleep be sacred again. Schedule your check-ins . Two windows a day for messages and email. You’ll be amazed how much “urgency” evaporates with a 90-minute delay.

. Two windows a day for messages and email. You’ll be amazed how much “urgency” evaporates with a 90-minute delay. Turn off all non-human notifications . If a person didn’t send it, you don’t need to see it right now.

. If a person didn’t send it, you don’t need to see it right now. Adopt a daily two-minute “boredom sit.” No phone, no input. Just sit and watch the mind. You’re training a muscle you’ll use everywhere.

The unexpected gift

The biggest gift of those 30 days wasn’t productivity or even peace. It was humility.

Without constant distraction, I saw more clearly the little ways I try to escape discomfort—awkward feelings, half-finished tasks, vague anxieties. When escape wasn’t an option, I met those moments with breath and curiosity. And they softened.

Happiness, I realised, is less a feeling to chase and more a relationship to cultivate—with your attention, your environment, your people, and the present moment itself.

As a long-time vegetarian turned mostly plant-based eater, I’ve always believed food should nourish the body and the spirit. The same is true of information. What we consume shapes how we feel, and what we keep within arm’s reach shapes what we consume.

A smartphone can be a tool for wisdom or a tunnel for noise. The difference isn’t hidden in the device; it’s revealed by our defaults.

My default, now, is simpler: human first, phone second.

And the happiness that follows is quieter, deeper, and—to my pleasant surprise—easier to sustain.