In The Pursuit Of Lost Time: How Smartphones Are Destroying Our Minds and Connections

As a child, each year on my birthday, as I blew out the candles, I made the same wish: that life would be generous enough to give my mother more time. When she passed away from cancer, I learned the hardest, yet most important lesson of my life: time is the most precious thing we have, for it is inseparable from life itself. In that moment, I understood that we often take time for granted, failing to recognize its fleeting nature until it’s too late.

In today’s world, we fill our days by mindlessly scrolling through social media feeds, watching TikToks, or checking notifications—not because we’re seeking something meaningful, but because we want to escape the harsh truth of time’s passage. We have a complicated relationship with time. On one hand, we fear it, and on the other, we desperately try to outrun it. But the problem lies in how we’ve convinced ourselves that time is an infinite resource. It’s not. We act as though it stretches on forever, but the reality is far different.

Consider this: the average adult spends about 4 hours and 37 minutes a day on their phone. This seemingly small chunk of time quickly adds up to nearly a full day each week, 6 full days every month, and a staggering 70 days every year. By the time an average person reaches the end of their life, they will have spent roughly 12 years staring at a screen. Even knowing these jarring statistics, we still find ourselves reaching for our phones without a second thought. It has become so ingrained in our daily existence that, in many ways, it dictates our lives. Our phones are indispensable tools in the modern world, capable of extraordinary feats: connecting us with people across continents, capturing moments through high-definition cameras, and providing a window to endless possibilities. Yet, as powerful as these devices are, they are equally capable of pulling us into a trap of constant distraction, transforming something that should be a blessing into a curse.

It’s easy to get lost in the endless stream of notifications and updates, as we trade authentic connections with people for fleeting likes and comments from strangers. As we become more absorbed by our phones, we risk disconnecting from the real world—the one filled with people, experiences, and memories that truly matter. This is where balance becomes key. We need to use technology in ways that enhance our lives rather than letting it take control of our time and, ultimately, our well-being. In this digital age, it’s not enough to just use technology; we must be intentional in how we engage with it, ensuring that it serves us, rather than the other way around.

In an attempt to reclaim my time, I decided to start a personal journey by keeping a journal. I document my victories, my missteps, and the lessons I’m learning along the way. This journey has been anything but easy. Between the demands of college assignments, my three part-time jobs, and constant communication through emails and texts, my phone is a tether that seems impossible to break. Yet, I keep trying. I want to transform my phone from a source of stress and distraction into a tool for productivity and connection.But the more I try, the more fragile that balance feels.

The first chapter of my journal is titled “Awareness.” Awareness is the first and most critical step in breaking any addiction, including the one to our phones. We are constantly bombarded with articles and studies on the time we waste on our devices, yet the concept of time slipping away feels distant, almost abstract, until it hits home. My own moment of awareness came when I realized that when I thought of “time,” my first association wasn’t a clock, an alarm, or a calendar. It was the vivid, cherished memories of my life: the first time I saw my dog and his fluffy ears, the stunning sunsets at the beach, the flowers I used to grow with my grandmother in the backyard.

This realization struck me: the issue isn’t the phone itself—it’s how we’ve come to forget what time truly means. Time is no longer something we experience or savor; it’s become something abstract, distant, and endless in our minds. I used to share that perspective—believing time was infinite, that there would always be more of it. But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve faced the painful reality that time is finite, that it’s not something to be wasted.

One article that helped me grasp this was “Validity Test of the Theory of Planned Behavior in College Students’ Withdrawal from Smartphone Dependence.” It explored the Theory of Planned Behavior (TPB), a psychological framework that sheds light on how intention and action are interconnected. The theory reveals something powerful: when it comes to reducing phone use, having a strong intention is essential, but it’s not enough on its own. Intentions without understanding won’t lead to lasting change. If people don’t fully comprehend why it’s necessary to reduce their phone usage—whether it’s for their mental health, relationships, or academic success—no amount of willpower can truly alter their habits.

There is a need for both intention and insight. To break free from the grip of smartphone addiction, we must first understand how this behavior is harming us. We must connect the dots between our phone use and its impact on our mental and physical health, our relationships, and our sense of time. Only then can we start to make meaningful, lasting changes. It’s not just about limiting screen time—it’s about reclaiming time for the things that matter, rediscovering what it means to live fully, and ultimately, taking back control of our most precious resource: time.

This chapter of my journal is called “Distraction,” because that’s what I’ve become: a slave to the pull of the next thing, always chasing something quicker, brighter, easier than the moment before. I remember the first time I tried to memorize a scene from Shakespeare for my acting class. I was excited for the challenge, but as I worked through the lines, something unexpected happened. I couldn’t focus. Instead of absorbing the emotional depth of the character, I found myself skimming over the words, rushing through the scene in search of the easiest path to completion. It wasn’t that I didn’t understand the language; it was that I couldn’t feel the words. My mind wasn’t settling, unable to linger on the weight of the text, the nuances of the character’s journey. I was skimming—not just the script, but the experience itself.

This struggle to stay present is not limited to my acting. I began to notice a similar pattern in my academic work. Whenever I sat down to read a complex text or tackle a difficult concept, my attention seemed to splinter. My phone would buzz, and I would immediately reach for it, distracted by notifications, quick hits of dopamine that pulled me away from the task at hand. What was once a sustained flow of thought, an ability to immerse myself in a topic, now felt fractured and shallow. I couldn’t seem to focus for more than a few minutes before my mind drifted, and the material I was reading felt more like a checklist to get through than something to deeply engage with.

The internet, I realized, was shaping my brain in ways I hadn’t fully understood. In “Is Google Making Us Stupid?”, Nicholas Carr warns that the Internet is reshaping our minds, eroding our ability to focus and think deeply. We consume information in smaller, bite-sized chunks, constantly switching from one link or app to another. The brain, in turn, rewires itself to accommodate this type of multitasking and quick task-switching, which is less conducive to sustained focus. The result is a decrease in our ability to focus deeply for long periods. A phenomenon known as “cognitive overload” occurs, where the sheer volume of information we are exposed to on the internet starts to outpace our cognitive resources, making it harder to engage with one topic for an extended time. Our brains become accustomed to quickly processing and discarding information, weakening the mental connections needed for more profound comprehension. In fact, studies show that working memory—the mental system responsible for holding and processing information over short periods—is less efficient when we’re constantly distracted by online content.

This shift in focus or brain scramble has become painfully evident in my daily life. A simple stroll into the university dining hall feels like a scene ripped from a dystopian sci-fi movie. Groups of friends are sitting together, yet the air is thick with silence. Their heads are down, but they’re not even texting each other—they’re sending Snapchat pictures. In the blink of an eye, a photo is sent to 20 people, each one absorbed in their own tiny screen, endlessly scrolling. They’re physically there, but their minds are somewhere else—somewhere far from the present, far from each other. This is the culture we’ve built—hyper-stimulation, constant distractions, our attention splintered into fragments that we can barely hold together. It’s as if we’ve trained ourselves to live in a world of noise and chaos, and we no longer know how to sit still, to truly listen, to be with one another. The relentless bombardment of stimuli, this overwhelming rush to send, share, scroll, and consume in which the more we seek it, the more we lose ourselves. We’re addicted to distraction—and we don’t even notice it.

Jean Twenge’s research on Generation Z, particularly in “Has the Smartphone Destroyed a Generation?”, offers some insight into this. She argues that smartphones and social media are reshaping how we interact with one another, making face-to-face communication a rarity. Virtual conversations, while convenient, are often shallow—just a quick exchange of words without the depth that comes with in-person interaction. Over time, this erodes our ability to read body language, understand tone, and pick up on the subtleties of human connection. We’re still communicating, but not in the same meaningful way. And in the absence of true connection, a certain loneliness settles in.

I feel this loneliness in my own life. The more I try to make meaningful connections, the harder it becomes. Even when I’m surrounded by people, I often find myself feeling disconnected. It’s not about being alone—it’s about the absence of a deeper bond, the kind of connection that can only be built through extended, uninterrupted conversation. The ease of texting or scrolling through social media might offer quick responses, but it doesn’t provide the emotional depth that face-to-face communication can. And the more we rely on our phones to bridge the gap, the more isolated we become, not just physically, but emotionally.

This all raises an important question: Are we becoming less responsible for how we engage with the world around us? We’ve always had choices, even before smartphones. In the past, we could choose between reading a book or watching TV, between engaging with a friend or retreating into solitude. Now, the choices are more abundant than ever, and technology is constantly offering us new opportunities for distraction. Yet, we still control how we engage with it. The problem is not technology itself, but how we choose to let it shape us. If I want to be the kind of actor who can deeply inhabit a character, I need to reclaim my ability to focus. If I want to form meaningful relationships, I need to invest time and presence into real conversations, not just text messages or social media posts.

This is the challenge of living in an era where distractions are endless and attention is fleeting. If I want to connect with a character, a concept, or even a person on a deeper level, I need to make a conscious choice to pause, to sit with the complexity of the moment, and to resist the pull of constant distraction.

After two weeks of trying to minimize my phone use, I struggled and only kept failing my mission. I felt the weight of this growing emptiness. The phone has become this constant companion, offering the illusion of connection, but leaving me feeling more disconnected:“My phone makes me feel empty.”

Despite the endless stream of notifications and the illusion of connection, it’s like trying to warm your hands at a fire that’s already burned out: “It’s a hollow kind of dissatisfaction, one that lovers know all too well when separated by distance. They hear the sweet, comforting words of affection and might trust the sincerity behind them—but as sincere as those words may be, they can never replace the depth of a physical embrace, the warmth of touch that transcends what words can convey.” Similarly, I thought online therapy would offer the answer I had been searching for and help me go through my challenging unplugging journey. It seemed like an ideal way to access help without the hurdles of time, scheduling, or proximity. No more waiting for an appointment or worrying about commute times—just a click, a conversation, an instant connection. What could be simpler? But over time, I realized that the very convenience that drew me in was also what left me feeling even more drained. The sessions, meant to offer solace, felt more like a distant analysis—detached, clinical, lacking the depth and humanity I had come to expect from real-world interactions. It was therapy without warmth, without the presence of another person in the room to help anchor the process.

Joanna Rodriguez and Nadine Page argue in their article “Your Smartphone Could Be Good for Your Mental Health,” that technology has the potential to improve mental health through innovations like telemedicine, mental health apps, and even video games that reduce stress and help with conditions like anxiety and depression. They suggest that these tools, available at the touch of a button, offer new, more accessible ways to seek help. And while these developments are undeniably convenient, they miss a crucial point. Convenience doesn’t always lead to better outcomes.

As much as apps like SPARX, an app designed to gamify mental health treatment, or telemedicine platforms offer quick fixes for those seeking support, they don’t address the complexities of mental health issues. SPARX, for instance, uses role-playing games and interactive tasks to help users manage their feelings of depression, making it a useful tool for those seeking self-help. However, while it may offer some relief, it oversimplifies the emotional work required in therapy. These apps and platforms tend to provide surface-level relief rather than truly confronting deep-seated issues or navigating the complexities of mental health. The benefits they offer, though valuable in some contexts, are not enough to replace the long-term, transformative effects of in-person therapy.

Moreover, these tools often create a false sense of connection. In the article by American psychiatrist Alex Curmi, “The Big Idea: Is Convenience Making Our Lives More Difficult?” a concept called evolutionary mismatch is introduced. This idea suggests that our natural instincts, honed over thousands of years of hunter-gatherer life, are out of sync with the modern world of convenience. We evolved to face challenges—both physical and emotional—that required effort, resilience, and social bonding. In contrast, technology offers ease and instant gratification, removing the need for effort or struggle. But this mismatch can have serious consequences. As we retreat into digital spaces to avoid discomfort—whether it’s the discomfort of a difficult conversation or the vulnerability of in-person therapy—we miss out on the growth that comes from confronting challenges head-on.

This evolutionary mismatch is crucial in understanding why online therapy, despite its accessibility, can fail to meet our deeper emotional needs. Our brains are wired for face-to-face interactions, where we can read subtle cues like body language, tone of voice, and physical presence. These cues activate parts of the brain responsible for emotional empathy, creating a deeper sense of connection and trust. We keep forgetting that we are, at our core, human beings with instincts and biological needs that can’t be bypassed by convenience. We’ve become so accustomed to the idea that technology can fix any problem that we overlook the simplest, most fundamental aspects of human interaction. These cues aren’t just “nice to have”—they are essential for effective communication and emotional connection. This disconnect is evident in the growing challenge of maintaining long-distance relationships, where the absence of physical presence undermines the depth of the connection. No matter how many video calls we make or messages we exchange, we can’t fully replicate the nuances of being in the same room as someone, the subtle shifts in expression, the unspoken bond created by shared space. And the same is true for online therapy: without that real-time, face-to-face presence, something is always missing.

Minimizing my reliance on technology became a conscious decision to restore balance—focusing on real connections that nourish my well-being and encourage emotional growth. By stepping back from the constant stream of notifications and curated lives, I was able to remember what genuine presence felt like—something that apps and social media often cannot provide.

I didn’t seek to disconnect entirely from the digital world, but to minimize its hold over my life. By doing so, I created space for relationships that heal and help us grow—relationships rooted in presence, vulnerability, and shared experience. True healing and emotional growth don’t come from algorithms or digital distractions—they come from real, unmediated moments with others, where we are fully seen, heard, and valued.

Three months ago, I was a slave to my phone—distracted, disconnected, and numb to the preciousness of time. Today, I am far from perfect, but I’m not the same. Through journaling, self-reflection, and constant awareness, I’ve started to reclaim the time that once slipped away unnoticed. It hasn’t been easy, but every small step has brought me closer to a life where I’m present, focused, and connected in ways I’d forgotten were possible.This journey is far from over, but the progress I’ve made shows that change is within reach. The key is not perfection, but intention: “change is possible, no matter how entrenched we feel in our habits. With time, reflection, and determination, we can reshape our lives—taking back the moments that truly matter.”

References

“Has the Smartphone Destroyed a Generation?” The Atlantic. 15 September 2017.

“Is Google Making Us Stupid?” The Atlantic. 15 August 2008.

“In Pursuit Of Lost Time ” Elizaveta Valkova’s Personal Journal. December 2024

“The Big Idea: Is Convenience Making Our Lives More Difficult?” The Guardian. 4 November 2024.

“Validity Test of the Theory of Planned Behavior in College Students’ Withdrawal from Smartphone Dependence” Springer Link. 16 September 2020.

“Your Smartphone Could Be Good for Your Mental Health” The Conversation. 28 May 2015.