
Despite the do-not-disturb settings, time-spent reminders and ritual purging of apps, we’re hopelessly addicted to our smartphones—and it’s ruining our lives
In the spring of 2024, I walked into a Telus store in Liberty Village and requested a flip phone. The clerk stared. “Why would you want that?” he asked. It was a reasonable question. The short of it was that I was sick of my iPhone. I was tired of feeling chained to my many inboxes and alarmed that any time life lagged—if I was standing in an elevator, riding the TTC or sitting on the toilet—I’d default to opening Instagram or a news app. My time was being stolen from things that mattered more: my wife, sleep, exercise, all those books I’d convinced myself I didn’t have the bandwidth to read. I wanted to see whether I’d get more out of life if I used my phone less. And I wondered if the world wouldn’t be better off if we all did a digital detox.
The problem: our smartphones weren’t designed to be used less. Most apps are purpose-built to maximize user engagement, cajoling us with FOMO-inducing notifications (“Tylor just posted for the first time in a while”), hyper-personalized content (cat videos, volleyball highlights, music memes) and limited-time offers (“Play now and get double XP”).
The more hours we spend on-screen, the more data Big Tech captures about us, which allows them to sell more ads and reap more profits. I wanted to stop empowering tech billionaires, many of whom are also playing a starring role in fracturing democracy. Trading my iPhone for a flip phone felt like hitting eject—a way, I thought, to reclaim agency over how I spent my days and, by extension, my life.
The Telus staffer checked for flip phones in the back—no luck. He said he might be able to ship one to me but that the cost of my monthly plan would somehow increase. Consummate salesman, he then showed me the latest smartphone, a gleaming slab of glass and metal, and promised it to me for free, with unlimited data, on a cheaper contract. No thanks, I said, then biked home and bought an $80 flip phone from a website owned by a tech billionaire.
On May 1, 2024, I slotted my SIM card into a TCL Flip. I put my iPhone 13 in a drawer and vowed not to touch it for at least a month. Thirty-six hours later, I caved. I had Leafs tickets and needed to present them on a smartphone to get into Scotiabank Arena. I cheated a few more times throughout the month—to set up a wireless speaker system, to order an Uber, to rent a bike—but, for the most part, I stuck to the plan. I used my laptop for Instagram, WhatsApp and Discord. I learned T9 typing, which was cutting edge 20 years ago but felt undignified now. Without on-the-go access to Google Maps, I printed off directions, then got lost driving to a friend’s house. FM radio stations made me yearn for Spotify.
The experience was as janky as expected, but it had its advantages. I often called people rather than texting them, which was initially unnatural but ultimately both pleasant and efficient. I was more focused and productive during my workday, and I slept better. My screen time dropped to about 30 minutes a day while my time spent reading books and playing music skyrocketed—and so did my happiness levels.
Though I enjoyed my experiment, I’m not delusional—I could briefly forgo my iPhone primarily because, as a childless self-employed journalist writing about phones, I’d declared it my professional duty to do so. The whole of society isn’t going to surrender their smartphones en masse. We just need to re-evaluate how we use them.
The people featured in the articles below are doing just that. They’re throwing phone-free events, researching smartphone addiction, fighting to keep kids safe online and using stripped-down devices (see the alternative-phone matrix below). I’ve used a few of these models since I bade farewell to my flip last summer, including the Unihertz Jelly, an Android with a screen smaller than a business card, and the bare-bones Light Phone III.
For the time being, I’m carrying around an iPhone 8 I dug up during spring cleaning. Using an app launcher called Dumb Phone, I’ve transformed my home screen into a simple grouping (phone, messages, calendar, map, music) displayed in white text on a black background. I have a few other essentials tucked away in my app library—WhatsApp, an internet browser, parking, banking—but the device is devoid of social media, games and entertainment, and it notifies me only of calls and texts. The phone is no fun, and that’s the point. Every time I glance at its austere display, I’m reminded that the beauty and messiness and depth of real life are waiting for me off-screen—if I can just remember to look up and see them.

So far, she’s persuaded 95 families at her kids’ primary school to hold off until high school

Jay Olson is a postdoctoral fellow at U of T studying how our phones are melting our minds

She created the Very Offline Club as a way to counter Big Tech’s chokehold

From the first brick-size IBM model in 1994 to the explosive 2024 bestseller that blamed Big Tech for rewiring kids’ brains

She’s one of only three kids in her Grade 8 class without one

Margot Denommé has founded Raising Awareness Against Digital Dangers, published a parenting handbook, visited schools across North America and spoken to the WHO. And she’s just getting started

Burnt out from terminal scrolling, he co-founded Unplugged, a mini digital detox to promote phone-free socializing

He’s been without a smartphone for a year. When he wants to connect with someone, he phones them the old fashioned way

Including two flip phones, two e-ink screens, one that could pass for a calculator, one by a beer company and one that comes pre-loaded with Jewish prayer apps