I had just arrived home in Sydney after a month spent travelling in Spain. I was sitting on my couch scrolling through my socials when I realised that I had just spent the last hour and a half reading about Bindi Irwin’s engagement. She’s the same age as me and the fact that she’s engaged had me spiraling into an existential crisis.
"What am I doing to myself?" I wondered to myself pityingly. I decided to experiment by logging off all my socials (Twitter, Facebook and Instagram) for a month.
Day 1
It’s 8am and I’m rummaging through my fridge. My Dad sees what I’m doing and makes a joke that’s so unfunny that I instantly recognise its shareability.
Every article I’ve ever read about the effect social media has on the chemical makeup of our brains suddenly seems relevant. This detox is not just about living in the real world. It’s about rewiring my brain.
Day 3
My brother asks me if I want to start watching a Marvel movie with him. As the opening scene begins to play, I’m reaching for my phone. How has my attention span been reduced to mere seconds? Sitting through the entire movie without touching my phone again becomes a challenge. But the reward comes in an unexpected form. My brother and I sit in the living room together afterwards. We talk about how the movie was better than I expected it to be, about the depth of the chracters, about the plot. I can’t remember the last time we had a conversation where both of us were engaged.
I begin to realise how difficult this month might actually be. I am thinking in tweets.
Day 5
I’m bored. Being logged out of social media feels like I have no friends. And then something in my brain clicks. My friends are not Instagram stories or Facebook posts. They are living, breathing human beings. I message my best friend, “Shall I pick you up when I finish work and we can hang?”
She replies, “Okay sure!”
We go out for dinner. Afterwards we sit in my car drinking coffee and eating cookies. We chat about my recent trip to Spain and her upcoming university exchange. We talk about how far we’ve come since we graduated from high school and how our lives have changed. It feels raw and honest and true.
Day 10
I’ve decided that I’m going to get my hair cut so that I can debut the new look at my Dad’s 60th birthday party. I grumpily realise that I will not be able to post my haircut selfies.
People are actually going to see my haircut in real life instead of the single, well-lit angle that I’d like to post.
It’s a reality check in how my social media is often nothing more than a vain self-indulgent highlights reel.
I might have logged off, but I feel like I’ve finally logged on to my life and really connecting.
Day 16
My worst fear is realised – I am sick in the middle of my social media detox. I take a day off work and uni to recover. I have to fight the thought that it really won’t hurt if I log back in. I lie on the couch all day but not with my phone. Instead, I find a convenient workaround by watching Glee reruns on Netflix. Surely being sick is a sufficient excuse to become slave to a screen again, albeit a slightly larger one than my phone.
Day 23
I’m counting down the days until I can log back on again. But I’m inspired. I pull out my laptop and start working. I type out an entire poem that is better than anything I’ve written in months. I sigh with relief. I’m finally thinking (and writing) in full sentences again.
Day 31
It’s the last day of my detox but I don’t remember that until late afternoon. My two best friends spent the night at my place. We ate a homemade dinner, played board games and watched movies.The night was a neat summary of my month long detox.I ate good food, I did the kind of offline activities that I miss out on while I’m sitting on my couch scrolling and I connected with the people that I love most. I am more present, connected and actually get more work done.
But perhaps the transformation is best observed by my Mum: “You were a much nicer person.”
Zoe Victoria is a Macquarie University journalism student and an SBS Media Mentorship mentee. You can follow Zoe on Twitter .
