Dearest Reader,
A couple of months ago, I decided to break up with my phone.
Not in a dramatic, delete-everything-and-disappear kind of way—but in small, deliberate acts over the course of a few years. Let me share with you how this all unfolded.
I started noticing how often I reached for it—not because I needed anything, but because I wasn’t quite sure what to do with the quiet or what to do in the moments between that next thing. Whether I was waiting in line, sitting on the bus, or shifting between tasks, that reach had become instinct. The scroll. The tap. The mindless loop.
But then a question showed up: What are you trying not to feel? What are you avoiding? How dare I call myself out! ha! But that's what happens when you look at yourself often.
Two or three years ago, I started small. I removed my phone from my bedroom so it wouldn’t be the first thing I reached for each morning. The catalyst for this was to quiet the anxiety I felt around being three hours behind at my last job (gotta love time zones), and the fear that my radio silence would be misconstrued as me not being focused. (And when you’re a woman of colour working in a corporate role like I was back then, those worries are real.) Optics.
So, my phone stayed elsewhere at night. That small shift opened up something I didn’t expect: curiosity. What else is possible here?
Last year, I turned off all social media notifications. I even removed email from my phone. Simple enough, right?
I was still spending my evenings scrolling Instagram reels, laughing at all the funny stuff I'd find. I told myself that this was fine because I wasn't doom scrolling, I was ... laughing, having fun. But really, was this the best use of my time and energy?
Then, just last month, I took one more step and deleted social apps entirely. I only check Instagram from my computer now. And with that, something shifted—deeply.
I’d pick up my phone and pause, “Oh right… there’s no IG here anymore.” And I’d put it back down. I realized I had no real desire to do anything else on it. And in the absence of that noise, something else raised its hand.
Space.
I started texting less, too. (Some of my friends may have noticed the longer reply times, but the right people don’t challenge your growth—they champion it.)
A few mornings ago, during a mid-morning break, I left my phone on the kitchen counter, made a cup of tea, and sat by the window. Nothing profound. No ritual. Just a pause. But in that pause, something tingled. I found myself saying hello to myself again. Asking how I was. Not in a checklist way, but in that slow, gentle way you might ask a close friend who’s been quiet for too long.
That moment stayed with me. It reminded me that reflection doesn’t require ceremony—it just needs room. And sometimes that room only opens up when we say no to something else first.
In The School of Life: Serenity, there’s a section called “Our Phone.” It describes how phones promise novelty but rob us of depth. How they shield us from our own minds—offering distraction in place of direction. One line stood out to me: “How convenient that we should have invented a device to ensure that we will never have to meet ourselves again, and how darkly ironic that we should blithely refer to it as, of all things, an instrument of communication.” Yes. That.
Since saying no to my phone, I’ve been hearing things more clearly. My creative process feels lighter, sharper, more joyful. I can hear the messages that want to come through, the ones that shape my writing and my decisions. My writing ecosystem is becoming more and more aligned, and that clarity? It changes everything. I find myself excited to sit down and write again. To listen to what’s arriving, instead of trying to force it through noise.
And quietly, beneath all of this, something new has been blooming:
A very special expansion of Breathing Space Creative that allows me to work more closely with mental health and wellness professionals—folks who hold so much for others, but who also deserve space to return to themselves. I can’t wait to share more with you.
This work—the kind that begins with saying no with love—might seem small, but the ripples are life-changing. If you're open.
So I’ll leave you with this, friend:
What might you hear if you paused before the scroll?
With love and stillness,
Chelene
As always, if you know of a friend who could benefit from reading this weekly share, please forward share. I want these personal shares within the Say No With Love Newsletter to reach the right people : )
This is a free newsletter but if you like what you are reading and want to support my work, feel free to contribute to my feel good fund! : )
