A Flip Phone, A Laptop, and the Illusion of Progress

Observations from my first month without a smartphone.

My wife put it bluntly: “Somehow, the MacBook Air has become your smartphone—you carry it with you everywhere.”

I’d emailed my wife, feeling pretty good about my first month without a smartphone. Her response caught me off guard.

“Or, you use me as your smartphone,” she added, alluding to the many times I’ve treated her as the Weather Channel, asking for a daily weather report each morning when I could have opened the laptop to find out for myself.

The following day, I posed the same question to my kids. My gut told me I was probably walking into the lion’s den, about to be shredded for even broaching the topic, but I did it anyway.

“Guys, I haven’t had a smartphone for a month now—noticed anything?” I asked at dinner, bracing for impact.

My 10-year-old son, licking his chops with a grin like a Chesire cat, was the first to answer.

“Yeah, you’re on the laptop a lot more,” he said in a rather judgmental way; he relishes any opportunity to provide feedback.

Hoping for reprieve, I turned to my 2 ½-year-old daughter. She had nothing to add, although whenever our three kids are asked a question she often just parrots her siblings’ response.

My middle child then spoke her truth, in a measured, non-judgemental way: “Yeah, you’re always asking us if you can borrow a laptop.”

My son wasn’t finished, though. He needed to hammer home his point.

“It seems like you’re on the laptop all the time,” he said.

While their observations made me chuckle, it also left me feeling exposed in the moment. I looked to my wife, who probably wanted to look the other way. I could tell she was holding back laughter. “I swear I didn’t talk to them about this.”

Regardless, the family consensus was in, and I was defenseless. I didn’t even bother trying to justify my behavior. Of the eight hours they’re gone each day, I’m on the laptop for about seven of them. And also later on in the afternoon when they’re home, as I’m compelled to check my email. And also later when they ask me to sit on their bedroom sofa while they’re falling asleep, as I’m typing away on my laptop.

For a moment, I was awash in shame. I asked myself how I could lack such self awareness.

But as I sat with the feedback for a few days, contemplated long and hard about my first month with a flip phone, and unpacked the thoughts and emotions that drove my behavior throughout the month, it all started to make sense.

It was like the adult equivalent of what social psychologist Jonathan Haidt has often written about regarding children’s screen time: if you’re going to remove the smartphone from the equation, you have to replace it with something healthy. Something that will thrust them into discovery mode, or that will expose them to awe-inspiring transcendent moments that often occur when we witness the beauty of nature.

You can’t just remove a smartphone from a kid’s life and replace it with another piece of technology, like video games, or with a larger screen, like a computer, or just allow them to stay indoors.

Real-life experiences should be promoted when screen-time is reduced. And I failed to do that for myself, a 43-year-old man in his first month in a new country and new language with an old flip phone that has a bunch of Italian words I still don’t understand.

My biggest takeaway from my first month with a flip phone is that the mere act of giving up my smartphone wasn’t enough to reclaim a state of presence. That might sound like the most Captain Obvious statement of all time, but looking back, I realize just how much I bought into my own B.S.—thinking a flip phone alone could reclaim presence.

All along I thought ditching my smartphone would be akin to my digital detox in Bali—even though I knew full well that was a time and place I could never return to. Further, what made that month in Bali so special, and so successful, was that by surrendering all forms of technology I had also removed any thoughts and desires that there was something else I should be doing, or someplace else I should be, instead of being in the right here, right now.

In Bali, it was far easier to submit to each moment I experienced as the moment I needed to be in. Here in Florence, my flip phone life commenced almost as soon as our three kids began full-time school again, and attached to it was one fatal thought that played over and again in my head: I should be working.

That thought stirred a mess of emotions: anxiety that I was wasting time and money, pressure to constantly hustle, and worst of all, a surge to control the controllable. Because if nothing else, I could control how hard I worked. And this was a new phase of life in which I actually possessed little control over anything.

I could not control how long it would take for the Italian government to issue me or my wife the necessary documents to obtain my permesso di soggiorno. I could not control how my kids would adapt to a new school in a new language. I could not control when any of us would make friends. I could not control when the movers would arrive from London with our belongings, as they’ve said they would every two weeks for the last two months. I could not control the seasonal allergies that continue to relentlessly pummel both my wife and my toddler.

But I could—and should—control my work ethic, I thought. And just like so, that single thought sparked a swirl of emotions and drove me into a flurry of actions, all of which brought me right back to the workaholic tendencies of the old Chris, of Corporate Chris, who I thought I had left behind in London.

When I’m caught in the terrible cycle of ‘shoulding’ myself, misery is often in the forecast.

Thing is, my smartphone was not the only thing I had given up in early April. To make things extra hard on myself, I proceeded to give up sugar, caffeine, wheat and flour. (Which wasn’t that difficult at all.) But there was more: I told myself that exploring the city and building a network and community could happen later on, after I had gained momentum from restarting my career.

I had convinced myself that I was doing something noble by delaying gratification. Giving up my smartphone? Now that’s a big deal. But everything else?! Whoa, I’m almost like some Buddhist monk!

But what’s twisted about that rationalization is how I went on to indulge in what had become one of the greatest pleasures of my life: work! Or, at least the illusion of it. Because while in the past my work ethic had always equated to being well compensated, this time not a single soul was paying me a pence.

Once again therein lies that humbling lesson from Haidt’s book “The Anxious Generation:” that if you remove, or limit, a child’s screen time then you must replenish it with something nourishing, whether it be free play, risky play or awe experiences.

There were opportunities abound for me to replace my smartphone with something nourishing, and I chose none of them.

I could have joined my wife in full-time, in-person Italian classes; instead I opted for my once-a-week online tutor. I could have broken free from my normal walking routes in the city to instead purposely get lost, or go wandering. I could have loaded up my backpack and gone rucking up and down the endless number of winding, hilly roads behind our apartment that lead directly into the Tuscan countryside. I could have attended networking events, or any events, to get to know Florentines; instead, I kept my circle small and interacted only with my butcher, the popular nonni who sold fruit and veg from their stand, and the hip young dudes who ran the tripe shop a few doors down from our apartment.

My brain seldom operated in ‘discovery mode,’ as Haidt puts it.

So when I’m asked how it’s going with this flip phone experiment, the truth is that it’s difficult and complicated and it feels like I’m straddling two worlds. I’ve stretched myself well outside my comfort zone in many areas; in others, I’ve come to rely on my wife for too much help and have spent more time on my laptop, and not enough in the real world, than I’d like to admit.

The most disappointing moment of the month came when I borrowed my wife’s smartphone. Not once, but twice. The first was practical: I needed to print tickets for the Fiorentina vs. Bologna match I'd purchased for my son and me. Turns out, no print shops in Florence are open on Saturdays. My flip phone doesn’t do email or PDFs. I didn’t know anyone with a printer and didn’t feel comfortable asking neighbors. I briefly considered buying a printer, but didn’t.

So I used her phone to pull up the tickets at the stadium. I told myself I’d only use it for that, but ended up checking Google Maps, researching the match, and—despite resisting—filming the wild, unforgettable Fiorentina ultras section to show my wife and daughter the next morning.

I still haven’t shown them that video. Like so many photos that go unseen. It was a low point because I failed to embrace the very nature of this project, which is to let the discomfort of not having a smartphone spur new ways of handling life and filling quiet moments.

Having a flip phone doesn’t mean much if I’m not actively living a different life. This past month taught me that removing a device doesn’t automatically mean I’ll reclaim presence. It just moves the problem elsewhere; from my pocket to my laptop, or to the people around me.

The flip phone experiment is less about nostalgia or purity, and more about asking better questions: What am I doing with my time? What am I avoiding? What am I nourishing?

As my wife pointed out: if I’m going to stay inside, glued to a screen and chasing the illusion of productivity, we might as well move back to New York City, pick up my iPhone and go all-in.

But I don’t want that.

Which brings me back to the question that followed me all of last year:

What does the soul want?

Right now, it wants a new way of life. One that isn’t just less digital, but more human.

So what comes next?

Despite the missteps, I did learn something. The problem wasn’t the smartphone—it was me and my lack of balance. Here are two things I plan to (re)introduce to my life, to push me outside my comfort zone and to expose me to the beauty of nature. I’ll share an update about it in due time.

• Six hours per week of Italian lessons—either with a tutor or by working through books and homework in the park.

• Six hours per week of rucking through Florence’s hills and hidden corners.

I’ll be sharing more stories every Sunday — the highs, the screw-ups, the awkward new routines — as I adjust to life with a flip phone. If you’re wondering what it’s like to live slower, simpler, and maybe even saner, stick around.