A Month Off of Technology, A Year Longing to Return - Part 2

The seven most important lessons I learned during my technology fast in Bali

Editor’s Note: This is the second of a two-part series. Read Part 1 here.

As advertised, on Nyepi, the Balinese Day of Silence, I woke up to silence.

I relished the sound of silence that day. It reminded me of a blissful moment I had several years prior, when I was hiking through Joshua Tree National Park on a scorching hot August morning. It was just my wife and I. The silence was deafening, so much so that it freaked her out.

Have you ever experienced a silence in nature where it’s so quiet you can feel a sort of pressure in your ears? Like you’re trying to listen hard for something, anything, and you’re still met with this enveloping silence? It brought on a kind of low-frequency noise, a subtle ringing in my ears. That’s how it was in Joshua Tree. It gave me a heightened awareness of myself that I had rarely experienced. Having lived all of my adult life in major cities, I had yearned for that type of silence again—complete silence. I could sense it throughout Nyepi, from the moment I stepped foot into our garden to take in the day.

It had been only a week for us in Bali but I had become so accustomed to the daily noises in our village. The frequent buzzing sound of the motorbikes that zipped along narrow residential streets. The high-pitched, catchy keyboard tune that the local ice cream guy played on a loop as he came through the neighborhood on motorbike. The barking dogs, the ceaseless construction next door, the neighbors in conversation.

On Nyepi, I heard practically none of this. Only chirping birds, crowing roosters and some dogs.

This is how you ease into a month of no technology, I remember thinking. Ramadan and my digital detox was to commence at sundown. In my first journal entry from the day I wrote:

“Today is the Balinese Hindu New Year, Nyepi, an official day of silence. The ceremony we watched last night reminded me of my own journey I’m embarking on – where the old me must die in order to make way for the new person I will become.

I’m starting the New Year honoring the day of silence, which includes a 24-hour water fast. I’m also fasting from technology—no cell phone or laptop— for a month. Those are devices I’ve been tethered to for the last 20 years…how the old Chris used to live and communicate, work, indulge and distract himself. This fast and the next 30 days signifies a start to the deep inner work I must complete.”

I journaled more later in the day, creating a list of 24 topics I wanted to dive into over the next month. I’ve always been overly ambitious. My list included tough, layered questions: What drove my need to control as a parent? Could I sharpen my emotional intelligence to better read my family’s needs? Was I capable of feeling whole without a title or salary to prop me up?

It rained throughout most of Nyepi, which made for a slow day. We played card games, the kids watched a movie, and I did an early afternoon breathwork and meditation on our covered patio as rain poured down.

I didn’t have a way to tell time but knew I went to bed early that night, shortly after the kids. I felt steady and unworried about the month ahead. I knew only good could come from this.

Here are the seven most important lessons I learned from a month without technology.

Lesson: Without distraction, the ordinary became alive

I clearly remember the crunching sound of my gym sneakers pressing down on a never ending sea of gray pebbles, one step after another for a solid 15 minutes, as I would make the daily walk at sunrise from our villa to the gym. The roads were dusty and mostly narrow, lined with colorful cement walls from the neighboring villas. The dogs, some of them stray in our village, would already be panting from the morning sun. Locals would greet each other in their native tongue. The birds were already in deep conversation. The buzz of motorbikes would come from behind, or toward me, and whizz by, sometimes leaving me with a gentle breeze of warm air.

Up until my technology fast, I would have never experienced these simple sounds of a village awakening. I would be deep in a podcast, or listening to music, my AirPods drowning out any natural sound around me, my eyes stayed fixed straight ahead, my mind elsewhere.

But this felt like presence in its purest form. On every walk I took by myself over the next month, I practiced what it meant to be present. Sometimes that meant emptying my mind, letting thoughts pass by and simply taking in what was in front of me. Other times I allowed myself to start the walk with a question and discuss it with myself aloud.

Working out became an entirely different experience, too. I had long relied on music, usually some aggressive rock or hip hop, to psych me out, push through a heavy set or in between sets, or to spur daydreams that I was living another life as some Hulk-a-maniac badass. But without my phone it was just myself, a pen and a folded up piece of paper to track my weight progression. No music allowed me to focus intently on each rep, on my posture and the mind-body connection. I was 100% locked-in to my workouts.

The lack of AirPods opened up the world to me.

It allowed me to meet fellow gym goers: a guy from New Jersey, a guy from Australia who moved here to start a tour guide business. To live with the heat cranked up while in the sauna, and focus on my breath and manage my thoughts as I sat in a cold plunge that registered 2°C. No distractions, no taking me out of each present moment.

Lesson: When I make space, the universe speaks

Three days into my digital detox, I sat at a beachside cafe, open and a little unsure of what would come next.

Then the Universe sent me another sign, although this one more of a slap in the face. It came in the form of a conversation with an American expat who sat nearby. He was in his 50s, I could tell wiser and, as I learned, had an admirable spiritual practice.

When he asked me “why Bali—what brings you here?” I told him about the catalyst for our family journey. I told him I was here “to ultimately figure things out—to figure out life and where we’re heading.”

I was convinced that how he responded was a sure sign of my higher power speaking to me through others.

“Now, I really don’t know you at all,” he said, as he put a hand on my shoulder. “So you can take or leave what I’m about to tell you. But you’re not here to figure anything out. You’re here to surrender.”

His bold statement, said to a stranger, left me speechless and uncomfortable for a few seconds. Who the hell was he to tell me what I needed to do? I fought back the feeling of indignation. Because I knew he was right.

Only a month ago I had been telling my wife, and others, how I so wanted to hand everything in my life over to the Universe and wait for guidance on what to do next. For once, I did not want to assume that I had all the answers to life. I wanted to wait for a sign, for inspiration. After those profound words I told myself I would be more open-minded to hearing what others had to share with me.

Lesson: Time and focus helped me solve problems I thought were beyond me

Late one afternoon, I enjoyed a gratifying moment with my 10-year-old son as we tried to troubleshoot an issue he had with his Lego Lighthouse set, which we had schlepped with us across continents. The motorized light no longer turned in circular motion.

I had felt out of my league in helping him solve this. I was not a big Lego person—and, according to the Johnson O’Connor Research Foundation, structural visualization was not an aptitude of mine—while he lives for Lego. He knows sets inside and out. But I viewed this as an opportunity to connect, so I was intentional and brought a hyper focus and curiosity to the problem. To borrow from Scott Peck, any problem can be solved if you dedicate enough time and patience to it. And so I did. I didn’t need YouTube, Google or anything else. Just pure focus.

I urged my son to go deeper, further back in the manual, so much so we deconstructed the base of the lighthouse. And wouldn’t you know, there we discovered the problem: a missing piece that had prevented the lighthouse gear from grinding and the light from turning. I was elated, over-the-moon excited, when we made the discovery. I didn’t just help him rebuild a lighthouse; it felt like I built a bridge between us.

Lesson: I don’t need to document everything

Before our kids’ education program started in early April, I took my two oldest surfing. They’re like fish in water, whether the ocean or a pool, and this would be their second time surfing after a few successful outings in Morocco.

Because this was Bali, a boat had to tow us several hundred yards to the reef break. The swell was churning that morning. I had considered joining them but decided not to, as I wanted to watch them surf.

I stayed on the boat as the kids paddled out to the lineup, a bit slowly as the waves were nonstop. But once they got settled and took the first wave that came, they were riding high for the next hour. They surfed each wave after wave, most of them much taller than their little bodies, practically with ease. Their popups were one fluid motion. Their angling was on point. They weren’t exactly shredding, but for a then- 7- and 9-year-old to command the boards and waves like they did, only their third time surfing, left me awestruck and beaming with joy.

At first it was a moment I wished I had a camera with me, as I knew their mother would love to see this. But I caught myself in that first thought and didn’t allow it to go further than that. I stayed in that moment, a proud father watching his kids tackle the Indian Ocean. The more I focused, the more present I became. The ocean spray, the salt water smell, the waves slapping against the boat, the sounds of their voices, the color of the deep blue ocean and the picturesque horizon ahead. It was an entire scene.

No distractions, no runaway thoughts. My mind did not drift. Moments like that, when there was no picture to take or text, no phone to check the time, left me feeling more connected to the experience in front of me. I didn’t miss a thing. And I felt deep admiration for their fearlessness.

Lesson: I can live a productive life with much less technology than I think

At a certain point during my technology fast, I decided I needed a way to keep time. Relying on my body clock was okay, but I wanted a real alarm, a way to track my rest periods and cold plunges at the gym. I wanted something sporty, but wouldn’t be too picky. After a few misses at the local shops, I went to the watch stand just outside the big grocery store in town. I bought a factory reject of a Casio G Shock for just over 550k Indonesian Rupiah (or $35). It worked just fine – except that none of the buttons corresponded with the marked actions. But I proudly wore that watch for most of the next year. It told time and both the alarm and stopwatch functioned. What else did I really need?

And that was a big takeaway for me from my technology fast: I can function with much less technology than I think I need. In my journal I started to take inventory of what I really needed a smartphone for. The prompt: was anything so urgent/important via email, social media, the internet, or my other phone apps that made it acceptable to remove me from the present moment?

Social media was a hard ‘no.’ Email, I reasoned, could wait; and any urgent matter could be handled with a phone call. I reasoned that every email that had poured into my inbox well after work hours was usually from people who were communicating when it was convenient for them, or because they lacked their own time management. The mobile web? I struggled to come up with a reason to keep it. Maybe to look up medical symptoms in a pinch? Nope! If something was so urgent, I should probably call a doctor or ask for help.

Funny, I had listed Google Maps, bank apps, the camera, WhatsApp, Notes and Google Docs, ride hailing apps, Apple Music and Podcast, calculator and currency converter as apps that were necessary for conducting daily life. Today, in my flip phone era, it strikes me how they’ve become so ‘out of sight, out of mind.’

What does the soul want, I asked in that same journal entry. I wrote: “To continue on this journey of self-discovery and inner work at my own pace. To remain untethered to technology! To shift from having boundaries to living by principles!”

Lesson: I’m able to do some of my deepest work on myself

I turned to my journal periodically each day to address one of the many topics I wanted to explore, knowing that this would only serve as a starting point, not an open-and-close situation.

Part of me feared what I’d uncover without the distractions…what I’d learn about who I was when I wasn’t working, achieving or being ‘useful.’

Looking back, what I enjoyed most about this inner work was the ability to focus solely on it. Without any devices to distract me or pull me from moments of reflection or patterns of thought, I was able to sit with difficult questions and uncomfortable truths about myself in order to get to the core of an issue.

The first topic I dove into was about my controlling ways as a parent, something I experienced from growing up with my father, who I’m sure would tell you he has a preferred way to do just about everything. So why do I seek to control how my kids choose to do things? Well, because I lack the patience to let them figure things out on their own; I often haven’t trusted them; nor have I been willing to let them take the time to figure things out when it’s not convenient to me.

The more I wrote about this topic, I realized that I wasn’t helping them grow—I was just trying to get through the day. I oftentimes wanted to get something over and done with, which led me to nagging, hurrying them or taking matters into my own hands. Of course, there was fear at the heart of this behavior of mine. And that fear stemmed from the belief that if I didn’t take charge and teach them how to do something, they'll never learn and would lack the skills to help them move through life.

What I’ve come to love about journaling is that when I put my actual thoughts on paper and reflect, I can see just how ridiculous–and deep-rooted–my fears and behaviors had become.

Another topic that surfaced repeatedly was my inferiority complex around other men. There were distinct moments when this complex rose quickly within me. Notably it happened in Dubai, at the JBR Beach playground, and several times in Bali, where I thankfully was able to catch subconscious thoughts as fast as Mr. Miyagi caught a housefly with a pair of chopsticks.

This inferiority complex was often spurred by my measuring up another man in public and making some snap-judgement conclusions.

That dad has a good body—he must have his shit together.

That dad is well-dressed and confident—he must be so sure of himself and successful, and probably a good businessman.

That dad looks so cool and laid back—he must be an artist, a renaissance man. Doesn’t have a care in the world.

And those thoughts led me to feel both ‘less than’ and drawn to each of them, often to the point where I’d initiate a conversation. (These complexes often surface around other fathers while on a playground.) And it’d often lead me to hand these perfect strangers my respect, and borderline reverence, without them having done anything to earn it.

What I learned, after several journal entries about it, was that I’d been programmed to believe that these men were the definition of how a real, successful man looked and acted. Mainly because, at one time or another, I’ve lived each of those lives. And yet here I was in Bali, with no income, no idea of what work will look like for me in the future, feeling vulnerable because I lacked an identifiable core identity. How did I view myself? In Bali, my self portrait was of a 40-something with a scraggly beard, unkempt hair, a decent body and no clue what he was doing in life. And at the time I was not okay with that.

But after a month of no technology, I came to believe that the inner work I was doing was far more important than any job or status I could have held. And I came to flip the script on my definition of a real, successful man and father, the type of guy I’d want to spend time with: a man who has healthy attachments to his children and a strong relationship with his spouse; a man who can be introspective; a man who takes care of his mind and body, who pushes and challenges himself; a man who can be vulnerable to other male friends; a man whose life is not controlled by his work.

I don’t recall where I found this quote, but I had written it in my journal, right next to my notes on my inferiority complex:

“Remember, happiness is having a sense of the path you’re on. Not being distracted by the paths that cross yours - especially the footprints of those who are hopelessly lost.”

Eventually, I was able to answer the question “can I feel awesome being just me, without being proposed up by a job” with a resounding ‘yes!’

I had to remind myself how brave I was to live this way.

How I was prioritizing my family.

How I still had authority over my time.

And how I was finally starting to know what’s truly worth wanting in life.

Lesson: My life feels fuller with less tech in it

It took me a full year to arrive at that conclusion. And by ‘less tech’ I mean this: a flip phone and a laptop at home are enough.

When I was still on my technology fast, the parents and people I met applauded the effort. They told me not to rush back to tech. They said they wished they could do something similar. I assured them they could. These weren’t just idealists – they were successful professionals, from Silicon Valley to Wall Street. I had been in their shoes. If I could do it, then anyone could.

And they were all right.

When I did return to tech, it didn’t take long—maybe a month—before my old smartphone habits crept back in. For a while, my wife and I agreed to put away our phones before collecting the kids from school, and to not look at them again until after bedtime. It worked—until it didn’t (at least for me).

As the year wore on and Bali became more of a memory, I developed a strange nostalgia for a version of myself I could no longer fully inhabit. It was an irretrievable time, not only because it changed me but because I had kept changing.

After Bali, we spent a month in pure nature, in a hamlet atop the hills of Piemonte, where our kids attended a Waldorf-inspired forest school camp. The house sat high above the village, surrounded by orchards, with views of the Alps. It relied almost entirely on natural light. No WiFi. No 5G tower in sight. And ironically, that became my downfall. I found myself wandering around the property chasing 3G and 4G signals…just to stay connected.

Things got worse from there.

In Oklahoma, I drifted from my in-laws to sneak time in on my phone.

In Chicago, I was a quick-draw gunslinger anytime a notification buzzed, consumed with rebooting my career during a stretch of intense interviews and networking.

In Prague, I nearly melted down when we arrived without cell data and had to find free WiFi to get to our Airbnb, but not before my son intuitively searched for the compass in his backpack, to help guide us there.

By the time we reached Kotor, Montenegro, I had surrendered any boundary I once had. I was scrolling to scroll. A slave to the tiny machine.

There were countless moments I felt like a fiend, daydreaming of that month of no tech. I longed for it like I used to pine for a toke, a bump, a drink. It was that good, like pure, uncut freedom.

The question that kept returning was this:

What does the soul want?

And time and again, the answer looked something like this:

“It might be to foster deeper connections in all facets of life. I want to have healthy attachments with my children. To feel a partnership and intimacy with my wife. To have strong male friendships where we can be vulnerable with each other. To be conscious of how I’m treating, sculpting and feeding my body and mind. And for my work to be personal, meaningful and impactful to others. I want to foster these connections because they each bring a different type of energy – and these energies are the fuel for my human experience. We’re all energy. We’re all connected.”

More than a year after my digital detox in Bali—after returning to hyper-connection and then abandoning it again for a flip phone—I finally understood what connection really meant to me.

It took a lot of silence, seeking, frustration, false starts and getting lost to find it.

But I have it now.

And I don’t want to let go.

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.

Next Sunday, June 1, I’ll share my experience from my first month with a flip phone.