How to Stand Around and Look Weird Without a Smartphone

Or what happens when you can’t escape yourself.

(Photo Credit: hbieser on Pixaby)

The car ride to La Verna Sanctuary should have been simple—two hours through the Tuscan mountains with another family from my daughter's class. Instead, I found myself cornered by the kind of silence I usually dodge with a tap and a scroll.

I rode shotgun next to Marco, a soft-spoken man who works in catering and knew the most English of his family. He could string together fragments of sentences, but nothing to sustain real conversation. We'd talk about Florence or his job for a few minutes, followed by extended stretches of silence. I kept hoping we'd magically find a topic we could discuss seamlessly, between my beginner Italian and his choppy English. That was wishful thinking.

When the awkward feeling hit, I did what I always do: held my breath, clenched my jaw, pursed my lips. Thought really hard about how to break the moment. But there was no escape, no smartphone to rescue me with a fake urgent text or phantom phone call. Just me, trapped with my own discomfort for two hours of winding mountain roads.

Ditching my smartphone 2½ months ago revealed something kind of unsettling: I'd been using it as an escape hatch from social anxiety for years. What I thought was just a temporary reprieve was actually feeding a vicious cycle: social anxiety kicks in, phone dependency ramps up, isolation increases.

I've never considered myself someone who suffers from social anxiety. I'm an extrovert who feeds off others' energy and often thrives in social gatherings. But living in Florence has exposed hidden vulnerabilities I've carried for decades. When you're an outsider who doesn't speak the language fluently, standing on the fringe of rapid-fire Italian conversations, every social situation becomes a test.

Here in Florence, I've been fortunate to move among local circles; put three kids in Italian school and live in a neighborhood where English isn't guaranteed, and integration happens whether you're ready or not. Language has become both a barrier and a pathway to connection. When I'm stuck, I feel really stuck. But when I can hold a conversation in Italian, there's no greater feeling than that moment of mutual understanding.

Life here hasn't been some Tuscan beach read. I've experienced many moments where I've become frozen from the inside-out, both during conversations and standing on their fringes. It's in those latter moments—where I feel like I don't belong, where I'm worried people are talking about me, where I can’t find the right words—that my smartphone would have previously rescued me.

Research shows that in social situations smartphone dependency actually exacerbates anxiety and prevents healthy coping strategies. Smartphone notifications give us dopamine hits that trump genuine social engagement. Why sit through uncomfortable silence, a dull moment or a misunderstanding when you can be rescued by a clever text, a social media scroll, or checking the time for the umpteenth time?

Those dopamine hits have made us softer. As someone who's made it to the other side, I can speak from experience: I now welcome the stress hormone.

Back in that car to La Verna, more than midway through the ride, I surrendered my attempts at conversation. Instead, I enjoyed the breathtaking views of the Tuscan mountainside and kept my mind from wandering. My anxiety decreased. Marco kept his eyes on the road. Everyone in the car enjoyed those long moments of silence.

The ride home was different. In the backseat with my daughter and her classmate, I used the opportunity to practice Italian and play a word game with my pocket dictionary. All three of us shared giggles.

My social anxiety was tested again two weeks ago at a school birthday party just outside the city. While my three kids played, I bided my time at the playground as other adults caught up around a shaded table. When I worked up the nerve to approach a bench of mothers whose daughters attend a school we were considering, I rehearsed my questions several times.

As I waited for the right moment to interject, I took in my surroundings: more than half a dozen rapid-fire Italian conversations, with side-eye glances whenever I stared too long.

I made my move with a mother named Margherita. When I asked in Italian her impressions of the school, she responded in English. Her two friends cut short their chatter to turn to me. It felt like a record had stopped playing.

Basic questions followed: Where are you from? Why visit our school? Your kids don't speak Italian yet, right? Why Florence?

I answered with mixed Italian and English, eventually switching to slow English when intimidation took over. When I learned one mother owned a trattoria in our neighborhood and another lived blocks from us, I was the only one delighted by these connections. I received non-responses or acknowledgements. At that moment, I wished I could spontaneously combust.

Of course, the awkward feeling was my own making. I don't need people to hold my hand through casual conversations, or to make me feel warm and welcomed. But it still felt excruciating.

Moments like these happen almost daily. Waiting for the butcher to hand-make 28 meatballs with nothing to discuss. At school pickup, huddling under trees with other parents as a new language learner struggling with small talk. I'm either on high alert or feel like dissociating.

Either way, there's no numbing the discomfort. Social situations in Italy have become the invisible labor of presence.

When I had a smartphone—whether in Montenegro, Bali, London, New York, or San Francisco—I became a master of avoidance. The fake urgent text with furrowed eyebrows and pursed lips. The phantom phone call with a proud smile, followed by full conversations with myself. The nervous scroll. Anything to appear busy and escape painful social moments.

But now there's nowhere to hide.

Without a smartphone to distract me or a translator app to rescue me, I endure awkward silence and tongue-tied moments. I stare at people I'm trying to communicate with and deal with that frozen feeling building inside. I maintain eye contact, embrace humility, and try my hardest to communicate.

That's when I find myself leaning beyond my edge, pushing past perceived limitations while facing fear. It often feels like dangling off a cliff, my fingers holding onto rock for dear life.

But when I live in those uncomfortable moments and truly embrace them, the payoff usually comes. I pick up new words or phrases. I experience teachable moments with the baker or butcher or fellow parent. We share a laugh. My focus and concentration on words being spoken, while trying to grasp context, has never been more acute.

Like this past Thursday evening at our end-of-school Festa delle Stelle in Fiesole. After playing an Italian version of "Stepping Stones" with kids and parents, I high-fived my teammate and fellow dad Gabriele (we had won). What followed was the longest back-and-forth exchange, lasting at least 30 minutes—my broken Italian mixed with his broken English. We were each patient in trying to understand the other. A genuine connection emerged from our mutual vulnerability.

By the end, my cheeks and mouth were exhausted from finding the right words. We exchanged phone numbers and agreed to meet up soon. How we'd accomplish this, I wasn't sure. But Gabriele assured me simply: "We'll talk some English, we'll talk some Italian—we'll figure it out."

When you stay in discomfort instead of escaping, you figure it out. Without a smartphone escape hatch, you're forced to be fully human.

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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.