I am a Xennial—a time-lost middle child between analog grit and digital bliss. I remember cassette tapes, dial-up screeches, and what it felt like to be truly unreachable. I also remember the first time I watched someone tweet their way through an existential crisis in real time. It’s all in the bones now.
In 1995, I was gifted a car phone—an actual mounted phone that turned my Chevy Camaro into a mobile office before anyone knew what the hell that was. From that moment on, I’ve been riding the dragon of technology with the full-hearted devotion of a nerd who grew up typing BASIC on an Apple IIc and built his own 386 tower like it was a shrine.
I’m not anti-tech. I am tech. I dream in tabbed browsing. I’ve taught myself entire skills through YouTube rabbit holes and obscure Reddit threads. I can edit video, stream live, manage a content pipeline, and still make a mean mixtape. The internet is my church, my therapist, my mythic scroll.
But here’s the twist: almost twenty years ago, I turned my phone to silent. And it has never rung since.
I silenced it because I love the illusion of choice. Not because I hate the world or wanted to live off-grid in a tiny cabin—though I wouldn’t say no to a cabin. I wanted agency. I wanted the exquisite pleasure of hearing my own thoughts without the Pavlovian chime of obligation every five minutes.
And yes, I’m still online. I’m always online. I live on the edge of signal. But you don’t get to interrupt me just because you remembered I exist.
Text me. I’ll get back to you—when I want to. Not when your vibrating rectangle says I should.
There is something about phone calls that feels… off. Too immediate. Too voicey. Too “Hi, I’m in your brain now!” for my liking.
Talking on the phone feels like answering the doorbell naked. It’s an invitation I didn’t send for a guest I wasn’t expecting. I’d much rather text—or better yet, meet in person. Let me see your eyes. Or let me be in boxers, typing one-handed while sipping coffee and listening to Aphex Twin. That’s intimacy too, baby.
Call me old. Call me a recluse. Call me evolved. I don’t care. My ringer is off, and I feel nothing.
You know what happens when you turn your ringer off and leave it off for two decades?
Absolutely nothing—and absolutely everything.
You stop flinching when your phone buzzes. You stop expecting urgency where there is none. You begin to trust that if something is truly important, it will find you another way. And you start to see just how much of modern life is built around the illusion of urgency.
People adapt. They stop calling. They start texting. They learn you have boundaries. You become, strangely, more trustworthy—not less. You become someone who shows up when they mean to, who replies with intention, who curates their time like a weirdo monk with Wi-Fi.
You begin living in a world where your attention is yours again—and my god, what a world that is.
Let me be clear: I’m not unreachable. I’m just uninterruptible. There’s a difference.
I’m not a luddite. I’m not unplugged. I’m in the group chat. I’m in the meme economy. I’m building new selves out of pixels and paint. But I’ve learned that silence isn’t the absence of connection—it’s the presence of discernment.
My phone hasn’t made a sound in twenty years.
And somehow, I hear more clearly than ever.