Phone Free Week: My Digital Detox Journey

My name is Scarlett, and I’ll admit it: I’m a phone addict. At 27, you might think it’s par for the course, but my habits are pretty extreme. We’re talking a daily screen time average that sails past six hours – a significant leap from the national average of three hours and 21 minutes. My TikTok binges involve mindlessly scrolling through close to 400 videos.

It doesn’t stop there. I’m in constant contact with my mum, texting her around 20 times a day, and my boyfriend receives more than double that. My phone is my wallet for everything, from catching the train to splurging on Lululemon. I meticulously track my runs on Strava, log films on Letterboxd, and record the books I devour on Fable. The only eight hours I’m not glued to that small, glowing rectangle are the ones I spend asleep, with the device resting on my pillow beside me.

It’s not that I adore my phone; it’s more that I’ve forgotten how to simply be without it. How would I handle transactions, navigate my way around, stay connected, exercise, or, crucially, prove I’m doing any of it by broadcasting it on Instagram?

It was time for an experiment.

Driven by journalistic curiosity and a growing concern for my overloaded brain, I decided to go cold turkey. One Sunday evening, I powered down my phone and committed to a full week of being phone-free. Here’s a look at what unfolded.

Day 1: Monday

8:00 AM
My morning alarm is not the gentle chime of my iPhone, but my boyfriend’s rather enthusiastic shouting directly into my ear. Apparently, his definition of a subtle wake-up call differs from mine. The next 45 minutes are a frantic scramble through my room, searching for my debit card. “Where did you last have it?” he asks helpfully. “On holiday in Cyprus, May 2024,” I confess. I eventually locate it buried in a drawer amongst old energy bills and those dreaded TV licence letters. Leaving the house only 15 minutes behind schedule feels like a personal triumph.

9:00 AM
On the Northern Line, I find myself staring blankly at advertisements, having forgotten my book. I learn that Concur is apparently the go-to app for Bitcoin investment and that Tess Daly owes her radiant looks to Wellwoman supplements. Who would have thought?

1:00 PM
I keep reaching for my phone out of sheer habit, like someone experiencing phantom limb syndrome. I’d solemnly handed it over to my colleague, Charlotte, who keeps it locked securely at her desk, tantalisingly close. I consider whether I can annoy her enough to let me check it at lunch. “Please,” I beg. “I need to post my Vinted parcel.” Instead, Charlotte patiently (for what feels like the seventeenth time) walks me through using the office printer. I print the postage label and make my way to the Post Office, feeling like a Victorian entrepreneur.

4:00 PM
Outside, I have a vape, with no digital distractions to shield me from my own thoughts. It’s deeply unsettling. I promptly walk into Waterstones and purchase a sudoku book, determined to prevent such an existential crisis from recurring.

8:00 PM
I’m watching TV with my boyfriend. It’s a pleasant change to be able to focus fully on our conversation, and it makes me reflect on how sad it is that so much of our interaction is usually punctuated by me watching videos of strangers online.

10:00 PM
Lying awake, I feel a pang of anxiety, uncomfortable with simply sitting with my own thoughts. I have a nagging feeling that I’m missing something crucial – perhaps my mum sending an urgent family update. It’s a ridiculous thought, as she could easily contact me if there were a real emergency, but the feeling is undeniably jarring.

Day 2: Tuesday

9:00 AM
On the Tube, a rather handsome man is staring at me. I assume it’s because I’m engrossed in my sudoku, projecting an air of cool intelligence. “Excuse me,” he says, just as I’m preparing for the inevitable disappointment when I reveal I have a boyfriend. “You’ve dropped your debit card.”

1:30 PM
I log onto The New York Times via my laptop, determined to maintain my Mini Crossword streak without my phone. “I’m not sure that’s allowed,” a colleague remarks. Thinking of all the hilarious TikToks I might be missing, I decide to ignore her. Surely, there must be some element of joy in my life.

7:00 PM
In my current fragile mental state, I can’t bring myself to attend my pre-booked pilates class. To make matters worse, I can’t cancel it because I booked through the ClassPass app, meaning I’ll be hit with a £17 cancellation fee. I head home feeling miserable and poorer, not helped by the fact that I’m still struggling to complete even one “gentle” sudoku puzzle.

Day 3: Wednesday

8:30 AM
My cleaner is due today, and I usually pay her via phone transfer. This means a trip to the ATM. After three failed PIN attempts, I finally withdraw £30 and leave a hastily scribbled note explaining the cash payment situation for the week. I hope she doesn’t suspect I’m moonlighting as a drug dealer. Although, I’m not sure how many illicit dealers keep a Neom diffuser and a “But first, coffee!” mug in their kitchens.

1:00 PM
Feeling a bit down, I decide to walk to the nearest public phone box to call my mum. “Did you see the TikTok I sent you of the cute pug barking at the Winter Olympics?” she asks. Honestly, she never truly listens.

7:00 PM
I’m heading to the pub with printed directions in hand. This presents a few challenges. Firstly, the map is zoomed out so far that I can’t discern any street names. Secondly, it’s dark. I find myself walking down Kensington Palace Gardens – home to the Russian and Israeli embassies – furtively consulting a folded piece of paper and retracing my steps as I try to find the correct route. The whole scenario is so suspicious, I’m surprised the patrolling armed police don’t apprehend me. I eventually arrive at the pub 20 minutes late and show my friend the printed map and sudoku book. “It’s like when they take their phones away on I’m a Celeb…” she marvels. “Except you’re not famous and nobody’s paying you £50k.”

Day 4: Thursday

9:30 AM
My addiction isn’t unique. On the Tube, I observe dozens of faces, all illuminated by their glowing phones. Mothers are engrossed, ignoring their children; friends are barely conversing, consumed by their devices. It’s a depressing thought that we often seem more captivated by online strangers than by the friends and family sitting right beside us.

1:30 PM
I head out for a lunchtime run. Without my phone, I have no idea of my route, distance, or time. Crucially, it also means I have no way to call for help if the vaping finally catches up with me and I collapse in an alleyway. I stick to main roads and keep a leisurely pace. There’s no point pushing myself if my Strava followers won’t see it.

7:00 PM
More unwelcome news: Prince Andrew has been arrested. It’s not that I’m a fan of his, but I’m immediately thinking about all the memes I can’t repost. I tell my boyfriend this and become a bit teary. All I crave is an hour of mindless scrolling. We reach a compromise: he won’t let me check X (formerly Twitter) on his phone, but he’ll put on a podcast via his Spotify so I can relax in the bath. “Thank you so much,” I say. “Please can you put on the new Redhanded podcast, The Suffolk Strangler: Ipswich’s Red Light Killings?”

Day 5: Friday

1:30 PM
Back to the grimy phone box to ring Mum, who is arriving in London this evening. Our rendezvous is set for The Savoy at 6:30 PM sharp. My next challenge: planning my route.

3:00 PM
I ask a Gen X colleague for advice on reaching The Savoy without a phone to guide me. “You need an A-Z,” she suggests. Apparently, this was a street atlas book that people used in the 90s to navigate, similar to a paper version of Citymapper. “Thanks for the idea, but it’s probably not up-to-date in 2026,” I reply. She looks at me as if I’m completely clueless. “I think The Savoy has stayed in the same place.”

6:00 PM
I get off the Tube at Embankment and instantly forget which way to go. I attempt to ask passers-by for directions, but they all presumably assume I’m soliciting donations to combat knife crime and swiftly avoid me. Eventually, a rather incredulous-looking man points me in the direction of London’s most famous hotel. I feel a bit like Kevin McCallister in Home Alone 2 when he asks Donald Trump for directions to The Plaza’s lobby.

8:30 PM
Dinner with my parents, who are entirely unimpressed by my no-phone feat. “When I was younger, we didn’t even have an indoor toilet, let alone a mobile,” my dad declares. (This is utter nonsense. He grew up in Manchester in the 1960s, not the wilds of Outer Mongolia.)

When I finally get my phone back that evening, the relief is immense. But as I scroll through the deluge of notifications – Instagram Reels, X memes, TikTok videos – I feel a touch ridiculous. None of it amounted to the family emergency I’d conjured. It was just the usual pointless online chatter.

A week without my phone wasn’t exactly a holiday. I got lost, felt bored, and admittedly, went a little bit feral. However, I also found myself listening more intently, accomplishing more, and remembering what it feels like to simply be with my own thoughts: an uncomfortable, yet undeniably important, experience.

My phone isn’t the villain. It’s a useful, connective tool and an integral part of modern life. But it’s also a convenient crutch: it allows me to avoid entertaining myself or fully engaging in conversations. So, while I won’t be ditching it entirely, this week has underscored the importance of reaching for it less. After all, with a bit of conscious effort, there’s significantly more genuine fun and connection to be found in our own, real lives.