Digital detoxes are trendy, but I just want to remember what my own voice sounds like.

I knew it was time to log off when I started narrating my life in captions.

“Me walking into Monday like…” I caught myself thinking, while holding a spoonful of peanut butter and staring into the fridge. Alone. In silence.

Except it wasn’t silent at all. My head was buzzing with headline chatter, aesthetic routines, and that audio clip I’ve somehow never actually played but now mysteriously know by heart. The scroll had seeped into my subconscious—and I hadn’t posted a thing.

But here’s the thing—not everyone out there is glued to their phones posting every sandwich and sunset. Some of us are just quietly…always scrolling. A silent majority, watching the reels, reading the long captions, silently judging the engagement bait, and consuming content with the quiet consistency of someone who opens Instagram like it’s a fridge—checking for something new, even when we’re not hungry.

We don’t necessarily post. We’re not chasing aesthetics. We don’t document every latte in the name of “memories.” But we’re here. Scrolling between meetings, in checkout lines, while waiting for fish to cook. We’re the background browsers. The quiet consumers. And lately, even that feels a little…loud.

I don’t remember the last time I actively posted for the sake of “creating memories.” I don’t film reaction reels, quote myself under a sunset, or curate “aesthetic mornings.” But I do browse. All the time. I’m what you’d call a quiet consumer—the kind who opens Instagram the way others open their fridge: repeatedly, with no plan, hoping something new will appear. The kind who watches, reads, absorbs—and scrolls again. Not to share. Just to…be there.

And that, oddly enough, is what got me.

Even without the pressure to perform, I’ve realized how loud this quiet scrolling can be. How easily our minds become cluttered—not with our own thoughts, but with everyone else’s: their routines, their opinions, their wellness tips and subtle self-promotion dressed as self-love.

Because even if we’re not curating lives for display, we’re still in the digital echo chamber. Still internalizing. Still absorbing the narratives of hustle, productivity, beauty, and self-worth disguised as someone’s “day in the life.” We tell ourselves we’re staying “informed,” “inspired,” “connected.” But sometimes, it feels more like we’re just borrowing noise.

And somewhere in the middle of all that input, we start to forget what our own voice sounds like.

Not the version of me that could whip up a clever tweet or offer an insightful take on burnout culture. Just the unfiltered, uncool, probably-contradictory voice that doesn’t care if it’s interesting. The one that’s mine.

And I miss her.

We talk about digital detoxes like they’re some grand event—a retreat, a challenge, a statement. But maybe it doesn’t take a Himalayan yoga lodge with zero signal. Maybe the deeper detox isn’t from the device—it’s from the performative culture that seeps into us whether we post or not.

I think of people who travel just to post. Who visit cafes with the sole goal of capturing a mood. Who don’t drink the coffee until the photo is good enough. And it’s not judgment—it’s just this creeping awareness that everything has become content.

Even the people who don’t post are subconsciously watching life unfold as if through a potential story. Because the real fatigue isn’t just screen time. It’s the constant stimulation. The endless influx of other people’s ideas, beliefs, routines, aesthetics, and advice.

And sure, a weekend detox is nice. Turning off notifications for 24 hours might feel revolutionary. But maybe what we’re really craving isn’t a detox.

Maybe we just want a return.

A return to slowness. To depth. To the kind of presence that doesn’t need to be announced. A return to boredom that doesn’t feel like failure. To thoughtfulness that doesn’t need a punchline. To moments that are lived—not recorded, tagged, or turned into 12-second clips with trending audio.

Because I’ve noticed it in unexpected places. How my attention span has shrunk. How I reach for my phone in the middle of writing a sentence. How my creativity dims a little when I’m not bored long enough to daydream. It’s not just screen time—it’s screen saturation.

So lately, I’ve been trying something gentler. I haven’t deleted apps or made dramatic declarations. But I’ve started pausing mid-scroll. Choosing a little silence between swipes. Sitting with my own thoughts before I click into someone else’s. Letting a moment be just…a moment. Without framing it, filtering it, or needing to do anything with it.

And in those tiny moments of quiet, I hear something strange and familiar.

Me.

Not the version of me who’s tuned into 47 opinions about the best productivity tool or the correct way to meditate. Not the one comparing her breakfast to someone’s wellness vlog.

Just the version who’s here, a little overwhelmed, a little amused, and deeply ready to come back to herself.

Because maybe that’s the real detox we need. Not from the phone. But from the instinct to turn our lives into presentations. Even when we don’t mean to.

So no, I’m not abandoning my scroll. I’ll still watch interviews I never finish, discover wellness routines I won’t follow, and read long captions about skincare I don’t intend to try. But I’ll also take more pauses. Listen inward more often. Let the moment stay unposted.

Lately, I’ve been experimenting with small shifts. Not grand detoxes or declarations. Just quiet pauses. Like watching a sunset without pulling out my phone. Or sitting in silence with a cup of tea—not because it’s photogenic, but because it’s mine.

And in those still pockets, I hear things. Not trending opinions. Not looping audio. But the quiet, unfamiliar murmur of me. The one that exists when I’m not performing, reacting, or consuming.

It’s shaky at first. A little awkward. But honest. And these days, I’ll take honest over optimized.

Because in a world where everything is curated, maybe our raw, real voice is the most sacred thing we’ve got left.

So no. I’m not here to preach a total digital detox. I still love a good scroll. I’ll always watch food videos I’ll never recreate. And I’m not giving up the joy of binge-watching three-hour-long interviews that spiral into a deep dive on ancient civilizations.

But I am learning to stop mid-scroll sometimes. To breathe. To remember that I don’t need to constantly take in someone else’s voice to feel connected.

Because in a world that rewards performance, presence is radical. And maybe the most subversive thing we can do right now isn’t to log off completely—but to log back into ourselves.

Sometimes, what we’re truly hungry for isn’t more content. It’s more of ourselves. Not everything needs to be turned into content.

So here I am. Sitting in silence. Peanut butter in hand. No caption. No hashtag. Just me. And honestly?

That’s more than enough.

~