How to Disappear Completely
Or how to quit social media in three easy steps
When my friend Brian comes over, there’s always a moment, during a natural lull in the conversation, when we reach for our phones. We’re still sitting together in the same room, but not really. If you were there, you would see us: me on the couch, him on the chair, each of us hunched over a pane of glass, our faces unfocused, our eyes a little dim. Thumbs flicking.
It’s hard to pick the conversation back up when this happens. “Anything good online?” I’ll say, and he’ll invariably answer, “No” and politely put down his phone. But the conversation is lost. It is as if I had called him out with that question. As if I had really said, “Hey, put down your phone and pay attention to me.”
The world screeches to a halt when we put down our phones. We talk about the weather, about work. But nothing is happening. Everything is happening on those little screens.
Maybe a bird will hop near the window, and I can gesture at it and say, “Look, there’s a bird.” Hopefully, dark clouds will gather on the horizon and we can talk about rain.
We can always go back to our phones if it’s unbearable. I can share a meme. “Have you seen this?” I can walk across the room and hold my phone in front of his face. He can take it in his hand and laugh politely. It doesn’t matter if he’s seen it or not. We’ve seen them all already.
I often think about what it would be like to quit social media. I can imagine the next time Brian comes over, and when the conversation lulls and he reaches for his phone, I will have nothing. I will sit and stare at him as he scrolls, free of distraction. Plugged into the moment. Cloaked in a quiet, phone-free superiority. He will have no choice but to put his phone down then, withering beneath my steady gaze.
He may try to show me something on his phone. “I haven’t seen that,” I can say. “No, I don’t know what’s happening in Ukraine. I did not watch the debate. I have no idea what’s going on.” When I say it, it will be a subtle brag. A small rebellion. My monkish devotion to the all-consuming, infinite present.
Can you imagine how happy you would be, free from your phone? That little brick of attentional debt, that little rectangular mass warping spacetime. You would be less distracted. Think of all you could accomplish with a full twenty-four hours at your disposal. You’ll sleep better, too.
But it’s too hard. Every single atom in our body cries for the phone. I tried some basic limitations: no phone in bed. I was successful for about a week, but then I invariably failed. Try as I might, I could not resist checking it first thing in the morning.
For what? I wasn’t like there was ever anything interesting. Still, I needed to scroll. Instagram, mostly, but also X and Snapchat, Be Real, YouTube, sometimes Facebook or LinkedIn if I was really desperate, and of course, TikTok—delicious, delightful TikTok. It was a compulsion—as easy and natural as breathing. Check the apps, and click the notifications. Post an update. What’s going on in the world? What’s the story of the day? It felt important to be in the know, catching the waves of the zeitgeist. Surfing history.
But time slipped away, and all I was left with was a gnawing dissatisfaction deep in my stomach. To scroll is to exist outside of time. You pick up your phone, and in the blink of an eye, twenty minutes has passed. Blink: an hour. Blink again: two hours. There is no sense of time. It is like watching your life circle the drain of existence, speeding ever faster into the hole. You have so little time, and yet there you are, pouring it into the void.
It’s even worse than that. It would be one thing if it were like sleep—eight hours gone in an instant. A little death. But browsing is a sleep beset by nightmares. Here, huddled on those little screens, is the worst of all humanity. When you emerge from your lost time, you carry with you the burden of all the terrible nonsense you have just seen. Like a little demon, it perches on your back, sapping your energy. Destroying your will.
I decided to finally quit for good. I knew I needed a strategy. To be successful, I knew I needed to tackle the problem in stages:
1 - Cancel all notifications
I canceled push notifications years ago, and if you haven’t done so already, I implore you to stop reading this article and do it right now. You must eliminate the siren song that keeps luring you back into the abyss. You must shut up your ears. You must, like Odysseus, understand that you cannot be trusted. Take the necessary precautions ahead of time.
Your device should not speak to you. It should be silent.
Remind your phone who is the master.
Do not sign up for reminders. Do not push any bells or whistles. Do not, under any circumstances, subscribe to anything.
2 - Uninstall all your apps
My mood improved tremendously when I canceled notifications, but even when left to my own willpower, I struggled for control. The day is full of momentary downtimes—waiting in line, waiting for Door Dash to bring your food, the five minutes in between meetings, waiting for someone to respond to your text—and every time, I would reach for my phone. You do the same.
You need to cut off your access. You need to understand that you are a dirty addict. Watch: even as you read this article, your mind wanders. Your thumb strays. You check your email. Open YouTube. Stop it! Delete the apps.
Your phone isn’t enough, I’m afraid. It’s a good start, but you also need to permanently log out from all social media sites on your computer and tablet. Change the passwords to gibberish and throw them in the trash. Update your emails and then lock yourself out of them so you can’t even 2-factor your way through the back door. Do this because you love yourself and you do not want to see those you love acting this way. You want to be free, don’t you?
You won’t do it.
You don’t have the guts to shut yourself out, to go cold turkey. You’ll say you want to be free of the beast. You’ll dream of what you could accomplish in your life with more focus, more time. You’ll make small concessions. “Let me just reduce my screen time this week.” But you won’t do what is necessary. It’s too hard, and you’re weak.
Well, I’m weak, too, but I did it. I did exactly what I said I would do. I deleted all my social media access. Every single app.
Finally, I was free!
3 - Find a way to live with yourself
Something strange will happen when you finally quit.
This is what happened to me: first, I heard birdsong outside my window. Had they always been there, singing so beautifully? I saw a little chickadee in the tree near the kitchen. There wasn’t just one, but a whole crowd of them. Some twenty tiny birds dancing in the branches. I saw the light dispersed through the trees, leaving dappled shadows splashed across my living room. I could see dust motes floating through space. I spent all afternoon on the couch, watching the light creep across the room. It slid languorously off the coffee table, and spilled to the floor, before reaching, with its last rays, to stroke the wall with tender, diffused fingers.
You will find that you have too much time on your hands. You will feel awkward, and uncomfortable. The urge to reinstall your apps will be tremendous. Resist it. You are like a knight, and this is your battle. Your dragon to slay. Did you think it would be easy?
It is helpful at this stage to find a new distraction. An old addiction will do nicely. You will need a crutch to get you through. Something to replace what you’ve lost—at least for a bit. Lest the overpowering, all-consuming, endless present devours you. It is too difficult to be yourself—all the time. With so much time! Video games are a good choice. Books, too, but pick easy ones. Find a good long fantasy series. Manga is excellent.
Find a way to kill the time before it kills you.
Second, I went for a walk. It was mid-July, a day overwhelming in its simple summer beauty. It was as if I saw the world for the first time. What freshness to everything! The trees were over-laden with leaves, a dark sea of green merging into a cloudless blue sky. Clumps of flowers reaching over the curb, little bursts of purple, orange, and red. An Amazon driver dropped a package on a neighbor’s stoop. I waved to her, but she was too busy to give me any notice. The sound of lawnmowers drifted over a sprightly breeze. I felt invigorated with every step I took.
I saw other neighbors out and about, many walking their dogs. I waved to them, too, but nobody waved back. They are too caught up in their lives. Too attached to their petty dramas. They do not see me because they are too busy ruminating on the state of the world. They are bowed down with worry. I am the only one free and unencumbered. If only they knew what I knew—that the secret to freedom was to rid themselves of that slim piece of glass they carry everywhere.
I saw an eagle circling overhead, looking for food.
But when I returned home, enlivened by my walk, I discovered there was nothing to do. The walk had felt like an eternity, but it had only taken half an hour from my day. What else was I to do, with all that time? My house was exactly as I had left it: a pile of mail on the kitchen table, a few dishes in the sink, a sweater tossed on a chair. But everywhere there was silence. Why wasn’t anything happening?
I tossed my mail, washed the dishes, and put my clothes in the hamper. That took only ten minutes.
I decided to text Brian. Invite him over for the night. But then I realized we had always communicated via Instagram. I’d have to send him a text instead. I sent the message and that was that. I stared at my phone, waiting for a response. But nothing happened. Nothing happened.
Through the window, I saw my neighbor cleaning his gutters. “Good evening, Ted,” I said, heading outside.
But he didn’t even look at me. He was up on the ladder, bent over the gutter, a spade in his hand. I stood next to his driveway like an idiot, shading the sun with my hand. But he didn’t look up from his work. Wet leaves fell to the ground.
“It’s a lovely day,” I said.
But Ted didn’t acknowledge me. Maybe he had headphones in and couldn’t hear me. I lingered for a few more minutes, hoping to catch his eye before returning inside.
Brian hadn’t texted me back. I made dinner and ate it alone. The table seemed larger than normal, a big slab of dead wood. Usually, I browsed social media while I ate. Watched some videos. Instead, I sat there and listened to my silent house as it grew dark. The world outside my windows disappeared.
I tried to read a book, but my mind kept wandering. The words were too slow, and their meanings kept falling out of my brain. I started worrying if I had done enough that day. Hadn’t I quit social media so I could be more productive? I went for a walk and that was nice, but what else? I hadn’t even seen anybody. Not a single person had spoken to me all day.
Did I still exist?
I’m not sure how many days passed in this state. I’m not sure if the demarcations between night and day matter anymore. There is no one to talk to and nothing to do.
One day—weeks, months, maybe even years later, I’m not sure—a car appeared on my driveway. At last, someone was here! Finally, something was about to happen. I went downstairs and saw Brian peering through the window. I waved at him, but he only squinted through the glass. Before I could get to the door, he opened it and stepped inside. Maybe he had finally seen my text.
“It’s so good to see you,” I said.
“Tom?” he called out.
“I’m sorry I didn’t message you on Instagram. I sent a text instead. You see, I deleted all of my social media. I needed a break. It was becoming too much.”
“Tom,” he called again, and I realized he wasn’t even looking at me. He was looking past me, through me.
“I’m right here,” I said. “I’m right here.”
He walked past me and ran upstairs, shouting my name.
I followed, saying, “I’m right here, I’m right here,” but he ran through all the rooms, his eyes wide and worried. I knew, seeing his face, that he was a true friend. A good friend who cared about me, but it only made it worse that I could not speak to him.
“I’m right here,” I kept saying. “I’m right here.”
But Brian couldn’t see me. I knew he couldn’t see me, couldn’t hear me. Nobody could see me. I was gone. Like a wisp of smoke dispersed by the wind. A smell that lingers for only a second and then is undetectable. The last light of the day falling over the horizon’s cliff.
Then he was gone. I followed him through the door as he got into his car, shouting “I’m right here” at the darkness. I stood on the porch and cried out, “I’m right here! Look at me! Look at me!” But I was alone, shouting at nothing. Shouting with a voice that no one could hear.
Shouting into the void.