"that phone is the problem"

how the thing that gave me everything also quietly took things away

i used to roll my eyes every time i heard it.

"that phone is the problem."

parents said it like it was the solution to every mystery.

you were moody? must be the phone.

you were distant? the phone.

scored low on an exam?

didn't sleep on time?

laughed too much, cried too much, stayed quiet, or started speaking up a little too confidently?

yeah. must be the phone.

i remember feeling so frustrated when adults would talk about technology like it was the devil's invention; as if they had found the root of all problems, the cause of every broken rule, every cracked relationship. they would sit in living rooms with their chai cups and talk about how "bachay haath se nikal gaye hein" (we have lost complete control over our kids now), and the phone – this little glowing rectangle – was always the accused.

back then, i found it funny, a little sad, too. they just didn’t get it. technology wasn’t ruining us – it was evolving us. they didn’t see how it helped me discover poetry, politics, philosophy, art, mental health, writing, and myself; how it opened up worlds far bigger than my classroom; how it gave me tools to connect and create. i found people who felt like soulmates on the other side of a screen. i found platforms that gave me a voice when i didn’t even know i had one.

the first phone i got was at thirteen, and holding it felt like being handed the keys to a life i had only watched others live. i could finally be in conversations instead of just listening. i could finally google things without asking someone else. i could create, express, document, exist.

and now, 6 years later ? when i sit in silence and really reflect – i hate to admit it, but maybe they were right.

that phone is the problem. just not in the way they think.

because the truth is: i’ve experienced so many beautiful things through this phone, but some of the most painful, damaging, and irreversible things in my life ? They crawled in through this same device.

it was on this phone that i first experienced a kind of love that felt like a movie – until it shattered me; where i found friends who turned out to be strangers wearing masks; where i made mistakes that followed me in screenshots; where i stayed up until 3 am reading words that made me question my worth; where people i trusted became the source of my anxiety; where group chats became war zones where silence from someone you love can last forever, but you see them online, posting, smiling.

this phone gave me freedom, yes. but it also gave me a front row seat to things i wasn't emotionally equipped to handle.

the thing is, it doesn't come all at once. the damage is slow – subtle.

you don’t notice when your thoughts become fragmented and your attention span starts to wither beyond 20 seconds. you don’t notice when your sense of self becomes tangled in blue ticks, seen zones, and how many likes you got in the last hour. you don’t notice how deeply you start comparing your life to people who are just showing you 3% of theirs.

you laugh at memes with your friends, but you’re breaking down in your notes app at midnight. you post the happy pictures and bury the pain in your drafts. you screenshot messages to share with others and slowly, subconsciously, start performing your life instead of living it.

and yet,how do you blame the phone when it’s also where you met your people ? where you wrote your first story, received comfort from strangers at 2 am, found playlists that healed you, discovered your passions, your voice, your courage.

it’s not all bad. that's the hardest part to swallow.

this phone made me braver, wiser, sharper. it taught me things school never could. it gave me friends i never would’ve met in real life. it gave me solitude when real life became unbearable.

but, at the same time, it also made me question my worth, my choices, my face, my body. it flooded me with information until i felt like my brain was drowning. it fed my fears, magnified my insecurities, and numbed my instincts. it connected me – but to what, exactly?

it’s like this: the phone didn’t destroy me, but it changed me. in some ways, i'm very grateful; in others though, i mourn the version of me that never had to live through its consequences.

i think a lot about who i might’ve been without this device in my life. would i be more patient ? slower to speak, quicker to forgive ? would i feel more grounded in real conversations, in eye contact, in deep silences that don’t demand to be filled ? would i be less afraid of missing out? less exhausted by pretending? less lost?

i don’t know.

maybe i would’ve become someone gentler, or maybe i’d just be uninformed and sheltered or in gen z terms, living under a rock. that’s the paradox. this phone didn’t just damage me – it helped me survive parts of life that would've been too heavy to carry alone while also taking a piece of me, and i don’t know if i’ll ever get it back.

so when someone says, “that phone is the problem,” i really don’t argue anymore. i just exhale, because they’re right; but they’re also wrong. they were onto something, even if they didn’t know the whole story.

the phone isn’t just a problem.

it’s a portal, a beautifully dangerous one.
a mirror.
a drug.
a lifeline.
a thief.
a teacher.
a burden.
a friend.

and like all powerful things, it asks you to choose how you carry it; how you use it and let it use you; whether you heal or you hurt.

the problem isn't just the phone.

the problem is how easily it becomes everything.

so, sometimes, the best thing you can do for your heart, your mind and your peace is to put it down and just be again.

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