My Day in the Dark Ages

Saturday morning started like so many others. Penny and I headed over to my sister’s house early in the morning for a visit. We drank coffee, caught up on life, watched the girls play, and enjoyed one of those slow mornings that always seem to go by too quickly. Eventually we packed up our things, said our goodbyes, and headed home, not realizing I had left something rather important sitting on her kitchen counter.

When I walked through the front door, I reached into my bag for my phone, only to come up empty-handed. No big deal, I thought. My bag has become something of a black hole over the years. Surely it had just slipped to the bottom beneath a collection of receipts, chapstick, pens that no longer write, and whatever little treasures Penny has convinced me to carry around for her.

So, naturally, I dumped the entire contents of my bag onto the kitchen counter. While I didn’t find my phone, I did uncover a pair of sunglasses I had been convinced disappeared weeks ago, so it wasn’t a total loss. But after checking every pocket, every zipper, and every hidden compartment, it became clear my phone wasn’t in there.

Next came the car. Then every room in the house. I retraced my steps with the determination of someone solving a mystery, checking countertops, side tables, bathroom counters, and even places that made absolutely no sense. Finally, it hit me. My phone was sitting exactly where I had set it down earlier that morning—on my sister’s kitchen counter.

That’s when the panic set in.

What was I going to do without my phone? How would I contact anyone? What if there was an emergency? What if, for some completely irrational reason, the world fell apart while I was unreachable? I don’t even have a landline anymore, although I have to admit, this experience made me briefly consider bringing one back.

Thankfully, I remembered computers still exist. I messaged my sister, who quickly confirmed that yes, my phone was safely waiting for me. Being the wonderful sister she is, she immediately offered to drive it over, but since we were already planning to have dinner together that evening, I figured I could survive a day without it.

And so, I found myself asking a question I never expected to ask in 2026: What exactly do you do with an entire day and no cell phone?

Olga Ionina

Originally, Penny and I had planned to run a few errands, but if I’m being honest, I felt strangely uneasy about driving anywhere without my phone. Which is funny, because I spent nearly all of my twenties doing exactly that. If I got lost, I used a paper map. If my car broke down, I found a payphone. If I was running late, people simply waited. Somehow we all managed just fine.

I was born in the late seventies and grew up through the eighties and nineties. I know what life looked like before smartphones. Before Google answered every question in seconds. Before cameras lived in our pockets. Before every spare moment was filled by scrolling through updates from people we haven’t seen in years. And yet somewhere along the way, this tiny rectangle of glass quietly became woven into nearly every part of my daily routine.

So, Penny and I decided to stay home instead.

What surprised me most wasn’t that I missed my phone. It was how often I reached for it without even thinking. Every five minutes my hand instinctively moved toward my pocket. I wanted to check my messages. Scroll through social media. See if I have any emails. Snap a quick photo. At one point Penny asked if it was supposed to be windy all day, and before I could stop myself my mind immediately thought, I’ll check the weather app.

Then I laughed. There was an entire generation of us who only knew the weather forecast because we watched the evening news or read the morning paper. Somehow we survived without hourly updates telling us exactly when the wind would die down.

Later that afternoon we went for a walk, and that’s when I noticed something else. Normally I would have taken pictures of Penny skipping down the trail or stopped to identify a flower with Google or looked up the name of a bird we heard in the trees. Instead, we simply walked. We talked. We noticed the things around us without feeling the need to document them.

I’ll admit, it felt a little like I was missing a limb—which is probably being a bit dramatic—but it also made me realize just how integrated this little device has become in my everyday life. Not because phones are bad. They’re wonderful tools. They help me stay connected with family, work, capture memories, navigate unfamiliar places, and answer questions in seconds. But somewhere along the way, the tool quietly became a habit, and the habit became something I rarely questioned.

Psalm 46:10 says, “Be still, and know that I am God.” I’ve always loved that verse, but I wonder if the hardest part today isn’t knowing God—it’s actually being still. Our phones have an incredible ability to fill every quiet moment. Every wait in line. Every stoplight. Every walk. Every few minutes of silence that might otherwise invite us to notice God’s creation, have an unexpected conversation, or simply sit with our own thoughts.

Francesca Leslie

By the time dinner rolled around, I was reunited with my phone. I unlocked it expecting…well, I’m not sure what I expected. There were a handful of text messages, a couple of emails, and a weather notification happily informing me that the wind would calm down around eight o’clock. Nothing life-changing had happened while I was disconnected.

Did I feel a sense of security having it back in my pocket? Of course. Did I also realize life functions surprisingly well without constantly checking it? Absolutely.

There isn’t some profound ending to this story. I didn’t experience a life-changing revelation or decide to throw my phone into a lake and live off grid. I still appreciate the convenience of technology, and I’ll probably check the weather again tomorrow.

But yesterday served as a gentle reminder that when we disconnect from one kind of connection, we often make room for another. A conversation. A quiet walk. A little more noticing. A little more presence.

Not everything needs to be shared. Not every memory needs to become a photograph. Not every question needs an immediate Google search.

Sometimes it’s enough to simply experience the moment exactly as it is.

Who knew forgetting my phone on my sister’s kitchen counter would send me back to the “dark ages” for a day?

Turns out, they weren’t so dark after all.