These days, we use the word “available” to refer primarily to digital availability, i.e., how quickly a person replies to texts or emails. Is there someone you could text right now and be sure of an immediate reply? This type of person is often less available in real life, because they’re so dedicated to maintaining their digital life.
In public spaces, availability is rare. Almost no one is attuned to their surroundings or open to conversation, receptive to subtle social and environmental cues. I was riding an airport bus recently when I realized I didn’t know which terminal to get off at. In a panic, I turned to the man next to me, who happened to be wearing an airport uniform. I began to speak before noticing that he was wearing noise-canceling earbuds and watching a basketball game on his phone. Sure, I could have tapped him on the shoulder, but my time was limited—and hadn’t he made it clear he didn’t want to interact with me?
Availability makes you a public resource, someone to ask for advice and directions, someone to commiserate with when the weather is bad or the flight is delayed, someone to keep an eye on someone’s luggage or dog while they run to the bathroom.
Even if an available person is never called upon to help, their latent availability nonetheless improves the atmosphere for everyone present. It is far more pleasant to share a space with someone who, however subtly, acknowledges that you exist.
The unavailability of others is so disturbing, so disabling that our only defense is to become unavailable ourselves.
Those times when you are called upon to assist a stranger, you’ll feel a surge of pride. You made a difference in someone’s day, reinforcing their faith in the goodness of strangers. The more we talk to each other, the less we have to fear.
In spaces of universal digital absorption, we don’t talk to each other at all. Eyes never meet. There is no spontaneity, just stasis.
Waiting rooms should be alive with books and games and conversation, as opposed to the silent, self-contained tapping and listening that predominates in our day and age. Humans thrive in community. When we’re unavailable, we rarely emerge from our sensory isolation for long enough to feel meaningfully connected.
Yet we are not willing to make ourselves available. Two questions:
Would you prefer to visit a public space free of screens and noise-canceling headphones?
Are you willing to forgo digital media next time you’re on the train, at the doctor’s office, or waiting in a checkout line?
Most people will answer yes to the first and no to the second. This is not purely due to screen addiction; it’s because we can find nothing better to look at than our screens. We have built a society in which the smartphone is sometimes the least depressing and most stimulating thing in a public space. Ours is a society in which those intrepid few who are willing to engage with their surroundings will find no eyes or ears to receive them.
Ironically, looking at screens is how we tune out the sad state of our public spaces. We can’t bear to face a crowd of indifferent souls. It’s mass rejection. The unavailability of others is so disturbing, so disabling that our only defense is to become unavailable ourselves.
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I’ve begun to think of social unavailability as a cycle of rejection. At restaurants, I often observe couples locked in this cycle. Person X might be in the middle of telling a story when Person Y takes out their phone; X continues speaking for a few more seconds until they become aware that Y is distracted; then X trails off and takes out their own phone; then Y finishes their phone task and looks up, only to find X distracted. Y waits for a moment before picking up their phone again, and the cycle continues.
In scenarios like this, our phones let us appear less idle, more in demand. They mitigate our boredom and isolation. They soothe our pain. They return the insult.
We reject the world as a way to cope with feelings of rejection. We reject, and we are rejected. No one pays attention to us, and we pay attention to no one, and the world becomes a hostile place, and the internet becomes, by contrast, a soothing oasis in which pain cannot touch us—but neither can anything real.
Without a smartphone, I cannot participate in the cycle of rejection. I still witness it. When my friends use their smartphones, I just sit there, looking like I’m trying to prove a point. It makes everyone uncomfortable.
What if I were to pull out a book during a meal and start reading it while my friends awaited my return to reality? This would clearly be unacceptable. A smartphone should be no different.
If you choose to downgrade, you will discover that these smartphone checks take far longer than you think. What might feel like a few seconds to the user is in actuality a long interlude of silent tapping. It’s uncomfortable to wait out these moments, but complaining can inspire resentment. If you want to break the cycle of rejection without damaging your relationships, then the best thing you can do is quietly model an alternative.
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Even when you don’t complain about others’ smartphone use, the very fact of your abstinence might leave them feeling judged.
Your relationship to technology says something about your relationship to the world. It’s not pleasant to be shamed for that.
One unanticipated effect of my public activism efforts is that people now feel embarrassed about using their smartphones in front of me. “Sorry, I know you probably hate this,” they say as they look up directions or type out a message. “You’re fine!” I say, “it doesn’t bother me at all.” This isn’t strictly true: it does bother me that smartphones are so ubiquitous—especially when the majority of my acquaintances claim to hate them. But adopting a hard line, superior attitude won’t convince anyone to quit. It hasn’t worked with other addictions, so why would it work with this one?
When people are unprepared to make a change, when they perhaps do not even realize that change is possible, the best thing you can do is share your own journey: how you felt before, what you did, and how you felt after. This gives your listener space to reflect on the subject without any outside pressure.
Overt judgment breeds defensiveness. In my early twenties, I dated a man who used a flip phone and vocally disapproved of my social media work. Much of my internal monologue during those months was devoted to making my case: I needed a smartphone to earn money; consistent posting kept my numbers up; the guy had a salaried teaching job and I was a struggling artist; how dare he judge me! Long before I was ready to see it, this man noted that my smartphone had made me miserable. Only years after the relationship ended did I arrive at the exact same conclusion.*
Technology is a delicate subject. It’s personal and political, local and global. Your relationship to technology says something about your relationship to the world. It’s not pleasant to be shamed for that, even if you know deep down that you are failing yourself.
Let’s say your partner has a scrolling habit that detracts from quality time. Addressing this head-on, in the moment, could come across as combative. Your partner might retort “I’m doing something important,” or “I’ve already watched this movie, so I don’t need to pay attention,” or “Please just let me unwind after work.”
People do not tend to respond well to immediate feedback, and this can also place undue emphasis on one instance rather than a broader trend. So if you’re going to bring up someone’s phone use, I recommend doing so in a relaxed and screen-free moment. That way, it’ll feel less like an attack than an open discussion about how technology has affected the relationship.
When you do bring it up, try to focus on how you feel when the other person chooses their device over you. Say that you value presence and listening. Take accountability for the times you yourself have been distracted (for whatever reason) and haven’t met the other’s needs. Make it about fostering a stronger, safer bond all around. Discuss shared values and hopes for the future.
Rethink the very nature of quality time: maybe it will revolve less around tech. Maybe you’ll want to try new activities together. Maybe you’ll want to leave your phones behind, whether for a hike or a meal or for good.
* To my great disappointment, when I reached out to him last year to say thank you, he told me he had upgraded to a smartphone.
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From You Don’t Need a Smartphone: A Practical Guide to Downgrading Your Phone and Upgrading Your Life by August Lamm. Copyright © 2026. Available from Vintage Books, an imprint of Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House, LLC.
Audio excerpted with permission of Penguin Random House Audio from YOU DON’T NEED A SMARTPHONE by August Lamm, excerpt read by the author. August Lamm ℗ 2026 Penguin Random House, LLC. All rights reserved.