part one of Glitched Out: A 7-part Mini – Series Rebellion against digital decay browse the full series here.

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The Invisible Grip of a 6-Inch Screen and A Love Letter to My Attention Span (RIP)

I was fine.
Like, genuinely fine.
Making dinner. Singing some dumb song. Vibing with my kids. Feeling… okay.
And then — because I’m an addict in recovery from being chronically online — I checked my phone.
Just for a second. Just a quick scroll. Just to “take a break.”

BAM. Mood murdered.

All it took was five f*cking minutes on Facebook reels.
Suddenly I wasn’t in my kitchen anymore — I was in some alternate dimension where:

  • Someone’s crying about a breakup
  • Another is humble-bragging about their glow-up
  • One post makes me rage at the system
  • The next makes me feel like I’m a sh*tty mom
  • And somehow, even though I wasn’t even shopping, I now want to buy a freaking countertop smoothie blender I’ve never needed in my life

What. Just. Happened?

Let me tell you:
You were fine.
Then you let the algorithm decide how you were going to feel.
And it doesn’t pick peace. It picks engagement.
It feeds you emotional chaos because chaos = clicks.
And before you know it, you’re spiraling — not even sure why you’re sad, mad, or empty. Just knowing something shifted and now you feel off.

And here’s the worst part: we call this a “break.”
This sh*t is not a break.
It’s emotional whiplash in 60-second bursts.
And it robs us of the very moment we were living in before we opened the goddamn app.

So I’ve started asking:
What if, instead of scrolling, I made something?
What if I spilled my chaos onto a page and gave it shape, instead of letting someone else’s feed shape me?

I’m not saying quit cold turkey. I’m saying… wake the hell up.
Your creativity is starving while your thumb is busy.

Put the phone down.
Pick the pen up.
Create something instead of being consumed.

Because let’s be honest: scrolling won’t save you.
Posting the perfect meme to feel understood won’t fix the ache either.
But maybe — just maybe — creating something that feels like you will.

Maybe it’s a voice memo.
Maybe it’s a messy journal page.
Maybe it’s screaming into your Notes app until the fog lifts.
Maybe it’s building a blog no one reads at first.
Maybe it’s finger-painting your pain. Or typing a caption that feels like ripping out your ribs.

And maybe — if “creative” isn’t your thing — it’s something else that brings you back to your body:

Maybe it’s rearranging the living room.
Maybe it’s cleaning out a junk drawer that’s been driving you nuts.
Maybe it’s cooking something from scratch — just for the hell of it.
Maybe it’s organizing your bookshelf by color.
Maybe it’s writing a to-do list you’ll never finish, but that makes your brain feel less foggy.
Maybe it’s digging your hands into dirt, or folding clothes slowly, or finally unf*cking the corner of the house you’ve been ignoring for six months.

Whatever it is — make it yours.
Make it real.
Make it a middle finger to the scrolling trance.

You don’t need to be an artist to create something that saves you.
You just need to choose doing over numbing.
Presence over autopilot.

The act of creating is sacred rebellion.
It says: “I’m still here. Still feeling. Still turning this madness into something.”

You don’t need to be understood by strangers online.
You need to understand yourself.
And that happens when you stop absorbing everyone else’s noise and start making your own kind of music.

So no — this isn’t a post telling you to “limit your screen time.”
This is a f*cking war cry:
Create instead of scroll.
Feel instead of numb.
Speak instead of shrink.The algorithm doesn’t deserve your nervous system.
Give it to your art instead.

🔥 This post kicks off Glitched Out: A 7-Part Rebellion Against Digital Decay
If your mood has been hijacked by a 6-inch screen, you’re not crazy. You’re just not alone.
Next up: Doomscroll Hangover: Why You Feel Like Sht and Don’t Know Why*

🎯 Want to unplug deeper? Get my free Nervous System Reset Rituals — grounding tools for people who can’t meditate. Subscribe here.


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