Carpet Burn
A letter to my paid subscribers on why I disappeared and the one contradiction I still can't resolve.
In May, my girlfriends and I took a trip to Aruba to celebrate our 20th friendshipversary and turning 40 within a season of each other.
We had a blast. We also took an absurd number of photos to show for it—336 to be exact. We took videos, posted to our IG stories, tagged each other, created reels in real time. My screen time that week was not that of a woman who complains about our chronically online society. I was on my phone the whole time.
I’ll be the first to admit: I am chronically online. I won’t deny I open a social media app on reflex when I meant to do something actually useful, like check my calendar. I won’t lie and tell you I forget my phone exists when I’m truly present—there are those moments, I notice them, I welcome them, but they are not the rule. And I won’t pretend I don’t have a habit that leans compulsive when God forbid I hit a few bad days and I’m bored or anxious or sad. I know that too much time online makes me feel worse about myself, gets between me and my loved ones, and quietly robs me of my joy. I just haven’t gotten past the awareness stage (yet). I live the temporary amnesia, then the realization, then the resolution, and then right back into the same hole.