Breaking Free from the Dopamine Trap: Life Beyond the Screen

Phones. Screens. iPads. They’re everywhere — and most of us can’t imagine life without them. Yet I sometimes wonder if we’re facing one of the most under-acknowledged addictions of our time.

From my parents’ generation to mine, and now to my soon-to-be-teen daughter’s, we’re all caught in the same cycle: checking, scrolling, refreshing, responding. And while we often expect our kids to self-regulate, the truth is that we as adults are struggling too.

One of my biggest wake-up calls came through my journaling habit. For years, I started my mornings by writing three or four pages longhand. It was my grounding ritual — a way to clear my mind and connect with myself before the day began.

But leading up to our move to Bali, I noticed something shift. At first, I thought it was just busyness — the stress of packing, planning, and handling logistics. But as I paid closer attention, I realized it wasn’t only that. It was the phone.

Three or four pages became two. Then one. Then a couple of paragraphs. And then one day, I looked back and realized I had written only the date — nothing else. I had picked up my pen, but I hadn’t picked up my thoughts.

It’s so subtle. I’d be mid-sentence, think of something to research, someone to message, a reminder to set — and within seconds, I’d reach for my phone. That “quick check” would spiral into minutes gone. These devices have rewired us to crave constant hits of dopamine — the quick spark of novelty or validation that keeps us coming back.

Neuroscientists say that every scroll, ping, and notification triggers the same reward circuitry that fuels other addictions. And if this is hard for us as adults, imagine what it’s doing to developing brains. We don’t really know what this next generation is heading toward — we just know that for many of them, connection feels impossible without a screen.

And as parents, we can be part of that pattern, too. I’ve been guilty of using screens as pacifiers — moments of quiet bought with a YouTube video so I could answer an email or finish a task. I know I’m not alone. It’s not about shame; it’s about awareness.

Lately, I’ve been asking myself: how much of my day is spent with my phone instead of with my people?

When Presence Disappears

There’s a small but powerful social cue I’ve started noticing everywhere — and it’s become one of my biggest pet peeves. When I meet someone for lunch or dinner, I immediately notice where their phone is. Is it tucked away in a purse, or sitting face-up on the table like a silent third guest?

Even when a phone sits there quietly, it sends a message: “Someone else might be more important than this moment.”

And when someone checks their phone mid-conversation or starts typing a text response, it cuts deeper — especially with close friends or family. They might think it’s harmless multitasking, but over time, those tiny ruptures compound. They quietly teach us that we’re not fully seen.

I’ve learned to appreciate when someone at least names it — “I’m so sorry, I need to take this call.” That’s respect. What feels worse is the silent distraction — the scrolling while you’re speaking, the half-listening that tells you you’ve lost them.

And if you’re someone close to me and I’ve ever done that to you, please accept my apology. It was never intentional. It’s now part of my awareness — my own ethical code for how I want to use my phone.

A Slower Kind of Satisfaction

One of my favorite recent moments was completely offline. We bought a simple deck of cards, and one morning I taught my daughter how to play Solitaire — the old-school way. She was hooked. She kept playing throughout the day, asking questions, determined to win on her own. It took her hours. By evening, she finally won her first game — and the joy on her face said it all. She’d hit dopamine, but at a slower, more natural pace — the kind that builds satisfaction, not addiction.

It reminded me that joy doesn’t have to be instant. Sometimes it’s earned through patience, focus, and presence.

Phones and screens aren’t going anywhere. But maybe the invitation isn’t to quit them completely — it’s to question our relationship with them.

As adults, we often tell our kids, “Put down the phone.” “Get off your screen.” Yet we do it while checking our own. We’re asking them to self-regulate when we haven’t fully learned how to ourselves. I’ve been there — frustrated at my daughter while realizing I was the one modeling the behavior.

So maybe the deeper question isn’t just about them. It’s about us.

How can we bring more intention, awareness, and accountability into our own screen use — and what might open up in our families, friendships, and lives if we did?

With courage and love,

Tania

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