My Yucky, Messy, Confusing Relationship With My Phone

You carry a super-weapon in your pocket.
More power than the computers that sent man to the moon.

It can teach you how to code, launch a business, write a book, study the greats, and connect to everyone you love.

And still—most days—my phone crushes my confidence.

I don’t really know how to feel about that.

The phone, for me, is both a lifeline and a trap. It holds everything I care about—memories, messages, moments of meaning—but also everything I wish I could block out.

Some days I use it to learn.
Some days I use it to hide.

It’s a strange relationship.

A week ago, I felt off. Didn’t enjoy walking the dog. Wasn’t having fun at basketball. I was frustrated after games, irritated at myself, missing shots and feeling… not enough.

When I sat with the feeling, I traced it back to something small: I’d spent the last few days watching endless NBA Photo Day reels on Instagram.

It seemed harmless.

But somewhere inside, a voice started whispering: You’re behind. You’re not there. You should be better.

That’s the thing about the phone—it doesn’t scream at you.
It whispers, until it changes the way you see yourself.

Suddenly, you’re not playing from a place of joy.
You’re playing to catch up to a version of yourself that doesn’t exist.

That is the perfect recipe for low confidence.

In-season, I catch myself trying to escape—from the pressure, from my own head, from the never-ending analysis of every decision.

Scrolling feels like rest, but it’s not.
It’s a break from focus, not a break for the soul.

It’s digital junk food.

And the more I reach for it, the less sure I feel about who I am, what I want, and what matters.

Confidence doesn’t come from checking out.
It comes from tuning in—being where your feet are, doing the things that take time.

But phones don’t deal in time. They deal in moments—fast ones.
And if I’m not careful, I become a man built only of moments.

I get anxious about replying to people. Not because I don’t care, but because the phone—this thing that’s supposed to connect me—starts to feel like pressure.

I’ll open it, see unread messages, and instantly feel behind.
Like I’m disappointing my people. So I avoid it. Then feel worse for avoiding it. Then avoid it again. The loop always goes on.

Before I know it: 99 unread texts, infinite unopened emails, and a pit in my stomach that follows me around.

I then jump on Instagram to escape that exact feeling.
But the more I escape, the more I beat myself up, the more I despise myself, the more confidence I lose.

It’s a pattern I have been struggling with for years.

Recently, I hurt my wrist.

Before it was announced, the noise online started building.
Loved ones messaging me, coaches calling.

I tried to stay stoic. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t see it—or feel it.

That’s what the phone does: it doesn’t just deliver updates.
It delivers noise. Doubt. Pressure. Fear.

When the injury finally became public, I felt relief.
That relief told me how much the noise had been affecting me.

Sometimes I wish I could go fully offline.
But life doesn’t really work like that.

I’m not pretending I’ve solved this. I haven’t.

But I’m trying.

I bought a device that locks my phone—texts and calls only.
No Instagram. No email. No dopamine loop.

It helps.

I write more. Think more. Feel a little less noise. And slowly, I start to feel like myself again.

It’s not about becoming perfect. It’s about giving myself a chance to feel present. To feel enough.

That’s what I want.

A grounded life. Where I’m enjoying basketball. Present with my wife. A good dad. A man who gives his own attention the respect it deserves.

I don’t know what the takeaway is. I’m still figuring it out.

But I do know this:

When I’m off the phone, I’m more me.
And when I’m more me, I’m more confident.

That has to mean something.