Today, the term “available” is used mostly to denote digital readiness—how promptly someone answers texts or emails. Is there anyone you could text right now and expect an instant reply? That kind of person tends to be less present in the real world, because they’re so focused on preserving their online life.
In public spaces, availability is a rarity. Almost no one is attuned to their surroundings or open to conversation, receptive to subtle social and environmental cues. I was riding an airport shuttle recently when I realized I didn’t know which terminal I should exit at. In a moment of panic, I turned to the man beside me, who happened to be in an airport uniform. I began speaking before noticing that he wore noise-cancelling earbuds and was 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 that he preferred not to engage with strangers?
Availability turns you into a public resource—someone to ask for directions or advice, someone to commiserate with when the weather is foul or a flight is delayed, someone to watch over a bag or a dog while someone else rushes to the restroom.
Even if an available person is never explicitly asked to assist, their latent willingness to respond nonetheless elevates the atmosphere for everyone around them. It feels far more pleasant to share a space with someone who, even in a subtle way, acknowledges your existence.
The unavailability of others is so disturbing, so disabling that our only defense is to become unavailable ourselves.
Those moments when you actually are called upon to help a stranger bring a rush of pride. You’ve made a difference in someone’s day, reinforcing their faith in the goodness of strangers. The more we speak to one another, the less we have to fear.
In environments saturated by digital absorption, we hardly talk to each other at all. Eyes don’t meet. Spontaneity vanishes, leaving only stagnation.
Waiting rooms should buzz with books, games, and conversations, rather than the hushed, self-contained tapping and listening that now dominates our era. Humans thrive within communities. When we’re unavailable, we rarely step out of our sensory cocoon long enough to feel a meaningful connection.
Yet we’re not inclined to make ourselves more available. Two questions:
Would you opt for a public space free of screens and noise-cancelling headphones?
Are you willing to forego digital media the next time you’re on a train, in a doctor’s office, or waiting in a checkout line?
Most people would answer yes to the first question and no to the second. This isn’t merely a matter of screen addiction; it’s that we can’t seem to find anything more engaging than our screens. We’ve built a society in which the smartphone is sometimes the least depressing and most stimulating thing in a public space. Ours is a culture in which those brave few who do engage with their surroundings will encounter eyes and ears that seem unavailable.
Ironically, our tendency to stare at screens is how we mute the melancholy of our public spaces. We can’t bear facing a crowd of indifferent faces. It’s a mass retreat. 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 view social unavailability as a loop of rejection. At restaurants, I frequently witness couples trapped in this pattern. Person X might be mid-story when Person Y pulls out their phone; X keeps talking for a beat longer until they notice that Y is distracted; then X hovers for a moment before taking out their own phone; and Y finishes their task and glances up, only to discover X is absorbed again. Y hesitates, then returns to their phone, and the cycle repeats.
In moments like these, our phones help us seem busier and more in demand than we actually are. They ease our boredom and isolation. They soothe our pain. They return the insult.
We reject the world as a coping mechanism for feelings of rejection. We push others away, and we ourselves are pushed away in return. Nobody pays attention to us, and we pay attention to no one, and the world becomes a hostile place, while the internet provides a comforting refuge where pain cannot reach us—but nothing real can either.
Without a smartphone, I cannot participate in this cycle of rejection. I still observe it. When my friends use their smartphones, I sit there, as if I’m trying to prove a point. It makes everyone uncomfortable.
What if I pulled out a book during a meal and began reading it while my friends waited for me to rejoin reality? That would be deemed unacceptable. A smartphone should be no different.
If you decide to downgrade, you’ll find that these checks on your phone last far longer than you anticipate. What feels like a few seconds to the user is actually a long pause of quiet tapping. It’s unpleasant to endure those moments, though complaining can breed resentment. If you want to break the cycle of rejection without harming your connections, the best move is to quietly demonstrate an alternative.
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Even if you don’t berate others for their phone usage, simply abstaining may make them feel judged.
Your relationship to technology reveals your relationship to the world. Being shamed for it isn’t pleasant.
One unexpected outcome of my public advocacy is that people now feel embarrassed using their phones in front of me. “Sorry, I know you probably hate this,” they say as they look up directions or type a message. “You’re fine,” I reply, “it doesn’t bother me at all.” This isn’t entirely true: it does bother me that smartphones are so ubiquitous—especially when most of my friends claim to despise them. Yet adopting a stern, superior stance won’t persuade anyone to quit. It hasn’t worked with other addictions, so why would it work here?
When people aren’t ready to change, or perhaps don’t even realize that change is possible, the healthiest approach is to share your own journey: how you felt beforehand, what you did, and how you felt afterward. This gives your listener space to reflect without feeling pressured.
Overt judgment fuels defensiveness. In my early twenties, I dated a man who used a flip phone and openly condemned my social-media work. Much of my internal dialogue during those months revolved around arguing my case: I needed a smartphone to earn money; steady posting kept my numbers up; he had a steady teaching job while I was a struggling artist; how could he judge me! It took years before I realized, as the relationship ended, that my dependence on the device had made me miserable—an insight I would only reach later.
Technology is a delicate subject. It is personal and political, local and global. Your stance toward technology says something about how you view the world. It isn’t pleasant to be shamed for it, even if you sense in your core that you are letting yourself down.
Suppose your partner has a habit of scrolling that intrudes on your quality time. Bringing this up in the moment could feel confrontational. They might reply, “I’m handling something important,” or “I’ve already seen this movie, so I don’t need to watch,” or “Please let me unwind after work.”
People rarely respond well to immediate critique, and focusing on a single incident can overemphasize a trend. So if you intend to address someone’s phone use, aim for a calm, screen-free moment. That way it won’t feel like an attack but rather a constructive talk about how technology shapes your relationship.
When you raise the topic, center your feelings on how you feel when the other person prioritizes their device over you. Express that presence and listening matter to you. Acknowledge your own moments of distraction and the times you’ve failed to meet their needs. Frame it as a path to a stronger, safer bond for both of you. Discuss shared values and future hopes.
Maybe redefine what counts as quality time: it could involve fewer screens, trying new activities together, or even leaving devices behind for a hike or a meal—or perhaps 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.
