For thirty-one days I did not open my email. I told my agent. I told my mother. I told the producer of the show I am supposed to be on next. I told my best friend, who told me I was insufferable.
Here is what I noticed.
For the first three days, my hands kept reaching for my phone. I would be reading, or cooking, or walking, and the hand would just go — pocket, screen, app. The reach was deeper than habit. It was a kind of low-level prayer, a constant checking-in with the world to make sure it still wanted me.
For the next week, I felt anxious in a way I had not been anxious before. Not the anxiety of having too much to do. The anxiety of not knowing what was being asked of me. I think this is the actual addiction. Not the email itself, but the dopamine of being summoned.
By the end of the second week, the anxiety lifted. I read more. I talked to the people in front of me with more attention. I made bad pots. I made one decent pot. I went to bed at ten.
When I came back to my inbox on the morning of the thirty-second day, there were 1,847 emails. I did not read them. I selected all and pressed archive. The world had not collapsed. Three things had happened that genuinely needed me, and all three had reached me through other channels — a phone call, a text from my brother, a knock on the door.
I am not recommending this. I am only saying: try it for a long weekend. See what stays.
— A.K., January 2026