The Year I Stopped Taking Advice

The weeks leading into the New Year arrive with a peculiar kind of noise.

Everyone seems to know what you should fix.

What you should optimize.

What you should track, upgrade, abandon, subscribe to, download, and become—by February.

I don’t.

And this year, I’m not interested.

Exactly twelve months ago, something happened to me that I hadn’t experienced in a very long time. Anxiety—real, physical, unsettling anxiety—found its way in. I had considered myself largely immune. Grounded. Resistant. But the speed of life finally caught up with me. The end-of-year frenzy. The constant digital hum. The sense that everything was urgent and nothing was complete.

It was uncomfortable enough that I did something unfashionable.

I didn’t add anything new.

I went backward.

Not regressively. Intentionally.

Before I explain how, let me be clear: I don’t think progress is evil. I don’t believe we should return to the Stone Age. I’m grateful for technology. I’m even excited by it.

But gifts—when used without restraint—can quietly take something precious in return.

Our phones, for example. That thin rectangle that now contains everything. Calendar. Camera. Library. Marketplace. Social square. Emergency line. Entertainment. Newsroom. Confessional. Casino.

It is less a phone than a portable universe—and universes are not neutral places to live inside all day.

1. I Bought Paper Calendars

I bought several, actually. I hung them in the kitchen, the office, the hallway.

Yes, I know how this sounds.

But something unexpected happens when you physically turn a page each morning. You don’t just know the date—you feel its passing. Time becomes visible again.

There’s research suggesting that tactile interaction improves memory encoding and temporal awareness. We understand time better when our bodies participate in marking it. Screens compress time; paper restores proportion.

The calendar doesn’t ping you.

It doesn’t reorder itself.

It doesn’t suggest improvements.

It simply tells the truth: this is today.

Thirty seconds with a paper calendar gives me clarity. Thirty seconds on my phone pulls me into everything else I didn’t ask for.

2. I Put Puzzles on the Table

A thousand pieces. No app. No timer. No dopamine loop.

It sits there—unfinished—and invites participation. Someone walks by, places two pieces together, and moves on. Over days, an image slowly emerges.

What surprised me wasn’t the puzzle. It was the peace.

You cannot “accidentally” check social media while holding a cardboard edge. Your hands are occupied. Your attention is singular. Your nervous system settles.

Yes, you can do puzzles on a phone. But the moment you touch it, the universe opens. One glance becomes five apps, a purchase, a notification, an opinion you didn’t need, and suddenly you’re late—for nothing.

The puzzle gives you joy without acceleration.

That matters.

There is growing evidence that frequent task-switching—what we politely call multitasking—raises baseline anxiety. The effect is subtle, cumulative, and largely invisible. Which makes it dangerous.

3. I Reintroduced the Ritual of Brewing

I let go of the oversized water bottles, the powdered supplements, the constant pre-hydration. Instead, I boil water. I choose tea. Coffee. Herbs. I wait.

This matters more than it sounds. Brewing teaches patience. It asks you to be present long enough for something to become ready.

When everything is always available, thirst disappears—but so does discernment.

We are trained to move fast so we can do more. But the real gift of modern life is not speed. It’s choice.

You can choose slowness.

You can choose fewer things done well.

You can choose not to live as if every moment is an emergency.

4. I Read Books—With My Hands

I still own audiobooks. Out of nostalgia. But I’ve stepped away from fast reading.

Listening while doing other things is precisely what I’m trying to unlearn.

Multitasking has its place—emergencies, caretaking, survival. But as a lifestyle, it fractures attention and quietly erodes joy. When nothing has your full presence, nothing feels complete.

Reading a physical book asks for obedience—to the page, to the moment, to stillness.

It gives something back that no productivity hack ever will.

5. I Pray

I list this last, but it belongs first.

None of the above would be possible without God overseeing my soul.

There is a reason programs like Alcoholics Anonymous are built on surrender. We are not designed to navigate life alone. Self-reliance collapses under the weight of modern speed.

I pray daily. Often more.

Before buying a calendar.

Before choosing a book.

Before filling a cup.

If you are distressed, pray. Not because it solves everything instantly—but because it recenters truth. The truth of how we are meant to live is closer than we think.

One More Thing: I Cook Without The Phone

Simple meals. Handwritten recipes. A small box in the kitchen.

Have you ever followed a recipe on your phone and somehow ended up on social media—mid-meal?

Exactly.

Tools are meant to assist life, not absorb it.

We don’t need to reject progress. We don’t need to fear it, romanticize the past, or pretend we can live outside of modern life.

But we do need to take responsibility for how we use what we’ve been given.

Progress isn’t the problem. Abdication is—when our tools stop serving us and begin to claim our attention as their own.

Calendars were meant to mark time, not fragment it.

Games were meant to gather us, not isolate us.

Books were meant to be held, not skimmed while doing three other things.

Food was meant to be prepared, not outsourced to screens.

Tools were never meant to replace presence.

Wisdom today does not look like rejecting technology. It looks like refusing to let it attach itself to our bodies, dictate our pace, or quietly govern our inner lives. It looks like using what helps—and setting down what harms—without guilt, drama, or nostalgia.

The work ahead isn’t about improvement.

It’s about discernment.

And that, quietly, may be the most modern skill of all.