“Almost everything will work again if you unplug it for a few minutes, including you.” ~Anne Lamott
You know that familiar routine: an exhausting day at work, a long commute, children, errands, messages, dinner, and notifications.
And then—finally—rest at the end of it all.
A soft, welcoming couch that curves in all the right places. A new episode of a beloved series that whisks you away to a rugged farm in rural Montana. And some short videos that make you laugh: AI-animated cats reviewing street food, influencers in wigs enacting the bickering of a married couple.
The flickering screens distract you just enough to ward off a headache, and your everyday anxieties fade into the background.
It’s rest, but it’s not too mentally taxing because your brain has wrestled with enough already.
And sure, you’d love to finally start that thick novel on your nightstand or pull out your dusty watercolors for a quick sketch.
You’d love to do something meaningful.
But your head is too foggy after a long day, and your mind just can’t take on any more challenges. You want to tune out and drop into a long sleep.
But here’s the thing: your evening routine only feels relaxing. But then you wake up groggy the next morning, bracing for another long day as you gulp down coffee and check your emails.
Your relaxing evening of doomscrolling did little to relax you.
It didn’t bring the kind of revitalizing rest that would have empowered you to face another day.
It distracted and numbed you instead.
Because it might seem counterintuitive, but couch rotting is actually far less restful than challenging yourself.
And maybe you know it already. The dangers of doomscrolling have been well-documented. Nobody needs yet another study linking social media to depression and anxiety.
But when you’re coming out of a ten-hour workday, an evening of reading novels sounds comically unrealistic.
Slow-cooked stews and walks in the garden are nice for those who don’t have real jobs. For those who don’t have kids, busy schedules, difficult clients, and family problems.
And I’m not going to lie, I love a good doomscrolling session myself.
I love those hilarious AI cat videos. I love snarky travel bloggers and well-edited tutorials on how to make Nordic fish soup.
But I also know that sinking feeling when you realize you’ve willed away too many evenings online.
That demoralizing feeling when your occasional doomscrolling indulgence turns into a default, robotic habit that you don’t even question anymore.
And I’ve tried all the usual digital detox tips and hacks over the years. I set screentime limits, I downloaded meditation apps, and I put my phone away at dinner. But nothing really worked.
Because I was just too exhausted in the evenings to attempt a new lifestyle change. I didn’t even know where I’d put those dusty watercolors.
Then it hit me. And I realized I wasn’t doomscrolling because I was unmotivated or lazy.
I was doomscrolling because I didn’t have anything else to do.
Watercolors? Reading? Walks in the park? Meditation? Gratitude journaling?
What should I write about? How should I meditate? Which apps should I use? Where did I put my supplies?
Those aren’t exactly the decisions you want to make after you’ve been stuck in traffic for an hour and wolfed down a plate of microwaved spring rolls for dinner.
So I decided to eliminate those decisions.
I decided to make my cozy, analog evening activities just as easy and accessible as my smartphone and my TV remote.
No more wondering what to do with myself. No more doomscrolling because it’s the easiest available option.
I created an analog basket.
I took an enormous straw basket (that once held a Christmas gift set of gourmet sauces and spices) and filled it with everything I needed for a quiet evening away from my screens.
The items included:
- headphones (for listening to jazzy playlists and inspiring podcasts)
- adult coloring books (to keep my hands occupied while listening)
- a challenging literary novel, a self-improvement book, and a light romance (to fit my various moods and energy levels)
- colored pencils, watercolors, and oil pastels
- lined notebooks (for gratitude journaling)
- tarot cards (for journaling inspiration)
- blank notebooks (for drawing)
- old magazines (for reading and vision board/collage making)
- jigsaw puzzles
- a commonplace book (for gathering recipes, quotes, and anything else that would otherwise disappear into my notes app)
Then I put this basket next to my nightstand, in a visible place where I’d kept stumbling over it and couldn’t easily ignore it.
And you know what?
It actually worked.
It wasn’t easy at first. My hand cramped when I journaled for too long. I didn’t know what to draw in my watercolor pad, and my sloppy sketches reminded me of how much worse I’ve gotten since I practiced daily at college.
But at some point, I stopped caring if the sketches were worth sharing on Instagram Stories. I stopped caring if I sounded eloquent enough in my journal to turn that entry into a first draft.
Because no matter what I created (and no matter how much time I spent creating things that would later end up in the recycling bin), I realized it was still infinitely more satisfying than creating nothing.
And then came that magical evening when I reached for my analog basket without thinking. Just as automatically as I’d once picked up my phone.
