I was ten pages into How to Think Like a Philosopher by James Baggini when my brain started smoking. Imagine little metaphorical curlicues of white floating from my ears.
I wasn’t reading, I was just saying words in my head without absorbing a dang thing. So I'd go through a paragraph about Socrates, blink, and realize I had no idea what I'd just read. Back to the beginning. Again. And again.
I slid my bookmark into place and stared at the book in my lap. Reading has been my refuge since I was eight years old, sneaking Nancy Drew mysteries under my bedroom covers with a flashlight. It's where I go when the world gets too much — when grief felt like drowning, when corporate life made me want to scream, when I just needed to disappear into someone else's thoughts for a while.
But for the first time in my life, my brain was refusing to play along…
Next thing I knew, my phone was in my hand, finger tapping the music-note icon.
That’s when it clicked. TikTok, damn you!
A year earlier, I’d downloaded the app as an experiment into mother-daughter connectedness, despite knowing my brain was not equipped. I’m hopelessly distractible. I can’t fly without attempting to take in the silently-streaming movie on the across-the-aisle passenger’s screen.
But I was driven by the upside: the chance to connect with Kendall.
> Subscribe to have the Luminist delivered to your inbox every Saturday, in both written and audio format, at theluminist.substack.com.
At first, it was exactly what I wanted it to be. Quick touchpoints through our "did you see what I sent" texts, both of us cracking up over a cat dashing through a forest wearing a mini sombrero, or a toddler giving their dad the stink eye. Pure joy, zero brain damage.
Then I started using TikTok on my own.
Fashion tips for women over fifty. Football commentary that made me laugh until I snorted. Nutritional supplements for middle-aged athletes like me. And the "We Do Not Care Club" snippets from menopausal women around the globe: "We do not care that we wore this same outfit yesterday, you will see it every day this week."
It was perfect for those ten-minute gaps — waiting for a prescription refill, sitting in my car before an appointment. Just enough time to plug into the matrix and disappear. Or when I needed to cool my jets after a frustrating conversation. Or slogging through particularly torturous writing session. Twenty minutes on TikTok to laugh my ass off always did the trick.
But then came summer.
I'd collapse onto the living room couch around 4 PM, the air conditioning working overtime against Virginia heat. "Just a quick scroll," I’d tell myself. “Ten minutes to decompress, then I'll go for a walk in Great Falls park.”
My thumb started moving. A pug learning to skateboard. A woman challenging anyone who questions her for putting ice cubes in her wine. A dad sharing the absurd questions his teenagers ask him.
Scroll. Scroll. Scroll. The algorithm had learned exactly what made my brain purr.
Sometimes I just got sucked in for 30 minutes. But sometimes, I wouldn’t surface until the sun was slanting through the windows at a completely different angle.
I sat there blinking like someone had just shaken me awake. My neck had a crick from being twisted toward my phone. My mouth felt dry. And underneath the dazed feeling was something sharper: regret. I imagined the hiking trail I could have been on, the swim I could have taken, the actual nap that would have left me refreshed instead of... whatever this was.
I thought I was trading my attention for relaxation. But apparently I was trading my ability to think for feeling like a time-wasting slug.
No, thank you.
I wanted to connect with Kendall, but losing my afternoons and my ability to focus wasn’t worth the price of admission.
So I quit TikTok.
When I went to Do Wales in July, my phone lived in my tote bag. No algorithms, no bottomless scroll, no brain fog. Instead, meandering conversations with new friends, morning walks along the dirt road, long minutes watching the meadow grasses wave in the breeze.
But when I returned home, Kendall was waiting with a stack of unwatched TikToks and a "what the heck?" expression.
I had to explain.
“Listen honey, I don’t think TikTok is evil. But my brain can’t handle it. I’m not going to use the app.”
“Well, you’re weird, but ok. I have an idea.”
She slid into the banquette seat at the kitchen table, made space for me, then patted the cushion.
“Sit here!” she commanded.
“I don’t have my phone,” I replied.
“You don’t need it!”
She pulled out hers and went to the queue of TikToks waiting to be shared with me.
Shoulder to shoulder with my daughter, our twin blonde heads thrown back in laughter, we went through each one. Giggles and glee and “play that one again!” or “what did that little boy say?” until we reached the very end of the list.
“Which was your favorite?” she asked.
“It’s a tie between that little boy saying ‘slay, queen!’ and that girl saying ‘Don’t estimate me.’”
“Yep, I loved those too!”
Ten years ago, I would have not just deleted the app. I would have sworn off TikTok completely. I might have even launched into a lecture for Kendall about dopamine and the attention economy. All or nothing. Pure or corrupted. Pick a side.
But life has taught me something about the wide, unexplored space between rigid principles and total surrender.
In this middle way, I've got my focus back. I can read Baggini without my neurons reaching for an app-shaped binky. And once a week, Kendall and I curl up together, scrolling through her carefully curated collection of absurdity.
It’s not a perfect solution. After a long day of writing or mom-ing or traveling, I still find myself scrolling through the apps on my phone, searching for a short stint in an attention-blotting void. And that’s perfectly okay. I don’t have to be a purist about it. I just have to be thoughtful about what really matters, and what I’m willing to put up with.
And I always benefit from Kendall’s bone-deep pragmatism guiding the way.
Best-ish of both worlds,
Sue
> Subscribe to have the Luminist delivered to your inbox every Saturday, in both written and audio format, at theluminist.substack.com.
