A few weeks ago, I did something I hadn't done in three years—I sat in a therapist's office.
I've been in therapy most of my adult life, but my sessions have been virtual for the last few years. I had a fantastic therapist I adored, but about six months ago, he informed me he could no longer accept my insurance. I am very grateful my company's insurance covers mental health, by the way. I was sad but trusted everything happens for a reason and knew I'd find the right person to help me continue my work. I did a couple of virtual screenings with other providers, and something felt off. It wasn't them, it was me. As I scrolled through the list of people covered by my insurance, I noticed a checkbox for "in-person" sessions. That's when something shifted.
The pandemic changed so much for us overnight out of necessity. We had to do everything virtually for safety—work, school, therapy, medical visits, happy hours, and for me, eventually, recovery meetings. But now that we've returned to some semblance of normal, I don't know how good or healthy it is for us to keep living so much of our lives through screens. My weekly screen time report from my iPhone terrifies me. And that time doesn't account for when I'm in front of a computer monitor. And while technology and social media can make us feel more connected, something deep in my soul feels more disconnected than ever.
I live in a small but lovely one-bedroom apartment in the middle of Manhattan. I joke that my living room is my office, dining room, study, writing space, and home theater. I've created some boundaries to help define my space and give it some order. I have my desk facing one direction. I only work or use a computer there. That's also where I sit for my weekly writing class and until a few weeks ago, my therapy sessions. I eat all of my meals on a small dining table. I have one chair I use as my place to read. And I only sit on my couch to watch TV or relax. I don't eat at my desk or on my couch. And similarly, I don't take my laptop to my sofa or dining room table. I had to make these rules to keep myself sane.
My company reopened our New York City office for hybrid work in September 2021. Having the flexibility to work from home and an office was great, but it was all short-lived. We closed our office and went fully remote in July 2022. I don't work from home anymore; I live where I work. Since then, I've only seen my work colleagues a handful of times. Due to recent company restructuring, my team was moved under a new manager and onto a new group. We had never met our new manager and most of our new teammates in person until a month ago. We spent five days together in Cartagena—many of our colleagues are based in Colombia, so we went to see them. That time did more to bring us together than anything we could have ever attempted to do virtually. We got to know each other in a non-work setting that wasn't governed by Zoom or Google Calendar invites. We built relationships with each other while we ate and drank our way through the city. It changed our team dynamic and how we work together today. Now we know the person behind the Slack avatar or Zoom screen. I am so thankful we had that time offline to create better connections in real-life.
But all of this got me thinking. The convenience technology offers is great, but it's costing us genuine human connection.
Every morning I order coffee through an app while walking my dog. Instead of talking to a barista when I get to the coffee shop, I sort through all the cups in the mobile pickup area to find my order. I can order food from delivery apps offering contactless and never interact with a human. And while the introvert in me loves all these things, I'm not sure how good it is for me to live so much of my life that way. Maybe I'm getting old and turning into a curmudgeon, or perhaps I'm realizing how much I need those awkward interactions to feel human.
When I saw the option to meet with a psychiatrist in person, I knew it was time to make a shift and reclaim a bit of my analog life.
And so a few weeks ago, for the first time in a long time, I left my apartment and walked to an office. I sat in a waiting room listening to the steady, rhythmic hum of white noise machines while thumbing through an old copy of The New Yorker. The door to my therapist's office opened at the appointed time, and he welcomed me to come in and take a seat. The room was cozy with wall art and accents, most certainly purchased from Bed, Bath, and Beyond—may it rest in peace. I settled into a well-worn leather couch. Boxes of Kleenex were on the side tables and the coffee table in front of me. And for the next hour, I sat across from him, with no screen between us, as I started to peel back the layers of my story and share what brought me there.
Meeting a new therapist is like a very awkward first date. You're getting to know each other and learning to read body language and non-verbal cues. If I shifted in my chair or started shaking my leg, he'd notice and ask me what I thinking or feeling. He would have never seen those things if we were staring at each other through Zoom. And not one single time did I look at my phone. He had my full and undivided attention. And I had his. When the session ended, I walked outside to the busy Manhattan streets and took a deep breath of the stinky New York City summertime air, and exhaled with a cough quickly. It was all so glorious. I didn't know how much my soul needed it. I didn't have to worry if my wifi was slow or if I was on mute. I was seen and heard. And I had a safe space where I could talk and process hard things that wasn't the same place I work, write, and do so many other parts of my life. I am so glad I closed my laptop and went to a therapist's office.
We can't untether ourselves from technology, but we can change our relationship with it. For me, that means:
More time face-to-face. Less FaceTime.
More handwritten notes and journals. Less Notes and GoogleDocs.
More phone calls (gasp!). Less texts or voice memos.
More DND-mode. Less notifications.
More of savoring each moment. Less of trying to capture it for Insta.
More offline. Less online.
I hadn’t considered how much body language isn’t accounted for over screens.
I’m also wondering what happens when we always put ourselves in comfortable situations (fellow introvert here).
How many strangers remain strangers in such a tech dependent world?
Your gift is delightful. Keep loving, keep sharing.