So, I’m at the gym. It’s supposed to be a sanctuary—a place to reconnect with my physical self, to sweat, to reflect, maybe even chat a bit. But all around me, people sit on workout machines, heads bowed, eyes glazed, fingers scrolling endlessly. It’s like watching a slow-motion zombie film. The gym used to be full of life and conversation. Now it’s silent except for the faint tap of screens.
I can’t help but wonder—what are we all missing? The addiction has us in its grip. We can’t let go for even a minute. The pull to check, to see if someone texted, liked, or posted, is relentless. The phone is always whispering: Look at me. Maybe there’s something new. Maybe there’s something better. But in that endless loop of checking, we’ve lost touch—with silence, with presence, with ourselves.
As I move toward a workout machine a woman is standing in front on her cell phone. We ask her if she is done with her workout and she responds, “I’m just starting” and continues to type on her cell phone. What happened to consideration?
The Disappearing Art of Being Present
Our relationship with cell phones—and now with AI—has reached a point where convenience has overtaken connection. Walk down any street, and you’ll see people moving like ghosts, eyes fixed on screens, oblivious to the world around them. I’ve had people nearly bump into me because they were so absorbed, so gone. We’re living inside our devices instead of inside our lives. I walk to CVS from my office and people have their heads on their phone. They walk down the street and almost run into me because they are gone, enveloped in the screen.
What are we losing? Physical connection, emotional intimacy, social spontaneity. The ability to be still. To simply be.
Think about it: young people today have less physical intimacy than any generation before them. In 1968, Woodstock brought thousands together—people connecting, feeling, living in real time. There were no screens, no notifications. Just presence. They had no choice but to interact with each other and because it was such a powerful social event, it created a social phenomenon. This led to lots of sex. People with iphone addiction are not relating physically, emotionally, or socially in real time. Contrast that with today’s virtual gatherings, where we connect through pixels but remain physically alone.
The Difference Presence Makes
As a psychotherapist, I feel this change deeply. Working online is convenient, sure—especially in L.A., where traffic can turn a short drive into an ordeal. But the difference between seeing someone in person and on a screen is different. In person, I can sense more—body language, subtle shifts in emotion, the warmth or tension in the air. There’s a shared atmosphere that can’t be replicated through pixels.
When someone is sitting across from me, the work becomes more intimate, more alive. Online therapy works, but it flattens the experience. Something essential—something deeply human—is getting lost. People get uncomfortable with physical presence because they’re out of practice. Being in someone’s sensory field, reading the cues of another body and face, has become foreign.
The Great Tuning Out
Another thing our phones allow us to do is tune out the world. It’s so easy now to scroll past suffering, to mute discomfort, to live inside our curated feeds. We can hide from what challenges or frightens us. The result is apathy—a soft disengagement from the real.
I see this even in therapy. When someone wants to quit because the work is getting too close, they can simply text me. A quick message ends the relationship without the discomfort of confrontation. The phone provides a digital escape hatch, a way to avoid facing themselves or their pain or me. It’s easier to ghost than to grow.
The Psychological Toll
Cell phones are not just tools; they’ve become environments. And these environments have side effects:
- Physical alienation – We’re near each other, but not with each other.
- Narrowed field of vision – Literally and figuratively, our view of the world shrinks to the size of a screen.
- Apathy and disengagement – We see more but care less.
- Dopamine instead of true connection – Each notification gives us a hit, but it’s counterfeit intimacy.
- Blue light disruption – It hijacks our circadian rhythm and fogs our thinking.
- Lowered intimacy – Real closeness requires presence, not presence indicators.
- Muted emotions – The screen becomes a buffer, dulling feeling and expression.
- Anxiety and stress – Constant alerts keep the nervous system on high alert.
- FOMO – The fear of missing out keeps us chasing an endless stream of comparison.
- Depression and rumination – The more we scroll, the more isolated and inadequate we feel.
- Sleep disturbances – The glow of the screen lingers in the brain long after we’ve set it down.
These aren’t just isolated symptoms; they’re signs of a deeper cultural shift. We’re trading real life for the simulation of one.
AI and the Illusion of Help
Now add AI to the mix. Young people especially are turning to AI for advice, comfort, even therapy. It’s fast, accessible, and nonjudgmental—but it’s also impersonal. It gives answers without understanding. Bullet points instead of presence. Data instead of empathy.
For millions of years our brains were built on tribal communication and support. Without human connection our moorings to reality break down and we begin to get comfortable with loneliness. It’s a heavy price to pay. To save ourselves and find meaningful human connections provides emotional food and sanity. AI can mimic conversation, but it can’t mirror the human experience of compassion, nuance, or silence. The illusion of help may actually deepen isolation. It feels like connection, but it’s really containment—emotion neatly packaged in an algorithmic box.
Technology isn’t evil; it’s simply powerful. But like all powerful things, it requires awareness. Without that, convenience becomes a trap.
Finding Our Way Back
We can’t wish technology away. Cell phones are not going anywhere; they’re woven into the fabric of modern life. Some schools have begun banning them during class hours, recognizing how deeply they interfere with attention, learning, and social development. These are good steps, but they’re just the beginning.
Ultimately, this isn’t about rejecting technology—it’s about reclaiming humanity. We have to learn to use these devices without letting them use us. To be mindful of their pull and intentional about our presence.
Next time you’re at the gym, try leaving your phone in the locker, and see what happens. Feel your body move. Breathe. Maybe even talk to someone. You might find that life, in all its awkward, messy, beautiful immediacy, is still waiting for you—just beyond the screen.