A few years back, I was scrolling through my Instagram feed when I came across an image of Miranda, my childhood best friend. She was on a beautiful white-sand tropical beach, tan and radiant, contorted into an incredible yoga pose. In contrast, I was sitting in my living room, pasty white and deeply bundled against the frigid Maine temps, nearly comatose from tech use. And I noticed something. As I stared at the pic, my throat clenched slightly. My shoulders rose up just a hair. And my stomach dropped. I had a wisp of a thought: Ugh. I wish that was me. This was followed by a cascade of reasons that I was better than her, in a desperate attempt to make myself feel better.
What makes this moment notable, even though this yucky feeling had happened a bajillion times while looking at Insta, was a recognition of how that image impacted me. If I think about my technology consumption like a diet, what I just ate left me feeling bloated and heavy—perhaps the equivalent of eating an entire bag of Cheetos. In the past, I might have scrolled on for thirty minutes, continuing with my…
