My Phone Broke… and Honestly? I Liked It.

Apparently, the Universe Has to Break My Phone Once a Year

My phone broke.

Not dramatically, either.

The screen isn’t shattered. It didn’t fall into a toilet. I didn’t run it over with my car.

It had been doing this weird little glitch for a while, which I had apparently decided was perfectly acceptable to live with.

Then, two nights ago, I accidentally dropped it.

It continued working that night.

It worked the next morning.

And then…

Nothing.

Black screen.

Normally, this would immediately activate Fix-It Mode.

Find the problem.
Research solutions.
Check the warranty.
Find another phone.
Drive somewhere.
Order something.
FIX. THE. PROBLEM.

But for some reason, I didn’t.

I looked at my dead phone and basically thought:

Oh. I’ll see what happens.

As if the Phone Heavens were going to recognize my struggle and magically drop a replacement phone on my doorstep.

Luckily, the phone itself was technically still alive. I could receive calls and answer them through my earbuds or my car.

So naturally, Manager Me handled the important part.

I sent a memo to my team:

My phone is broken. Here’s how to reach me.

I emailed my admin team and let them know.

Everyone who actually needed to reach me had a way to do it.

And then…

I went about my day.

Without a phone.

And something strange happened.

I liked it.

I cleaned more of my house.

I got more done.

I wasn’t constantly picking up my phone to check one thing and somehow resurfacing 37 minutes later wondering what I had originally picked it up for.

I spent less money because apparently you cannot impulse shop if you cannot see the impulse.

Who knew?

But more importantly, my brain felt quieter.

As a manager, I have always felt like I need to stay connected.

Not necessarily because anyone demands it of me, but because I want to be available.

I want my team to know they can reach me.

If something goes wrong, I want to help.

If someone has a question, I want to answer it.

If there’s a problem, my natural instinct is:

Okay. What do we need to do?

Being available became part of how I support people.

Somewhere along the way, though, being available started looking a lot like being accessible all the time.

Those aren't necessarily the same thing.

And apparently, every once in a while, the universe decides I need a reminder.

Because strangely enough…

this has become an annual event.

Last year, there was a blackout.

I was outside bringing the trash cans in from the curb, because apparently losing electricity wasn’t enough excitement for one evening.

I fell. On my phone.

I was hurting.

My phone was shattered.

And there I was once again—unexpectedly unplugged.

So now I'm starting to wonder if the universe has implemented some sort of annual screen-time intervention.

“She still hasn’t learned. Break the phone.”

This year, though?

I was surprisingly content.

I had Wi-Fi.

I had earbuds.

I had email.

And I had a tablet.

A perfectly good, admittedly enormous, tablet.

After a few days of watching me casually exist like this, my husband finally informed me:

“Your phone should be arriving. You NEED a phone. You can't just walk around with that big tablet everywhere.”

First of all…

I absolutely felt like I could.

Was carrying a giant tablet everywhere practical?

Debatable.

Did I look like I was permanently prepared to take inventory?

Possibly.

But was I surviving?

YES.

And my admin team was completely supportive of my new communication system.

They assured me they didn't mind sending carrier pigeons if necessary.

See?

WE HAD OPTIONS.

Phone calls through my earbuds.

Email.

Giant tablet.

Carrier pigeon.

Smoke signals.

And if things got REALLY urgent, someone could send a strongly worded letter via FedEx Overnight.

Honestly, I don't understand why everyone was acting like I needed a phone.

We had an entire emergency communication protocol.

I mean…

It would've all worked out.

Right?

Apparently my husband wasn't interested in testing the carrier-pigeon portion of the disaster plan.

And honestly, he knows me.

I have absolutely no desire to buy technology.

None.

It has probably been ten years since I've personally purchased a new phone, computer, or tablet.

I will use technology until technology itself submits its resignation.

A glitch?

We'll work around it.

Battery doesn't last as long?

There's a charger.

Screen acting weird?

Turn it off and turn it back on.

Completely black screen?

Well…

Apparently we're carrying the tablet now.

So when my husband told me a new phone was already on its way, I was perfectly happy.

Mostly because the problem had somehow solved itself without me having to research phones, compare phones, shop for phones, or pretend to care about whatever technological advancement I'm apparently supposed to be excited about.

And that's when I realized…

The Phone Heavens DID deliver.

They just used my husband.

But somewhere between the black screen, the giant tablet, the carrier pigeons, and my completely reasonable backup smoke-signal system, I realized something.

For a few days, something in my life was broken…

and I didn't immediately make it my responsibility to fix it.

That is incredibly unlike me.

I am a fixer.

A problem appears, and my brain immediately starts working on the solution.

At work.

At home.

For my team.

For my family.

Sometimes probably for people who didn't even ask me to fix anything.

But this time?

I handled what actually needed to be handled.

I communicated.

I made sure the people who needed me could reach me.

And then I simply allowed something to be inconvenient.

And you know what?

The world kept spinning.

My team survived.

My family survived.

I survived.

The house got cleaner.

My productivity was suspiciously high.

My bank account probably appreciated the break.

And no pigeons were actually harmed—or employed—in the process.

So no, I don't think I'm becoming one of those people who gives up technology and moves into the woods.

Let's not get carried away.

I will use my new phone.

I will answer calls.

I will answer emails.

I will probably eventually find myself online shopping when I was originally just trying to check the weather.

But I think I'll remember those few days when my screen went black and absolutely nothing catastrophic happened.

Maybe being supportive doesn't require being accessible every second of every day.

Maybe not everything needs my immediate attention.

Maybe something can be broken without immediately becoming an emergency.

And maybe sometimes the universe just needs to unplug you long enough to remind you of that.

Although, Universe…

I understand now.

Next year, please skip breaking the phone.

Send a carrier pigeon.

If the pigeon can't find me…

smoke signal.

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