What I Learned From Sleeping With My Phone

I used to think my phone was a lifeline—until I realized it was just a mirror.

In Brooklyn, where my mother’s Korean stillness met my father’s African rhythm under streetlights, silence became my first language. No one told me to chase likes or wins. But when I walked alone past the park at 2 a.m., with headphones on and no sound but waves, something shifted.

The First Game Wasn’t About Betting

I thought ‘winning’ meant big payouts. Instead, it meant turning off the screen for twenty minutes—and breathing.

Not every notification is a call for joy. Sometimes it’s the glow of your own breath in the dark. The real reward isn’t cash—it’s stillness.

The Ritual of Small Moments

I used to scroll through feeds like someone hunting for validation. Now I save posts—not to win—but to re-read when the world is quiet.

A friend sent me a voice memo once: ‘I played all night and still felt whole.’ That wasn’t luck. That was courage.

You Are Not the Player—You’re the Sanctuary

They call it ‘digital loneliness.’ I call it sacred space.

Every time you choose silence over noise, you’re not retreating—you’re resisting. Every time you let your heart speak before your feed does—your soul remembers how to be yourself again.

What Did You Carry Today?