I didn’t cry when I concluded my relationship with the last guy I was seeing. I gave him back the Apple Watch that revealed his infidelity, walked away, and never looked back. However, when I shut down my iPhone for the last time, my hands shook. It wasn’t merely a phone — it was the gateway. The access point to every app I had removed months earlier, every algorithm I believed I had escaped. I left social media in January, yet the device still had a grip on me. Turning it off felt akin to ending the most manipulative relationship I’ve ever experienced.

Even without the apps, the phone remained — buzzing, glowing, whispering promises of connection. I understood that the addiction was not exclusively to the platforms. It was to the phone itself.

Since 7th grade, my iPhone had been my unwavering companion — promising connectivity with quick access but delivering anxiety. Upon deleting social media, I assumed I had cut the connection. But the phone itself continued to whisper. It inundated me with its stylish design. It manipulated me with each update: This will simplify your life, Apple murmured, while tightening its hold on my daily routine. Notifications morphed into manipulation. The absence of apps didn’t equate to a lack of control. None of the guys I’ve dated have come close to the psychological hold my iPhone had on me.

And I am not alone. iPhones — and smartphones in general — ceased to be mere tools long ago. They evolved into environments that we become absorbed in. The average American spends over five hours a day on their phone and checks it nearly a hundred times a day. Globally, individuals devote almost seven hours to screens each day, and for my generation, Gen Z, it nears nine. That isn’t convenience; that’s dependence.

Apple began as a company fixated on liberation. Steve Jobs famously pledged tools that would “put a dent in the universe” and free us from the captivity of desks. The initial vision was mobility, creativity, and empowerment — a computer in your pocket so you could live unrestrained. Instead, they developed features designed to keep us engaged, like push notifications, and created entire ecosystems, like the App Store, to keep us entangled. Services became the priority, and the objective shifted to keeping users on the device.

I recognized this for years before I took action. But understanding and taking action are two different things.

It wasn’t until last month that I knew it was the right time. Over a two-week period, I undertook two actions that fundamentally transformed me. First, I tied myself to a 70-foot banner at Apple’s iPhone launch in Cupertino, highlighting that Tim Cook does not do enough to combat child rape videos being stored and shared in iCloud. Second, I marched alongside more than 150 people to Apple’s flagship store in New York City to demand accountability: Choose people over profit.

Standing there, advocating for change, I realized the hypocrisy — I was attached to the very product I was protesting. That was the turning point. It wasn’t solely about ethics. It encompassed identity. I had spent years curating my life through a device that crafted me in return — shaping my habits, my attention span, even my self-worth. And suddenly, in front of that glass cube on Fifth Avenue, I perceived it clearly: I wasn’t merely holding a phone. I was holding the most toxic relationship of my life.

So I ended my relationship with my iPhone and switched to a Motorola Razr.

I wasn’t daring enough to completely abandon the smartphone. Instead, I hoped this shock to my system would assist me in cultivating a healthier relationship with the device. Tech as a tool. The initial weeks felt like withdrawal — and they continue to do so. I reach for features that aren’t available, panic at the absence of iMessage blue bubbles, and even feel disoriented. That’s how deep the dependency runs. Research supports it: 58 percent of teens feel anxious when separated from their phones, and 73 percent of adults experience phantom vibrations — false alerts that mimic withdrawal.

I hate to admit it, but I was part of the 90 percent of U.S. college students who believe green bubbles make Android users appear less cool — even associating them with “fewer friends” and “lower social class.” I feared people would think I was suddenly unreachable — that switching to green indicated I was no longer dependable. My friends reinforced this. In the first group chat I joined with my new Razr, someone immediately commented: “Ew, who made this group chat green?”

The Razr isn’t flawless either. It’s still a smartphone, and I’m certain I’ll discover some of the same issues that existed on my iPhone. But this transition isn’t merely about the technology — it’s also about principles. It’s about refusing to support a brand whose CEO will dine with a president actively seeking to erase people like me. It’s about the heartbreak of observing a Fortune 500 company run by an openly gay man, someone I identified with, turn