As a medical student juggling her academics, socialization, and self-care, I've grappled with the pressures of a culture that is "always on." Between the barrage of lectures, study groups, research obligations, and shadowing, I've felt a constant push and pull with the way I interact with technology -- most notably, my smartphone.
Admittedly, I am not a technophobe. The 39,127 photos living on my camera roll attest to the fact that I love using my phone to document special moments. I like being able to share my location with my family when I'm traveling solo, and my Spotify playlists are an ever-present backdrop to my daily workouts and my walks to the hospital. I am, however, firmly on the outs with my notifications.
In a modern era characterized by digital oversaturation, smartphones (and by extension, the constant influx of notifications they bring) have transformed our lives into a constant tug-of-war between presence and distraction. Although online exchanges often lack the depth, context, and richness of in-person communication, the perpetual accessibility of our phones fosters a culture of chronic digital presence. As I spent more time in my medical school environment, where every moment feels precious and every ounce of focus counts, I realized that my screen time was slowly chipping away at and replacing my "downtime."
Digital notifications firmly tether us to our digital networks, blurring the lines between what our phones are supposed to do and their capacity to inundate us with information. Social media, dating apps, and news platforms all leverage and exploit algorithms to flood us with personalized alerts that hijack our focus and -- quite literally -- alter our brain chemistry. Every time my phone buzzes or lights up, it signals that someone, somewhere is thinking of me and "green lights" the neurophysiologic pathways that trigger my reward responses. Once this happens one, two, or a thousand times, it fuels the cycle of compulsively checking and scrolling that spans the gray zone between casual phone use and a full-fledged digital addiction. After weeks of pouncing on my phone every time a member of a group chat "laugh-reacted" to a message, or when Instagram notified me that an acquaintance had posted a story for the first time in months, I decided to silence notifications once and for all.
Author Steven Pressfield coined the term "urgency culture," which reflects the internalized pressures of modern life that kick our fight or flight mechanisms into fast drive. While small bursts of urgency are necessary for working towards a goal or studying for an exam, consistently living in a state of feeling "on demand," all the time takes a significant toll on our physical and mental health. As society paves the way towards normalizing a chronically online and chronically urgent culture, quality time with ourselves and others diminishes, creativity wanes, and burnout looms. In the healthcare field, which is already rife with burnout from constant learning and long working hours, this culture of urgency can further impair rational thinking and self-control, spike cortisol levels, and erode mental health.
For the past 6 months, I've been living on "do not disturb" (DND) mode -- every single one of my notifications is perpetually on mute. I've never liked my phone better. As a medical student, I appreciate that this change has granted me the ability to reconfigure my online presence around my obligations to better define how much content I can sustainably engage with. And in doing so, I dodge the allure of online rabbit holes and avoid stoking the compulsion to respond to notifications immediately.
Living on DND around the clock doesn't mean I've abandoned all social graces when it comes to replying to the important people in my life. It does, however, provide me with a deliberate approach to digital engagement. With this change, my schedule is more neatly delineated, and scrolling online is no longer the glue that binds together the time between my classes, labs, and other daily tasks. Instead of caving in to every "ping," I retain agency over how much power I allow my phone to have over me and self-administer my dopamine dosages by allocating specific times to address notifications based on my daily priorities. And in between, I allow myself to detox, to be bored, and to let my mind wander -- the analog way. With a bit of discipline, I have rewired myself away from the endless hamster wheel of reading, consuming, and immediately replying to online content in favor of treating screen time as an intentionally scheduled and measured activity.
Of course, staying on DND is not a one-size-fits-all solution. It might seem daunting to miss important messages or to be unavailable during emergencies. However, this setting offers workarounds and can be tailored to personal needs. I encourage my friends, family, and research mentor to intentionally send their notifications through or "double-call" me for matters that are even remotely time-sensitive. "Whitelisting" specific numbers or apps has also allowed me to stay accessible to the people and projects that need me while preserving the overall benefits of digital silence.
In a world of perpetual connectivity, my "DND lifestyle" has felt like an act of resistance and an assertion that my time, attention, and peace are precious commodities. In between my obligations in and out of medical school, I have learned to prioritize mental well-being, balance my digital interactions, and view my iPhone as a tool I use intentionally, rather than one I am beholden to. This shift has empowered me to cultivate a balance between the demands of my medical education and those of the digital world.
Nidhi Bhaskar is a second-year medical student at the Warren Alpert School of Medicine of Brown University in Providence, Rhode Island.