Over the past few years, it’s become obvious: our students were living in two worlds at once—the real world, and the endless scroll. Heads down, thumbs flying, eyes glued to screens; friendships measured in likes, self-esteem dictated by notifications. Social media had them hooked, and let’s be honest—a digital addiction had quietly taken over hallways, classrooms, and even lunch tables.

Enter the new state law, requiring school districts to implement policies restricting cell phone use on campus. The law doesn’t just suggest it—it mandates it. And so, thanks to State’s push to follow the rules (and maybe save a few brain cells), our school prepared for life without phones. 

Over the summer, as the new cell phone policy made its way through the community, I heard the feedback. Comments—more like complaints—ranged from “They’ll never survive!” to “Good luck controlling the apocalypse.” I must admit, I was expecting chaos, arguments, drama of the highest order.

And while those may still come, the change I see in the students is… wonderful.

The hallways are buzzing, but in a way I haven’t seen in years. Kids are actually talking—like, real talking. Eye contact, facial expressions, hand gestures. Some of them are dramatically pretending they forgot how to exist without Spotify or TikTok. One kid flails at an imaginary playlist, as if trying to summon a song from the ether. Another paces, narrating their day like a live vlog—without the camera.

For the first time in forever, I spot folded paper notes getting passed around—an ancient technology, the hard-copy ancestor of the text message. A small group has gathered to debate the existential horror of not knowing what’s trending. Others just lean against walls, scrolling… their memories, trying to recall the last TikTok they saw.

Some kids are improvising mini-games: guessing lyrics from hummed tunes, inventing TikTok-style dances for imaginary cameras, or dramatically reenacting viral challenges—sans technology, of course. 

And the wildest part? They look… relaxed. Less twitchy, less hunched. Like somebody hit pause on their stress and replaced it with conversation, laughter, and actual human chaos.

Classrooms feel different too. Students sit up—well, almost sit up—some still slouch, but even their laziness has a new posture, a faint trace of awareness. There’s more focus in the air, subtle but noticeable. A pencil taps rhythmically on a desk; someone whispers a comment to a neighbor instead of posting it online. Even the doodles in notebooks seem more… deliberate.

The change didn’t go unnoticed. A few teachers at the front reacted the only way they could: eyes wide, jaws slightly slack. The shock was palpable—students may actually be listening again. Questions were answered in full sentences—or, well, mostly, in an “almost-kinda” way. Hands tentatively rose. And for those rare moments when a teacher paused, the classroom fell into a quiet unlike any other—not the tense, waiting-for-the-bell kind of quiet, but the curious, engaged kind.

But then… 3:10 p.m. hits. Dismissal.

Suddenly, the hallways transform. For a brief, shining moment, it’s like the students are on the edge of a new awakening—shifting from fully human to fully connected human. Feet shuffle, backpacks swing, and eyes flicker from one friend to another, still savoring the last seconds of unmediated conversation.

And then… chaos. I swear I felt a disturbance in the Force. A thousand little humans powered up their devices at once. Screens lit up. Wi-Fi groaned. The universe shimmered like a digital wormhole had just opened. Notifications exploded, AirPods were fished from pockets like ceremonial talismans, and the ambient hum of pure human energy transformed into a synchronized electronic buzz.

Even my phone slowed down. Palpably. As if the universe itself needed a reboot. For a moment, it felt like we were watching evolution in fast-forward: the students had briefly remembered what it was like to exist without a feed, only to immediately leap into a hyper-connected state.

And yet, somehow, that fleeting glimpse of calm—the one before the screens—left a mark. The hallways may return to their usual frenzy, the classrooms to their habitual rhythm, but somewhere deep in the shuffle, I saw it: the kids remembered themselves—even if only for a few glorious hours.

I know it’s only been a few days at the start of the year—it’s still early—but I like what I’m seeing. Now it’s up to us to keep it going. 

And honestly, I hope it lasts. I value the real little humans in our care—not the sentient beings blurred by digital connection.

Enjoy this one? You might just be one of us. There’s more waiting at Inkblotz—stories and reflections that feel like remembering something you forgot you knew.