I can still see my manager standing, frozen in shock, by the locker of our retail store’s breakroom. I was seated on one of the room’s foldout tables, and it had just come out that I, as a working teenager, did not own a phone.

I belong to Gen Z, so my manager’s shock didn’t exactly surprise me, as most of my peers bought or were given a smartphone by the time they reached high school. Plus, I was used to the surprise that my electronic habits tended to elicit; in middle school, I got it often, when I’d tell my classmates that my home didn’t house a TV. “What?! How do you survive?” they’d ask dramatically.

But while my manager’s shock was predictable, her subsequent concern startled me, as she seemed genuinely afraid for my safety.

I unsuccessfully tried to explain that I had no need of a phone. I still lived at home, and, when not there, I was usually at work or school. In all those places, I had no real need for a device: I knew, at least vaguely, my way around, and there was no one I was obligated to regularly call.

Plus, in all those places, if needed, I had ready access to some way of contacting my parents: one of them was usually at home when I was, and, when I was at work, school, or elsewhere, I could easily and safely approach a stranger and request permission to use their phone. Never – either when walking up to a person or approaching a front desk/cash register at a business – had I been refused. (In fact, in my years of cold-approaching people for use of their device, the worst response I ever got was one of mild concern: the barista whose phone I borrowed seemed slightly nervous, either for the safety of his own device or his worry about me.)

As I told my manager, my age seemed to be less a reason for a phone and more one against it. After all, if I was 14, wouldn’t I be better equipped to navigate life without a phone than I was at 12? Sure, my situations would change, but if my mind continued to develop healthily, my ability to think of creative solutions to tricky situations would grow.

And indeed, in later years, tricky situations did come. I remember driving home in the dark one night from an area that was neither close to my home nor familiar to me. By that time, I had a phone, but it had died mid-drive, leaving me to navigate without it.

I was growing mildly frightened (thanks to a dimly lit, wooded side road which left me spooked), but I knew from experience that my phone wasn’t my sole lifeline. I had basic knowledge of safety tactics (stay in the light, walk confidently, make sure others are around), and my experience requesting help from others made me confident that people were available and willing to help me find my way home. So, I entered a nearby Planet Fitness, double-checked that I wasn’t alone, and asked the front desk worker if he could pull up a map. From that, I located what highway I needed to be on and made it safely home. No phone required!

While I don’t think I convinced my retail manager not to be concerned about my phoneless existence, her anxiety alerted me to a sentiment that I would see later in varying forms. Sometimes, my peers would act as though they considered their phone to be their primary, if not only, means of safety. They seemed reticent to do seemingly phone-less tasks without it close by, sitting in a living room talking, for instance, or going out someplace with the group.

I wasn’t the only one to notice this sentiment. In 2008, the word “nomophobia” (“no-mobile-phone-phobia”) arose to describe the anxiety that some experience when they do not have access to their phone, or when their phone has a chance of not functioning properly (think low battery or lack of access to mobile data). In the study that coined the word, researchers found that, of roughly 2,000 U.K. adults, 53% experienced nomophobia in some measure.

Similarly, a 2025 study found that 26% of participants experienced mild symptoms of nomophobia, 51% experienced moderate symptoms, and 21% more experienced severe symptoms.

The nerves surrounding lack of access to a phone are somewhat understandable. It is harder than ever to function without a phone. Many places assume that people have one. (In fact, my greatest distress when phoneless was going to choral concerts – some of which included songs in German or French – and being unable to access the translations of lyrics on a phone.)

Beyond this, I’ve sensed that most people consider phones to be their primary means of safety, and giving up the device, even temporarily, makes them feel worrisomely vulnerable.

Like most social ills, nomophobia won’t be cleanly solved, for it would require a shift in the way we view our devices at large, along with a better understanding (especially for young people) of how to function safely without a phone.

I don’t propose to have a solution for nomophobia. But I can testify that I’ve found confidence from the times I’ve spent without a phone – whether voluntarily or involuntarily. And with that, I’ve found some joy in routinely abandoning my phone, either in my car’s glovebox while I meet with a friend, or at home while I run an errand to the store. The absence of communication can be freeing. At the least, it reminds me that I am not dependent on any electronic object, and I can live a full, safe life without it constantly nearby.

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This article was made possible by The Fred & Rheta Skelton Center for Cultural Renewal.

Image credit: Pxhere