Digital Minimalism: A Case for Owning Less Technology

Digital Minimalism: When Less Really Does Mean More

In my thirty-some years as a journalist, I’ve watched technology transform from a luxury into what feels like a requirement for living. I’ve covered the rise of smartphones, witnessed the explosion of social media, and observed how—almost imperceptibly—our devices went from tools we used to extensions of ourselves we couldn’t bear to lose. Lately, though, I’ve been thinking about something simpler: what if we owned less of this stuff?

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Last updated: 2026-03-23

The irony isn’t lost on me. I built a career documenting the digital revolution. I’ve interviewed startup founders, tech entrepreneurs, and innovation experts who spoke with genuine passion about how their products would liberate us. But somewhere between the promise and the reality, something shifted. Liberation began to feel more like occupation—a benign colonization of our time, attention, and peace of mind.

Digital minimalism isn’t about rejecting technology wholesale or pretending we can live like monks in the mountains (though I understand the appeal). It’s about something more practical and, I’d argue, more radical: being intentional about the devices and services we let into our lives. It’s about asking hard questions before we adopt the next gadget, subscription, or app. And it’s about recognizing that in our rush to own more technology, we may have lost something we didn’t mean to: the freedom to be bored, to be present, to think our own thoughts without algorithmic suggestion.

The Hidden Cost of Owning Everything

When I was a young reporter in the 1990s, I could leave the office and truly leave work behind. My editor couldn’t reach me. My sources couldn’t interrupt my dinner. There was a boundary—not because of discipline, but because of physics. The office was in one place, and I was in another.

Now, the office follows us everywhere. And while that flexibility is real and sometimes genuinely valuable, so is the cost. We’re in a state of perpetual partial attention, always aware that our phone might buzz, that an email might arrive, that we’re missing something on social media. Researchers have documented how this divided attention damages our ability to focus, affects our sleep, and increases anxiety. Yet we keep acquiring devices—smartwatches to augment our phones, tablets to sit alongside our laptops, smart speakers to connect our homes—each promising to make life simpler while actually fragmenting it further.

This is where digital minimalism becomes not just a lifestyle choice but a form of self-protection. Every device we own is a potential point of interruption, a surface area for anxiety, a subscription or update to manage. Every app we install is a small decision we’re now making repeatedly, each one requiring a bit of cognitive energy. The smartphone in your pocket doesn’t cost you just attention—it costs you the mental space where good ideas once lived.

I noticed this shift most acutely during the pandemic. When my work moved entirely online, I realized I was staring at screens from 6 a.m. to midnight. Not because anyone required it, but because the friction had disappeared. There was no commute to mark the beginning and end of the workday. No moment where I was forced to step away. The technology that promised to give us flexibility instead trapped us in amber, as if every waking hour belonged to productivity.

The Paradox of Ownership in the Digital Age

Here’s something that troubles me about modern technology: we don’t actually own most of it. We license it. We subscribe to it. We carry devices that are remotely managed, that phone home constantly, that could be updated or changed or disabled at someone else’s discretion. When Apple can remotely disable features in an iPhone, when Amazon can remove books from your Kindle, when your smart TV can be updated in ways that change how it functions—are you really the owner, or are you just a long-term renter?

This matters more than it sounds. Real ownership is supposed to mean autonomy. It’s supposed to mean freedom to do what you want with the thing you own. But the modern gadget is designed to be a conduit—a way for companies to serve you content, advertising, and recommendations, whether you asked for them or not. Every feature is an opportunity to collect data. Every update is a chance to introduce new ways of tracking or influencing your behavior.

When I think about owning less technology, I’m partly thinking about this: rejecting the illusion of ownership. It’s liberating, honestly. If I accept that I don’t truly own my smartphone—that it’s really a sophisticated tracking and advertising device I’m renting—I can make more honest decisions about how much of my life it gets to occupy.

My KATUSA days taught me something about necessity. We had what we needed, nothing more. There was clarity in that. You weren’t distracted wondering whether you should upgrade or whether a different model might be better. You had a tool, and you used it until it wore out. I wonder sometimes whether we’ve lost that clarity, whether we’ve confused choice with freedom and accumulation with progress.

Building a Deliberately Sparse Digital Life

So what does digital minimalism actually look like in practice? It doesn’t mean one thing—it’s different for everyone, and it should be. A creative professional might need more devices than someone focused on contemplative work. But the principle is the same: intentionality.

Start with an audit. Write down every device you own, every subscription you pay for, every app you have installed. Really look at the list. Which ones do you actively use? Which ones are you keeping “just in case”? Which ones provide genuine value, and which ones prey on habit or fear of missing out?

For most people, this exercise is humbling. I know it was for me. I had streaming services I hadn’t watched in months. Apps I never opened but kept renewing because they were set to auto-pay. Devices I maintained out of inertia rather than actual need. Removing these things felt like cleaning out a cluttered closet—not just removing objects, but removing the low-level anxiety of managing them.

Then, make a choice about what you actually keep. Be honest about what adds real value to your life. I’m not anti-technology; I think a good laptop, a reliable phone, and perhaps one other device (a tablet, an e-reader, something that serves a specific need) make sense for most modern people. But five devices? Ten? The endless accumulation of gadgets is usually driven by marketing, not necessity.

The harder part comes next: the discipline to say no to new things. We live in a culture of marketing saturation. Every day brings a new device, a new service, a new way to optimize or improve or connect. That discipline isn’t about asceticism—it’s about protecting something precious: your ability to decide how you spend your time and attention.

The Unexpected Gift of Boredom

One of the strangest discoveries I made after reducing my devices was that I became bored more easily. And I don’t mean that as a complaint—quite the opposite. Boredom, I realized, is where thinking happens. Boredom is where ideas come from. Boredom is the condition that allows your mind to wander, to make unexpected connections, to imagine something new.

We’ve been trained to fear boredom, to see it as something to be escaped rather than explored. That’s the real genius of smartphone design—it’s an escape pod from boredom, always ready with stimulation, novelty, connection. But what if boredom isn’t the problem? What if it’s the solution?

I’ve noticed that my best ideas, my most interesting thoughts, don’t come while I’m scrolling. They come during the gaps—waiting for tea to steep, sitting on the train, staring out the window during a quiet moment. They come in the empty spaces that good technology design is specifically trying to eliminate. By owning fewer devices and being more intentional about when I use them, I’ve created more of those gaps.

The research backs this up. Studies on mind-wandering show that our brains need downtime to consolidate memories, process emotions, and generate creative insights. Constant stimulation is essentially a form of cognitive exhaustion. When I read that during my KATUSA years, we had far fewer behavioral health issues than we do now, I wondered how much of our modern anxiety and depression is simply the cost of never letting our minds rest.

What We Gain When We Stop Accumulating

Let me be specific about what I’ve gained since reducing my digital footprint. I sleep better—no phone on my nightstand means no middle-of-the-night checking, no blue light disrupting my circadian rhythm. I read more, both books and long-form articles, because I’m not constantly sidetracked by notifications. I have more time with my family and friends, because I’m actually present rather than half-present, one eye on my phone.

But the deepest gain is harder to quantify. It’s a kind of mental quietness, a restoration of a thinking space that I didn’t realize had been colonized. When you’re not constantly connected, when your attention isn’t constantly being pulled in different directions, something settles. The noise quiets. You remember what it feels like to be bored, to be present, to let your mind meander without an algorithm trying to steer it.

This isn’t nostalgia—I’m not suggesting life was better before smartphones. But balance was lost somewhere, and I think we need to consciously rebuild it. Owning less technology is one practical way to do that. It’s not about rejecting the digital world; it’s about refusing to let it colonize every moment of our physical one.

Korea University taught me to think critically, to question narratives, to look beneath the surface of what we’re told. That skeptical habit has served me well as a journalist. It’s also served me well in thinking about technology. When a product promises to liberate us, when a device claims to save us time, when an app suggests it will improve our lives—I’ve learned to ask: liberate us from what? Save time for what? Improve our lives in whose judgment?

A Gentler Relationship With the Digital World

The goal of digital minimalism isn’t asceticism or rejection. It’s cultivating a more conscious, intentional relationship with the tools we do use. It’s about moving from passive consumption (we own everything because the culture says we should) to active choice (we own this because it genuinely serves our lives).

If you’re thinking about trying this, start small. Pick one device you could eliminate, or one subscription you could cancel. Notice how you feel. Often, the anxiety we expect to feel doesn’t come—what comes instead is relief. You might realize you don’t actually need that gadget, that you don’t miss that app, that your life works just fine without the constant connection.

Then, think about what you want your technology to enable. Not what you think you should want, but what actually matters to you. For some people, it’s creativity. For others, it’s connection, or learning, or work that they find meaningful. Let that guide your choices about what devices to keep and how to use them.

In my decades as a journalist, I’ve covered countless technological innovations. I’ve been excited about many of them. But I’ve also seen the human cost of the pace we’ve set, the constant churn of upgrade and acquisition, the way we’ve allowed our devices to become our masters rather than our tools. Digital minimalism isn’t a rejection of that world. It’s an attempt to reclaim some agency within it, to remember that we get to decide what role technology plays in our lives—not the other way around.

That decision, I’ve found, is one of the most liberating choices you can make.