What You Should Know
We're past the point where I can just be charming and hope you don't notice the complicated parts.
You know about the phone by now. The parental controls. The fact that my sister has the laptop that unlocks it. The SSH server I use for work because I can't browse the web at home. You've gotten used to it, maybe even like it.
But I don't think you know the whole story. And if we're doing this—if we're building something real—you deserve to understand not just what I do, but why.
This isn't about the phone. It never was.
It's about who I'm trying to become. And whether you want to be part of that.
I need to take you back to before.
2017 to 2021. Boarding school. No smartphones allowed.
During those years, I was student government president for fifteen hundred students. President of the church group. Seven other leadership roles. I was the kind of person who showed up early, remembered what you told me last week, actually listened when you talked.
I wasn't perfect. But I was present. Engaged. Alive in a way I didn't even know to appreciate at the time.
Then I graduated. COVID hit. Lockdown happened.
I got my first smartphone.
It didn't happen all at once. That's the thing about this stuff—it's subtle.
At first, Instagram was just staying connected. Seeing what everyone was doing while we were all stuck at home. Harmless, right?
Except the algorithm learned what I wanted to see before I knew I wanted to see it. Models in exotic locations. Friends doing interesting things. Women who looked nothing like their posts in real life, or everything like their posts and nothing like the people actually around me.
I'd tell myself I was checking for ten minutes. Then I'd look up and it was 2am.
I tried to stop. Of course I tried.
I set app timers. Deleted Instagram seventeen times. Promised myself "just weekends." Read books about digital minimalism while scrolling Twitter. Tried every productivity hack and blocker and system I could find.
Nothing worked.
Or it would work for three days, maybe a week if I was really motivated, and then I'd find an excuse. Some "legitimate reason" I needed to check just this once.
Four years of this.
Four years of staying up until 2am watching reels I wouldn't remember in the morning. Four years of waking up exhausted, rushing to get ready, showing up to things half-present because part of my brain was still scrolling through an infinite feed.
I graduated college. Got a great job. Moved to a new city. On paper, everything looked fine.
But I knew what I'd lost.
I'd lived the before. I knew what I was capable of when my attention wasn't being colonized by apps designed by engineers whose literal job is to keep me scrolling.
The thing that finally broke me wasn't dramatic.
I was trying to explain to someone why I kept failing, and I said out loud for the first time: "I can't moderate this. My brain doesn't work that way."
Saying it out loud made it real.
I'm not someone who can have "just a little" Instagram. I'm not someone who can use these apps "responsibly." I spent four years proving this empirically. Every time I gave myself flexibility, I abused it within 48 hours.
This isn't a character flaw. It's just how my brain works with these specific stimuli.
Some people can have a beer and stop. Some people can't. I can have a beer and stop. I cannot have Instagram and stop.
Once I accepted that, the solution became obvious.
Stop trying to moderate. Remove the option entirely.
So I rebuilt my phone from scratch.
Parental controls. Locked to apps rated for young children. No browser. No social media. Just the functional stuff: calls, texts, maps, banking.
But there's a catch with parental controls—you need a "parent device" to unlock them. Another phone or computer that holds the code.
I tried keeping it accessible at first. Gave it to a friend. Told him not to give it back unless it was an emergency.
Two weeks later, I manufactured an emergency. He gave it back. I unlocked my phone. The emergency was fake.
I tried leaving it at my office. Lasted a month. Then I'd think of a "legitimate reason" I needed to adjust settings, walk over to my desk, unlock it, and by that evening I'd be scrolling again.
It couldn't be accessible to me at all. Not inconvenient. Not difficult. Impossible.
My sister lives in another state.
I know how this sounds.
"You're a grown man and you gave your laptop to your sister because you can't stop looking at Instagram?"
Yes. Exactly.
Because I finally understood something: I'm not fighting a discipline problem. I'm fighting a design problem.
Instagram is designed by some of the smartest engineers in the world to be as addictive as possible. They A/B test every pixel. They optimize every swipe. They employ PhDs in behavioral psychology to figure out exactly what content will keep me scrolling.
And I'm supposed to out-discipline that with willpower?
I tried. Four years of data says I can't.
But I can out-architect it.
If the parent device is a thousand miles away, I can't unlock my phone in a weak moment. The option simply doesn't exist.
Problem solved.
Except I'm a software engineer. I need to code. I need to test things. I need flexibility for projects.
That's the rationalization that killed every previous attempt. "I need browser access for this project" would turn into scrolling Instagram at 2am.
So I built something different.
I spun up a server on AWS. A tiny Linux machine in the cloud. Eight dollars a month. I SSH into it from my iPad.
Full development environment. Git, Docker, Python, Node, AI pair programming tools. Everything I need.
But it's all terminal-based. No GUI. No browser. No way to accidentally fall into a scroll-hole.
I can code. I can build. I can learn.
But I can't scroll.
The rationalization is gone. I don't need to unlock my phone for work. I have everything I need via SSH. The "legitimate reason" excuse doesn't work anymore.
It's been a few months now.
My life looks different.
I go to the gym. Not because I'm disciplined, but because I'm bored at home and the gym is something to do. Three times a week. Consistently.
I sleep eight hours. I don't stay up until 2am anymore because there's nothing pulling me in.
I call people. Actual phone calls. I text "want to grab coffee?" instead of just liking posts.
I'm building real community. A climbing gym where I see the same people. A church group. Coworkers I've hung out with outside of work.
And the weird thing? I'm not fighting it anymore.
For four years, every day was a battle. Should I scroll or shouldn't I? Should I check or not? Should I give myself access or hold the line?
Exhausting.
Now there's no battle. The option doesn't exist. My phone is locked. The parent device is with my sister. I can't break the system even if I want to.
So I don't want to. The wanting goes away when the option goes away.
I'm telling you all of this because we're past the stage where I can just be the good version of myself and hope you don't see the complicated parts.
If we're getting serious, you need to know what you're getting into.
This system isn't temporary. It's not a phase I'll grow out of. It's probably how I'll live for a very long time. Maybe forever.
Because it works. And when I've relaxed it in the past, everything falls apart.
Here's what this means for us:
When I'm with you, I'm actually with you.
Not half-present. Not thinking about content I saw. Not comparing our life to someone's highlight reel. Fully there.
I built this system partly because of you. Not you specifically—I didn't know you yet. But the idea of you.
I realized social media was warping my perception of attraction and availability. I'd fixate on people far away and miss the people actually around me. My brain was being optimized for highlight reels instead of real connection.
I didn't want to find a life partner that way. I didn't want to miss someone real because my attention was colonized by algorithms.
I wanted to be present enough to notice someone worth building a life with.
That's you.
I'm building a life worth being present for.
Going to the gym. Reading actual books. Investing in real friendships. Growing in my career and faith. Building habits that compound.
You're getting the best version of me. Well-rested. Present. Energized. Intentional about my time and attention.
Our relationship exists in real life, not on screens.
We talk. We do things. We build something real. Not performing for an audience. Not curating moments for posts.
Just us. Actually living.
But I need you to understand something else.
The system is rigid so I can be flexible with real life.
Without it, I'm exhausted, distracted, reactive. I spend energy fighting phone addiction instead of showing up for what matters.
With it, I have energy and attention for actual life. For you.
This isn't about control. It's about protecting what I value most: the ability to be present for the people and purposes I care about.
Especially you.
I know what you might be thinking.
"Is this forever? What if it gets in the way? What if I need him to be more flexible?"
I don't know if it's forever.
What I know is that it works. When I've relaxed it "just a bit," everything falls apart within days.
Could marriage change it? Maybe. You'd be built-in accountability and structure. We'd figure it out together.
Could kids change it? Definitely. I'd need to model healthy tech use for them.
But for now, this is what works. And I'm not in a hurry to fix what isn't broken.
If you think this is too extreme, we should talk about it.
I don't need you to have the same system. Your brain might work differently. You might be able to moderate just fine.
But I do need you to understand: this is deeply tied to my faith and values. Stewarding attention. Being present. Resisting things designed to addict me. Protecting my ability to love you well.
If that feels like too much, I understand. Really.
But if you've also felt exhausted by phone culture... if you've been frustrated by people who are physically present but mentally absent... if you've wished for someone who shows up fully...
Then maybe this isn't extreme.
Maybe it's exactly what you've been hoping for.
There's something else I need to tell you.
One of the main reasons I built this system was about relationships. About you, even though I didn't know you yet.
I noticed how social media was messing with my perception of women. Some looked completely different in person versus their posts. I'd fixate on people in other states who I'd never meet while missing the people actually around me.
The algorithms knew exactly what to show me. They're designed to exploit biological drives. And they're very, very good at it.
I didn't want that. I didn't want to be the kind of person whose attention was being manipulated by apps designed to keep me distracted.
I wanted to be present enough to notice real people. To see you. To build something that wasn't mediated by screens and algorithms.
This whole thing—the locked phone, the SSH server, the laptop with my sister—it's one of the ways I'm trying to love you well.
By protecting my ability to actually be here for you.
I don't know what the next year looks like. Or the next five years.
But I know what I'm building toward.
A life where I'm the kind of man who shows up fully. Who doesn't waste his finite time on infinite scroll. Who protects his attention like the valuable resource it is. Who can lead, serve, and love without distraction.
The boarding school version of me—the one who led fifteen hundred students, who showed up early and listened when people talked—I'm starting to recognize him again.
Not fully. Not yet. But he's coming back.
And I want you there when he does.
My sister asked me the other day how long I'm planning to do this.
I told her I don't know. Maybe forever.
Or maybe at some point my life will be so full and real and engaging that I won't need the strict boundaries anymore.
But honestly? I think the boundaries are part of what makes the life full and real.
The system works because I can't break it.
And I don't want to break it.
Because breaking it means losing this. Losing the sleep and the gym and the presence and the energy for real things.
Losing the ability to show up for you the way you deserve.
So that's the whole story.
The phone. The four years I lost. The system I built. The life I'm trying to live.
If you're still here after reading all of this, that means something.
It means you see what I'm trying to build. It means you understand why it matters. It means you might want to be part of it.
I love you.
In case that wasn't clear through all the phone-system talk.
I really do.
And this whole thing—the locked phone, the intentional boundaries, the rigid system—it's one of the ways I'm trying to love you well.
By being present. By being here. By building a life I don't need to escape from.
A life I want you in.
Next time I see you, my phone will be in my pocket. Locked. Useless for anything except calling you if we get separated.
And I'll be there. Fully. Listening. Present. Building something real with you.
Not because I'm trying.
Just because that's who I'm becoming again.
The guy who shows up.
The guy you deserve.