I Lost My Phone and I Liked It

I lost my phone on a solo trip to New York City.

It was early January in the Northeast, when frigid temperatures are accompanied by sharp wind and snowflakes that creep up the back of your coat, clinging to your skin. Despite my red nose, chapped-dry lips, and extra pounds of clothing to protect myself from the weather, I was eager to get the full New York experience: the captivating Manhattan skyscrapers, endless traffic jams, and energy-filled crowds speed-walking through the streets.

For me, entering a large, modern city is psychologically stimulating. The astonishingly complex, human-built structures and the never-ending hustle culture is to me the epitome of human ambition, of the constant desire to improve our surroundings and ourselves through progressive advancement. Interacting with thousands of people in such quick succession inspires me, and instills confidence within me to chase my dreams.

Yet those same concrete streets quickly became engulfing and intimidating the second I checked my pocket and realized that my recently bought iPhone was no longer there.

I was quickly overwhelmed by a flood of thoughts: pending emails, unanswered texts, and the sensitive information within my phone. But then I panicked: I realized that not only was I missing the necessary tools to manage my day-to-day life, but also whoever found my device would potentially have access to sensitive data that, if compromised, could devastate my finances.

In addition to worrying about my ability to carry out my normal life, I also had to find my way back home. The train system which I was previously able to navigate with ease became a puzzle of colorful, intersecting lines on a physical map, as I attempted to decipher a path to my home without Google Maps. At this moment, I realized that my entire generation has this problem: Growing up with technology, many of us have never had to comprehend the immense size of our cities and their intricate street systems, and have hardly ever experienced the difficulty of navigating without our phones and computers telling us where to go.

But even though I had lost my phone, I still had to find a way home, complete my assignments, and submit internship applications. After my initial panic — and a lengthy remorseful contemplation on my failure to purchase phone insurance — I started to develop a deeper connection to my surroundings. As I attempted to find my way back home, I found myself sparking conversations with random New Yorkers, primarily asking for directions, but also learning about their lives. In a world saturated with technology, we often forget the fun of interaction, and the intellectual development that comes from learning about each other.

I lacked the comfort of technology, yet I found myself enjoying the challenge of problem-solving and reflecting throughout the journey that accompanied it. The train rides that I once spent staring at my phone screen became adventurous and exciting. Not only did I discover new aspects of the city, such as the captivating world of underground graffiti as I looked out the train window, but I also felt relaxed and at peace.

Many of us know that it would be beneficial for us to get off our phones a little bit more. But despite our awareness of the cell phone’s omnipresent role in our lives, we fail to recognize our dependence on them — how incompetent we’d be without them.

Oftentimes, Harvard’s academic rigor, as well as our ambitious nature and constant desire to feel productive, makes it easy to spend most of our time connected to technology. We are so focused on attempting to set ourselves up for the future through our academic endeavors that we forget to enjoy the pleasures of our surroundings and the people we spend time with. We fail to explore and appreciate the history embedded within every corner of our campus, and to take advantage of everything we can learn from the incredible range of experiences contained in Harvard’s student body.

At Harvard, it often feels like we are supposed to grow up as fast as possible. We spend too much of our time looking forward, never pausing for a moment to learn about the spaces we inhabit, or the people that we share those spaces with. Losing my phone allowed me to forget my ambition and, for a few hours, forced me to immerse myself in the people and the history of a city I love.

Although I am still financially recovering from losing my phone, I urge everyone reading this piece to follow two pieces of advice. First, ensure your new devices, and second, lose them once in a while.

Steven Giraldo ’26, a Crimson Editorial editor, lives in Grays Hall.