This is a Blogpost I wrote for my work at the Institute for practical ekoPhilosophy. A core of our work is seeing our lives as a lab, and experimenting with ways of perceiving, thinking, and being. I had noticed that my mind was often stuffed with some kind of digitally-derived input, so I set out to pursue silence for a week. The experience was meaningful to me and has had some lasting impacts, though it requires active effort to not fall back to my usual mind-stuffing habits. Originally published on Institute for Practical ekoPhilosophy.

Silence On Purpose: An Experiment

At the start of each new year, I invite myself to consider which parts of myself I wish to deepen and which I may like to leave behind. Though the new year is just numbers, it symbolises a break in continuity to me—a chance to assess and re-evaluate. I like to take my time with these reflections, so I usually only start incorporating them around spring. One of those reflections prompted an experiment I’d like to share with you.

Two weeks ago, I committed myself to something my fellow Gen Z’ers only shuddered to think of: for one week, I would not listen to music, podcasts, or audiobooks. I wouldn’t watch YouTube or TikTok videos, Netflix, Prime, or any series or film at all. No Pinterest, LinkedIn, Reddit, Bluesky, X, or whatever other social media is currently my go to. To millennials or boomers, this might just be a normal week—perhaps a bit quieter. But to someone from the “chronically online” generation, as evidenced by my friends’ bewildered reactions, this was a genuine code switch. (Its similar to a social media detox/ digital detox, but I tailored it to my situation)

My motivation to experiment in this way had been fermenting for a long time. You see, I pay a lot of attention to the phenomenological substance of my mind—in other words, how does it feel inside my head? I’ve observed many different modes of mind in myself. Readers might be familiar with terms such as ‘flow state’, when one is entirely focused on the task at hand and one’s thinking and doing are so integrated that they feel almost inseparable. The opposite of flow state is what I call scatterbrain state, when my thoughts are not one sharp, fluid motion but a listless, disorganised collection of thoughts, impulses, and vague intentions that rarely result in concrete action. But I’ve also observed other elements, such as my inner monologue: is it present? Does it feel alive, playful, and curious (i.e. like me), or is it sluggish, reactionary, and messy? Are my thoughts interesting? Are they expansive and spanning different domains of myself and the world at large, or are they narrow, directly related to my current tasks and actions, and perfunctory?

Since my teens, I’ve liked filling my head with input—predominantly music, books, and interesting concepts. In itself it is not a bad thing, I think. But I’ve become aware of how much this input, whatever it may be, has become a crutch and an escape mechanism to avoid my inner life. Somehow, somewhere, I became so uncomfortable with my own thoughts, with silence, that I avoided it at every turn. I would put on music as soon as I woke up and during any commute. Later, I alternated between podcasts and audiobooks alongside music. I would watch YouTube or some kind of TV whenever I had unplanned time on my hands, or I would scroll Instagram, TikTok, or most recently Pinterest—becoming a passive receiver of input rather than the active agent I like to think I am.

So, I forced myself to occasionally confront silence: going for a walk or running errands without distractions, commuting on public transport or cycling while observing the world around me, or simply absorbing it without much thought. Over time it became easier, and I noticed that once I was in the silence, I quite enjoyed the contentment it brought. I studied people coming and going, noticed the quality of the air and temperature, and paid attention to the soundscape of different neighbourhoods and times of day. And yet, it remained the exception rather than the norm. I always had to overcome an inner resistance to choosing silence. That’s how I arrived at my recent experiment: I figured I might as well give myself a proper challenge and framework by turning it into a deliberate, time-bound experiment. (I find that calling something an experiment, with a start and end date, makes it easier to fully engage with—it’s contained to a certain period. I’m not committing forever; I’m doing a free trial of sorts.)

So, I didn’t set out to become a silent monk meditating for 10 hours a day. My aim was simply to accept silence for a week and, in doing so, invite myself back in. To see what would happen. A few interesting things emerged

It wasn’t as hard as I thought. I expected to be bored or restless for the first few days—to have some kind of withdrawal moment. I didn’t. Monday morning began normally, minus the music. Instead, I mulled over my dreams and began thinking about the day ahead. During walks or commutes, I thought about friends and family and what their lives might look like at present. I lingered on work or university tasks and let additional thoughts surface. I observed people more closely and started speaking to myself (internally—I’m not ready for a psych ward). I napped. I found myself funny and creative (I still do). And I sat or walked in inner silence: no thoughts, no deeper impressions, just presence and neutrality. This peaceful, unremarkable state was immensely soothing. I now look forward to such moments.

I was more productive. A bit eugh, I know. But it genuinely felt good to complete my tasks with more engagement and focus in less time. I heard only the creaking door, ventilation, and keyboard click-clacketing as I sat in my local library and click-clacketed away myself in easy concentration. When I needed a break, I either stared at the mint walls or went to refill my water bottle. Sometimes I jotted thoughts in my pocket notebook—the fun sort. Ideas for plans with friends or crafts I wanted to make. Little projects for and with myself. The sort of thing that makes me feel like myself, actively generating the shape, structure, and feel of my life. But overall, my brain preferred the puzzles of my tasks over idleness, and I enjoyed doing them more.

My mind felt calmer, more self-directed, and more content. This is the biggest takeaway for me. Reducing the input to my brain noticeably improved how the space felt. In overly simplistic terms, it was like decluttering my mental closet. Now it felt more organised, lighter, and what I kept were things I enjoyed—things that genuinely reflect me as a person. A kind of Feng Shui of the mind, though Feng Shui in its origins refers to aligning qi through deliberate architecture and design of physical spaces. Being able to simply be within my mind, and the ease and calm I could find there, is a relief. It’s empirical evidence for myself that silence is not the gateway to anxiety, spiralling, or paralysis. It’s concrete proof to my nervous system that though my mind wants the dopamine hit of the next source of entertainment, my body doesn’t suffer from abstention. In fact, my body and mind can relax in the quietness.

A fear of inner silence isn’t universal, but I wonder what other people might be aware of yet unwilling to step into. Perhaps certain places or topics stir discomfort or tension. Sometimes that’s for good reason—you shouldn’t engage them for the sake of your wellbeing. But sometimes, as I suspect was true for me, we avoid engaging because we know that looking that thing in the eye requires disruption. Our autopilot has to be disengaged. Our attention has to become deliberate. We have to notice our usual way of operating and make the effort to pause or change it. And it resists. Just as technologies have scripts along which they expect to be used, we have scripts to which our day-to-day minds cling. Improvising and responding to what might happen next is far harder than continuing the familiar narrative. Luckily for all of us, we’re still capable of breaking out of our scripts thanks to our agency (though I’m sure some thinkers out there would gladly disagree with me on that. I encourage them, too, for the sake of the exercise, not to follow their usual script of disagreeing with agency, and observe what happens).

So, as the natural world around us slowly emerges from its slumber to reinvent itself this spring, what slumber might you shake yourself out of to give space to a different side of yourself?