The Silent Craving in Our Hands

The Silent Craving in Our Hands “The chains of habit are too weak to be felt until they are too strong to be broken.” — Samuel Johnson When I first came across this quote, I paused. It struck something in me—not just as an observation about human behavior, but as a mirror to my own life these days. And in that quiet moment, I thought of Sana. Sana used to spend hours on her phone. At the time, I didn’t understand it. I would gently remind her to take breaks, to go for a walk, to look up from the screen. I thought it was just a generational thing — her age, her lifestyle, the times we live in. But now, I catch myself doing the same thing. I open my phone to respond to a message or check the weather, and somehow 45 minutes later I’m still scrolling — through posts, reels, memories, videos, anything. It’s not always what I’m looking at that matters. It’s the feeling of not wanting to stop. The pull is silent, but persistent. It’s almost like a craving — an itch I can’t name, but feel the need to scratch. I used to wonder, what’s so captivating? Now I realize, it’s not just the content — it’s the comfort. The distraction. The illusion of control when life feels anything but. In my case, it’s often an escape from grief. The kind that lingers like background music, barely audible some days, deafening on others. Phones, I’ve realized, are no longer just tools. They’re companions. They carry memories, messages, photos, even voices. For me, they carry Sana. A hundred conversations. A dozen voicemails. Countless pictures of her smile. Sometimes I scroll just to feel close to her again. But like any habit, this too has its darker side. The scrolling never satisfies. It numbs. And slowly, the boundary between escape and avoidance blurs. This is no longer just about social media or dopamine or screen time. It’s about the quiet ways our hearts cope with pain. How we fill the empty spaces when we can’t bear the stillness. How we reach for something — anything — to keep the ache at bay. Sana understood that better than most. Phones gave her connection when she felt isolated. They gave her tiny pockets of joy when everything felt heavy. And maybe that’s why I couldn’t truly grasp her attachment to it until now. So today, I want to stop pretending it’s a simple habit to break. It’s not. It’s a response. A craving. A silent cry for presence in a world that often feels too loud, too painful, too fast. But I also know — and Sana taught me this — that awareness is the first step to healing. That it’s okay to reach for comfort, but not if it stops us from truly living. And that maybe, just maybe, we can begin again. Gently. So I ask myself: Is this habit still serving me — or am I serving it? And I ask you the same. In memory of all the times we’ve scrolled to cope — and all the moments we can reclaim, in honor of those we’ve lost. For Sana, always.