Two Hours in 1993

On disconnection, the smell of a bookstore, and the strange relief of being unreachable.

Last week I time traveled. Courtesy of the Apple Genius Bar.

My iPhone needed a new battery, which meant handing it over for two hours. No big deal, I told myself. I’ll walk around the mall, and do some window shopping. Maybe drive around a little.

What actually happened is I fell backward through time, and landed in 1993 before I ever knew what a cell phone was.

Here’s what I learned:

I felt disconnected — and a little unraveled by it.

Within the first twenty minutes, a low level panic set in. What if something happened at home? What if my mom needed me — she’d just come home from the hospital, and no one could reach me if things went sideways. I caught myself scanning for a payphone, like one might actually appear in 2026.

Then, I caught myself catching myself. Because underneath the worry was a truth I didn’t want to confront: the assumption that I was needed, constantly, and that the people I love couldn’t manage two hours without my availability. That’s not love. That’s ego wearing love’s Gap jeans, Grunge t-shirt and flannel. Truth: my phone hasn’t just made me reachable — it’s convinced me I’m indispensable. Those aren’t the same thing, and I realized how blurry the line has gotten.

Bookstores still smell good. Thank God for that.

On my way out of the mall I passed a Barnes & Noble and did what I used to do — stopped, and inhaled deeply. That papery, coffee-adjacent, slightly dusty smell that means time is about to slow down. I wanted every book I saw. I remembered the hours I used to spend in a club chair with a latte, not going anywhere, not needing to be anywhere else.

I got lost.

I wanted to find a particular store outside of the mall and had no way to look it up. No phone book, no paper map and obviously, and — the whole point — no phone. So I just drove. I found pockets of the area I didn’t know existed. New development, new storefronts, a whole neighborhood that’s apparently been there the entire time, invisible to me because I’ve never once had to look for it. I got lost a bit, but managed to find my way back and I felt kinda proud of myself for knowing north from south! GPS doesn’t just get you there faster. It erases the getting-there entirely.

I kept thinking: how did I live before this? And then, almost immediately: I lived just fine, thank you! Better, in some ways. Slower, more attentive, and more willing to be temporarily unreachable.

Here’s what I keep coming back to, the thing that outlasted the two hours: so much of what I coach people on — presence, attention, the ability to actually be where you are — has an adversary I rarely name directly. It’s not nerves. It’s not lack of preparation. It’s the constant availability we’ve all agreed to offer the world. You can’t have presence and a buzzing pocket at the same time. You can’t fully arrive somewhere — a room, a conversation, a moment that matters — if part of you is still reachable everywhere else.

I got my phone back, eventually. Everyone was fine. Turns out my family handled things without me — and, it turns out, so could I without my phone.

Maybe the assignment for you isn’t a digital detox retreat. Maybe it’s smaller: the next time you’re prepping for something that matters — a big meeting, a talk, a hard conversation — try giving it the kind of undivided attention I accidentally gave a mall parking lot. No phone. No multitasking. Just you, the material, and the willingness to be a little lost before you find your footing.

That’s most of what I do with clients, actually. Not scripts. Presence. The ability to be fully where you are, especially when it counts. If you’re ready to be that present again — even just for one meeting that matters — reply here. I’ll clear the time.