Hey, I think it’s time that we have a talk. Please, don’t freak out. I need you to breathe. Breathing is everything. You taught me that.
It’s crazy that we’ve been together for so long, but now that our yearly subscription is coming to an end, after a lot of self-reflection, I just don’t know if I want to renew. After taking a few moments to really check in with myself, I realized that $98.99 annually is a ton of money for a meditation app. Like, that’s a lot of sandwiches.
Don’t get me wrong! We’ve shared incredible memories, like that time I had a panic attack in the 7-Eleven parking lot after I found out my ex was already in a serious relationship. Or when my mother tried to kick me off the family phone plan. You were there for me every step of the way, and I will never forget that.
But, lately, things have been different between us. You always say it’s important to find your own space, and, if I’m being honest, I’ve been feeling suffocated. Every morning, as soon as I wake up, there’s another notification waiting for me. I’ve given you anywhere from one to thirty-five minutes of somewhat uninterrupted attention per day, but, no matter what, it never seems to be enough.
The thing is, it’s time for me to sit quietly with myself, by myself. You’re the one always telling me that my inner citadel shouldn’t be dependent on anyone else. That’s also when I knew I couldn’t be with an app that uses phrases like “inner citadel.”
I feel like you’re not seeing me right now, which is weird since both my camera and microphone are enabled. Wait, are you mad because you wanted us to go on that silent retreat in Bali? Yeah, I could tell when promotions for it started showing up in my targeted ads on Instagram. But I’m just not ready for such a big step. Besides, I was kind of hoping to save up to go to Mardi Gras this year. You can drink there. And eat. And . . . talk.
Don’t look at me like that. There isn’t someone else. I just think we should try to see other people. I mean, you’re already seeing thirty-one million other people right now, anyway. Shouldn’t I have the chance to be happy, too?!
I get it. You want to know where this is coming from. Do you remember that one weekend when I didn’t have service in Joshua Tree and couldn’t access you? Yeah, it was really, really scary. But I realized something. As long as I have the aching quiet of the wilderness, the right combination of hallucinogenic drugs, and my amethyst crystals, I’ll be O.K. I sat perfectly still atop some ancient monzonite rock for thirty-six hours, and I didn’t need you. You’re the one who’s always telling me to follow my bliss—and I didn’t try to post the sunset to my Instagram story once. I think this means I’m finally ready to move on.
I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but I want to unplug. Deleting you is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do, especially because I could not remember my log-in password for the longest time and the verification PIN kept getting messed up. But know that I’ll always think of you whenever I’m stressed about getting a really expensive parking ticket, trapped in an overpacked elevator, or about to spend $98.99 on a budgeting app that I’ll never use.
Julia Edelman, Olivia de Recat
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