I’m stuck in a doomscrolling loop again.
My algorithm drags me down the rabbit hole of videos people posted to social media to declare 2026 as the year they … get off social media.
I see more and more videos with mass declarations to “go analog” and focus on screen-free activites. The irony is thick, but with the world on fire around me the sentiment has appeal.
I’m not naive enough to think this movement is new or will last in any meaningful way, but participating seems like a nice way to take a breath and find some good in the rubble.
As I watch another video and then one more, an idea starts to take root. What if I start a new hobby to get off my phone, even if just for a little while each day?
And what if my husband joins me?
Although it felt out of our comfort zone, we bought paint-by-number kits
When I share this idea with my husband, he brings up the idea of buying paint-by-number kits that are designed for adults.
It’s far out of our comfort zone. But before either of us have a chance to talk ourselves out of this, we pop into an art store.
We both decide to buy larger canvases mostly to have a longer-term project, not because we are certain we have the right abilities. About $30 later, we’re still wondering what we are thinking.
When we get home, we bring down a folding table from our office. It’s just the right height to share as we sit on our loveseat, water, brushes, and paper towels between us.
Keeping our paints separated, we turn on reruns of “New Girl,” grab our reading glasses and glob the colors on our canvases — him a streetscape of Brooklyn, me a skyscape of London — both quietly hoping they’ll be nice enough to hang on our bedroom wall when we’re done.
These nights off our phone become our lifeline to feeling lighter, like when we were first married
Several things soon become clear. First, we may have overestimated our abilities and how difficult an adult paint-by-number could be.
Next, we are taking vastly different approaches to the task. I am starting with the larger areas, swirling my brush and not coming close to the canvas edge until the very last minute, desperate to not make a mistake.
My husband goes for the smaller details in the darkest color. He has read all the instructions. I’ve tossed mine straight into the recycle bin.
Our personalities are similar until they aren’t. I have a need to catastrophize before I build a plan. My husband is logical with a more black-and-white way of thinking. I feel these differences highlighted as we paint.
Over the span of two or three episodes of “New Girl,” I’ve delayed starting, given up, and restarted a dozen times. My sky looks terrible, punctuating my lack of artistic talents.
I declare total disaster in between every laugh, fret about running out of pink sky No. 12, and stop long before the last episode of the night comes to an end.
Still, we continue painting night after night.
The progress is slow and neither of us are sure when we’ll be done. But something happens on the nights we choose painting over retreating with phones in hands: Our home is kinder. We talk. We laugh.
The stress of getting the strokes within the lines is the lighter type of stress we used to have when our marriage was young.
On our way to bed, we stand up. Assess. Comment on our progress and sleep a little easier.
We’re remembering what it’s like to do something with no goal or agenda. We’re enjoying our time together less online.
Maybe when we’re all done, I’ll post a picture in a hazy filter and show off my pink-skyed London, mistakes on full display — a little analog badge to celebrating remembering how to live.
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