Remember When Nobody Could Find You?

A Saturday morning reflection on old cell phones, answering machines, and the freedom of being unreachable.

June 13, 2026

Story

My mother just moved to Texas.

I’m still adjusting to that sentence.

As part of the move, she started opening drawers and boxes she hadn’t looked through in years. Judging by what she found, she apparently never met a cell phone she was willing to part with.

A few weeks later, she handed me a bag.

“Look what I found.”

Inside were about ten old cell phones.

Not my old cell phones.

Her old cell phones.

My mother never threw away a single one!

Are you smiling right now? Maybe nodding your head because you have a drawer full of old cell phones too?

It’s okay.

Admittedly, I have a few drawers that could write a book on nostalgia.

But this bag? Wow.

There were flip phones. Tiny phones. Phones with antennas. Phones with actual buttons. Phones so small that I have no idea how anyone ever texted on them.

I picked one up and tried pressing the buttons.

My thumb covered half the keypad.

I laughed.

Then I picked up another.

Remember the phone with the sliding keyboard? The one that made us feel like we were living in the future because our thumbs could magically slide the keyboard open?

That one was in there too.

And before long, I wasn’t really looking at old phones.

I was looking at old memories.

And it got me thinking.

Remember when nobody could find you?

Not because you were hiding.

Because you were simply living your life.

Reflection

I grew up in the 1980s.

Back then, life operated at a completely different speed.

We rode our bikes until the streetlights came on.

Drinking from the garden hose was considered perfectly acceptable hydration.

If your friend had handlebars on their bike, that counted as transportation for two people.

We spent entire days outside and our parents had only a vague idea where we were.

And somehow, everyone survived.

In fact, let’s take a moment and remember a few things.

Remember when…

• Calling someone’s house meant talking to their parents first.

• One phone served the entire family.

• The family phone had a cord long enough to stretch through three rooms.

• You hid in a closet so your parents couldn’t hear your conversation.

• You memorized phone numbers. I still remember the one I grew up with.

• Every phone call was a mystery because there was no caller ID.

• If you missed your favorite television show, you missed it.

• Pictures came back from the photo lab two weeks later and half of them had somebody’s thumb in the corner.

• We used encyclopedias instead of Google.

• We used paper maps instead of GPS.

• Saturday morning cartoons were an event.

• We made mixtapes from songs we recorded off the radio.

• We shared Walkman headphones with friends.

• We rode in the back of station wagons facing backward.

• We waited all day for a song we loved to come on the radio.

• Phone booths were everywhere.

• You had to wait for someone to call you back.

• Nobody knew where anyone was.

• And somehow, nobody panicked about it.

And perhaps most remarkably of all…

We had answering machines.

Remember those?

Someone called.

If you weren’t home, the phone rang.

And rang.

And rang.

Eventually, the machine picked up.

The caller left a message.

And then they waited.

That’s it.

They waited.

Nobody got offended.

Nobody wondered why you weren’t responding.

Nobody assumed you were upset with them.

They knew you were at work.

Or outside.

Or shopping.

Or simply living your life.

At some point, you would get home, push the blinking button, listen to the message, and call them back.

Waiting was normal.

Today, someone sends a text at 3:17.

By 3:17 and 5 seconds, they know you received it.

By 3:17 and 10 seconds, they know you've read it.

By 3:17 and 30 seconds, they're wondering if you're mad at them.

By 3:18, you've become the villain in a story you don't even know exists.

And don’t get me started on read receipts.

Turn them off. Right now.

Seriously.

Technology solved the communication problem.

But somewhere along the way, it created an expectation problem.

We are now reachable all the time.

Available all the time.

Connected all the time.

And somehow, many of us feel more overwhelmed than ever.

The funny thing is, I don’t actually miss those old phones.

I don’t miss trying to text with buttons the size of Tic Tacs.

I don’t miss carrying printed directions from MapQuest.

I enjoy GPS.

I enjoy FaceTime.

I enjoy having information at my fingertips.

But maybe there are parts of that simpler life worth reclaiming.

Not the technology.

The pace.

The space.

The freedom.

The greatest luxury of the 1980s wasn’t simpler technology. It was the absence of an expectation that we should always be available.

Years ago, when I first joined Twitter, I chose the handle EmbraceSimple.

I still have it. Now it's on X, though I'll probably call it Twitter forever.

I had completely forgotten about that until I was staring at my mother’s collection of retired cell phones.

Looking back, I think I understand why I chose it.

I wasn’t longing for old technology.

I was longing for simplicity.

The older I get, the less I think simplicity is about owning fewer things.

I think simplicity is about having fewer demands on our attention.

Fewer notifications.

Fewer interruptions.

Fewer expectations that we must always be available.

Maybe that’s why opening that bag of old phones felt strangely emotional.

It wasn’t the phones I missed.

It was the freedom.

Because remember when nobody could find you?

Somehow, those were some of the moments when we found ourselves.

Question

What is one thing from your childhood that made life feel simpler?

And how might you bring a little of it back this week?

Until next Saturday, choose presence.