I did a dopamine detox and now I cry at shadows and moonlight

10/10 would recommend

Oh friends. Oh, life. Who knew?

Who knew that after a month of reducing artificial dopamine hits, I’d be bawling on my sofa beneath a pale moon, surrounded by shadows. Maybe you’re not surprised. Either way, something in me shifted. And I’d like to tell you about it.

Sometimes even the good things feel like reruns. You know the feeling: everything’s so-so. Flat. Fun things don’t hit in the same way. Numbness is not fertile ground. Not for artists, lovers, or anyone trying to feel alive. I was living on constant hits of dopamine with diminishing returns - food treats and cravings, social media, YouTube takedowns, multitasking in the extreme and a “firehose¹” of other dopaminergic sources. My baseline was somewhere between numb and frantic. I was looking to be soothed. There was no dramatic rock bottom, just a creeping dullness, which is its own kind of tragedy. Harder to name. Easy to ignore. What I will tell you is this. I needed help.

A dopamine detox is not really a detox, because dopamine itself is not a toxin. A dopamine detox (or fast) is more like a reset, a deliberate removal of the high stimulation, dopamine-spiking activities that keep you in a constant loop of craving. That ongoing compulsion for more. The toxins, I suppose, are the activities. One of the reasons my phone is mostly on grayscale is that my brain is too used to tiny validations on tiny screens. Spying on other people's lives and living vicariously. These habits quietly erode your capacity to enjoy slower, quieter pleasures. A walk. A deep conversation (without checking your phone mid-sentence). The simplicity of eating without background noise.

So I committed to thirty days. My way.

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