Most people think reading more makes you smarter. Honestly, I think it’s making us dumber. Not in some dramatic, civilization-is-collapsing way, but in the quiet, personal way where you realize you’ve consumed three hundred articles this week and can’t recall a single insight from any of them. We treat information like oxygen — more is always better, and cutting back feels dangerous — but what if the opposite is true? What if the people who know the least about today’s news cycle are actually thinking more clearly than the rest of us?
I know this because I was the worst offender. For months, I’d been gorging on information like it was junk food, cramming my brain with hot takes, breaking news, productivity hacks, and endless threads about topics I’d forget within hours. I was reading more than ever but understanding less. Processing everything but digesting nothing. At 2 AM I’d be staring at my phone, eyes burning, head throbbing, swiping through articles I’d already forgotten by the time I reached the next one. Each swipe promised something more interesting, more urgent, more essential than the last. By morning, I’d consumed hundreds of pieces of information, yet felt emptier than when I’d started.
Look, the irony wasn’t lost on me. Here I was, someone who writes about mindfulness and intentional living, caught in the exact trap I warn others about. But recognizing the problem was only the first step. The harder question was figuring out how to break free from this cycle of consumption without feeling like I was falling behind in a world that never stops accelerating.
I started my experiment with information fasting the same way I approach most changes: gradually. Instead of my usual morning routine of immediately checking my phone, I began leaving it in another room overnight. Those first few mornings were uncomfortable. My hand would automatically reach for the device that wasn’t there, and I’d feel a flutter of anxiety about what I might be missing. But slowly, something shifted. Without the immediate flood of notifications and updates, my mornings became mine again. I’d sit with my coffee, actually taste it, and let my thoughts wander without the constant interruption of someone else’s agenda.
The clarity that emerged from these quiet mornings was revelatory. I started writing during this time, before the world woke up and demanded my attention. The words came easier when my mind wasn’t already cluttered with other people’s opinions and emergencies. I rediscovered what it felt like to think my own thoughts before consuming everyone else’s.
But the real test came during the day. Working as a writer means being online is part of the job description. The temptation to check just one more article, to fall down just one more research rabbit hole, was constant. That’s when I stumbled upon a counterintuitive truth: consuming less information actually made me a better writer. When I stopped trying to read everything, I had time to actually think about what I was reading. Ideas had space to marinate, connect, and evolve into something original rather than just regurgitating the latest trend.
Dr. Wendy Ross, a senior lecturer in psychology at London Metropolitan University, captures something essential about this process: “Things that require considerable mental effort, such as cryptic crosswords, can reset the balance between effort and reward, and evidence shows that being stuck and working through it leads to feelings of mastery and success that last and increase over time.” I think the same principle applies to information consumption. When we slow down and wrestle with complex ideas rather than skimming surface-level content, we build mental muscle rather than atrophy it.
This shift from quantity to quality transformed more than just my work. I began applying the same principle to everything I consumed. Instead of watching random videos while eating lunch, I’d read a chapter from a philosophy book I’d been meaning to finish. Rather than scrolling through social media before bed, I’d journal about the day or sit with a single poem until I truly understood it. These weren’t grand gestures, just small recalibrations toward depth over breadth.
The pushback was immediate and internal. Part of me worried I was becoming disconnected, that I’d miss something crucial. FOMO whispered that while I was slowly digesting one article, the rest of the world was absorbing hundreds. But then I’d ask myself: What had all that rapid consumption actually given me? Could I remember even five percent of what I’d read last month? The honest answer was humbling.
Research from the International Journal of Information Management found that technology distractions can lead to sensory overload and discomfort highlighting the negative impact of rapid information processing on well-being. But you don’t need a study to tell you what your own exhaustion already knows. We’re drowning in information while starving for understanding.
The paradox of our age is that we have access to more knowledge than any generation in history, yet we often feel more confused and overwhelmed than enlightened. We mistake motion for progress, consumption for learning. But real understanding requires something our culture increasingly discourages: patience.
I think about this every morning when I write. Before the notifications start, before the emails demand responses, there’s a window of clarity where thoughts can unfold at their natural pace. Sometimes the most productive thing you can do is nothing at all.
Dr Lila Landowski, a neuroscientist and senior lecturer at the University of Tasmania, puts it brilliantly: “In the age of AI, the biggest cognitive trap is outsourcing your thinking before your brain even gets a chance to start on the work. Many people have heard the phrase ‘use it or lose it’ when it comes to the brain, but if you don’t practise a skill, or challenge your brain to begin with, you won’t build those pathways at all.”
This isn’t about becoming a digital hermit or rejecting technology altogether. It’s about reclaiming agency over our attention. It’s about choosing to read one article deeply rather than skimming fifty. It’s about having actual conversations instead of collecting opinions from strangers online. It’s about letting ideas simmer rather than immediately moving on to the next thing.
The changes I’ve made aren’t dramatic. I still use technology, still stay informed, still engage with the digital world. But I do it on my terms now. I’ve learned that missing out on most information isn’t a loss, it’s a filter. The important stuff finds its way through anyway, usually with more context and less hysteria than the breaking news version.
The case for slower, deeper information diets isn’t about productivity or optimization. It’s about remembering what it feels like to think without interruption, to follow an idea to its conclusion, to sit with uncertainty instead of immediately googling the answer. It’s about choosing depth in a world designed for skimming, and finding that in consuming less, we understand more.
