It started with a realization at 11:47 PM.

I was three episodes deep into a show I didn’t particularly care about, lying in that Netflix trance where you’re too tired to actually enjoy anything but too wired to turn it off. The “Are you still watching?” prompt appeared, and for once I thought about it honestly.

No. No, I wasn’t really watching. I was just… there.

That was six months ago. I haven’t cancelled my subscription yet (commitment issues, apparently), but I’ve watched maybe four things since. The rest of my evenings look very different now.

The accidental experiment

I didn’t plan to become “a reader.” I just forgot to charge my laptop one day and there was a paperback on my nightstand—something a friend had given me months earlier that I’d never opened.

I read for forty minutes before I noticed the time. Not because the book was amazing (it was fine), but because reading demanded something Netflix never did: my focused attention during every single moment.

When I looked up, I felt different than I usually did at that hour. Calmer. Actually tired, like ready-for-sleep tired.

I tried it again the next night. Same result.

What I gave up

Let me be honest about what I’m not doing anymore:

Background noise. I used to have something playing constantly—while cooking, cleaning, falling asleep. The silence felt uncomfortable at first. Now it feels like space.

Staying current. I haven’t seen whatever everyone’s talking about. At parties, I smile and nod through TV discussions. It’s fine. Actually, it’s more than fine.

The illusion of choice. Netflix’s infinite scroll gave me a weird anxiety—all those options, and yet somehow nothing felt right. A single book on my nightstand has no alternatives. Just pages to turn or not turn.

What I gained

Actual tired. The kind where your eyes feel heavy and sleep comes easily. Screen-tired is different—you’re exhausted but wired, and your brain keeps running even after you close your eyes.

Morning presence. I’m not waking up thinking about plot lines or characters. My mind starts quieter. There’s more room for my own thoughts.

Longer attention. After a month of reading, I noticed I could focus better at work too. My brain was getting practice at sustained attention instead of constant stimulation.

Fewer evenings lost. Three episodes of something forgettable takes three hours. Three chapters of something mediocre takes one hour, and I still feel like I did something.

The slow living connection

Here’s what I realized: TV watching is maximalist by design.

It’s more, faster, louder. Cliffhangers every episode. Autoplay that starts the next thing before you can decide if you want it. The entire experience is built to keep you there as long as possible.

Reading is the opposite. It moves at your pace. You can stop mid-sentence, stare at the wall, think about what you just read. Nobody optimized it for engagement metrics. It’s just you and some words.

That slowness is the point.

How I actually did it

I’m not going to pretend I quit cold turkey. Here’s what helped:

Made books physically accessible. One on the nightstand. One on the couch. One in my bag. If a book is there, I’ll pick it up. If I have to go find one, I won’t.

Started with easy reads. I didn’t jump into Dostoevsky. I read short essays, beach reads, things that didn’t require effort. The point was building the habit, not impressing anyone.

Kept my phone in another room. In the evening, it charges in the kitchen. If I have to get up to check it, I usually don’t.

Gave myself permission to quit books. If I’m not enjoying something after fifty pages, I stop. Life’s too short for books you’re forcing yourself through.

What I still watch

I haven’t given up screens entirely.

On Saturday nights, I’ll sometimes watch a movie with intention—pick something specific, make it an event. That feels different from the nightly drift into whatever gets auto-played.

And occasionally I miss something enough to watch it. But it’s a choice now, not a default.

The weirdest change

Here’s what I didn’t expect: I feel like I have more time.

Objectively, that doesn’t make sense. Reading takes time. TV takes time. But TV time somehow evaporated without trace—I couldn’t tell you what I watched last year. Reading time accumulates into something. I remember the books. They become part of how I think.

Six months in, I’ve read more than I did in the previous three years combined. And my evenings don’t feel like something I’m trying to survive until sleep.

They feel like mine.

If you want to try this, here’s my suggestion: just put a book next to your couch. Don’t set goals or rules. Just see if you pick it up. You might surprise yourself.