Digital Minimalism in a Time of War

I tried to do something simple a few days ago. I treated myself to a cappuccino at a café a little farther from my usual haunt. I intentionally left my phone behind at home and brought only a novel I was trying to finish reading. It was a small act of rebellion, my own quiet act of digital minimalism. But even without a screen, there was no escaping the noise.

At the next table, a group of local armchair warriors were loudly dissecting the latest headlines, their voices rising with conviction and outrage. When I first sat down, they’d been harmlessly debating whether one car repair shop was better than another, after one of them felt he’d been ripped off. That kind of conversation I can handle, even chuckle over. Just a few old guys with too much time on their hands.

But then the talk turned to geopolitics and to the latest news from Iran, of course. Their voices grew sharper, more certain, more filled with righteous heat. I hadn’t come to listen to a café chorus of North Vancouver retirees rage about the Middle East. I came for a quiet moment to think, to breathe, and to read something that wasn’t about destruction. So I left.

Now, I’m writing from my new favourite refuge. It’s the quiet room at my local North Vancouver library, tucked just up the road in the shopping village that has always been my lifeline. The space has been renovated since the last time I worked here, back when I was writing my memoir The Carry‑On Imperative after the pandemic. It looks more like an airline lounge than a library now, with soft lighting, private cubicles, and a hush that feels positively luxurious. There’s even a little “phone booth” set up outside the doors for the young people who never leave their phones at home.

I used to scold those young people regularly when I was writing two of my previous books. Trying to put an end to their constant phone chatter made me feel like an old cranky woman refusing to engage in “gentle librarying”. That’s the literary cousin to gentle parenting that forbids adults from telling anyone under the age of twenty-five to stop being so thoughtless.

And that selfie I managed to grab in my little cubicle? That’s my digital homecoming shot. This, I thought, is what sanctuary looks like in 2026: soundproofed calm and a good Wi‑Fi signal you can choose not to use. My brain can function here.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about news minimalism, which really should be considered the essential companion to the digital minimalism many of us crave right now. The endless scroll, the performative outrage, the instant opinions. It’s all becoming too much. Even those of us who care deeply can drown in it. I’ve noticed more people feeling what I felt that morning: digital fatigue mixed with despair that even trusted institutions are faltering.

A few years ago, I wrote Stop Reading the News, and the idea feels even more urgent now and definitely worth a re‑reading.

A message from a former colleague brought this all home last week. Always globally aware, she confessed she’s fed up with both news and social media—disillusioned by misinformed posts by friends and even by legacy outlets like the BBC and New York Times. Digital minimalism is beginning to appeal to her. 

So here I am, not writing my memoir about aging, but instead, offering a small plea for quiet. A reminder that it’s okay to step back, to not know the latest development, to choose peace over panic.

Maybe that’s the essence of digital minimalism in a time of war. Not indifference, but intentional distance and the willingness to carve out small, quiet spaces where our thoughts can still belong to us. If the world insists on shouting, perhaps peace begins with learning to speak softly again, in a low voice we used to associate with visits to the library.

And just maybe, that quiet might help us to actually feel again. The book I’d brought to that café is called A Far‑Flung Life by M. L. Stedman. When I finished it at home, it left me sobbing and that felt wonderful. My emotions came unstuck reading it, and somehow, it cleared my sensibilities too. 

In that small, word‑filled moment I remembered what real connection feels like and it doesn’t come from a screen.