social media | The Lemonade Chronicles

“This phone is the devil”

— a childhood friend, via text, this morning

He’s getting off Instagram. Can’t say I blame him.

I’ve spent years writing about your phone. Specifically, about what it’s doing to you. (And to me.)

In January 2024 I wrote about Johann Hari’s Stolen Focus and the trillions of dollars arrayed against your ability to pay attention. In February 2024 I went deeper on why it’s so hard to focus — the dopamine dependency, the slot-machine mechanics, the infinite scroll engineered to exploit our evolutionary hard-wiring. In October 2024 I wrote about Jonathan Haidt’s The Anxious Generation and what the smartphone has done to our kids. And before all of that, Cal Newport’s Digital Minimalism convinced me to deliberately downsize my iPhone use, strip the social media icons off my home screen, and mute the notifications pulling my attention toward that hunk of plastic and glass in my pocket.

The research is clear. Maggie Jackson, in Distracted, put it as starkly as anyone: with our attention scattered among the beeps and pings of a push-button world, we are cultivating a culture of distraction and detachment.

I didn’t just write about this stuff. I lived it. A while back I documented my own month-long attempt to break up with my iPhone — the rubber band around the phone, the grayscale screen mode, a Giants game where I didn’t look at a screen once (one of my prouder moments). The whole messy field report is in the Phone Breakup series if you want to go down that rabbit hole. The short version: it’s hard, it’s worth it, and I failed more than I succeeded. But I kept trying.

And then I went and built an app.

I know.

Here’s the Thing I Had to Reconcile

When I first started thinking seriously about building the Coach Keir AI app, I had a problem. Not a technical problem — that was my developer Alex’s department. Rather, I had to address a philosophical one.

I had spent years making the case that our smartphones are attention-harvesting machines designed by very smart, very well-funded people to keep us glued to screens as long as humanly possible. I had written about Anna Lembke’s Dopamine Nation and the way pleasure-seeking loops get forged into deep neural grooves. I had cited the Center for Humane Technology and Tristan Harris’ warnings about what engagement-maximizing technology is doing to human cognition. I had recommended Catherine Price’s How to Break Up with Your Phone to pretty much every athlete I coach.

And I was about to add another app to the App Store?

The only way I could do it in good conscience was to build the opposite of what everyone else was building.

So that’s what I did.

What “The Opposite” Actually Looks Like

No infinite scroll. No push notifications engineered to pull you back. No streaks. No engagement metrics. No algorithmic filler designed to keep your eyes on the screen.

The app gives you what you need and sends you back to your life. That’s the design spec. Use it as a springboard, not a slot machine. Remember Patagonia’s famous “Don’t Buy This Jacket” ad in The New York Times? Same energy. I want you to use this app. I also want you to use it for two minutes and then go to sleep.

Speaking of sleep.

Meet “Julie”

One of my longtime Foghorn athletes — I’ll call her Julie — has a bedtime habit that will be familiar to a lot of you.

She gets into bed at 10:30. She picks up her phone to “check one thing.” An hour later she’s still on Instagram, heart rate quietly elevated, nervous system humming, cortisol doing what cortisol does when you’ve been consuming a high-speed feed of other people’s highlight reels for 60 consecutive minutes. She falls asleep somewhere around midnight. Her Whoop recovery score the next morning is dismal. She’s groggy, short-tempered, and reaching for an extra cup of coffee by 9 a.m.

We’ve talked about this in our sessions. A lot. She knows the science. She’s read the posts I’ve sent her. She knows that the blue light from her phone suppresses melatonin, that the emotional arousal of social media keeps her sympathetic nervous system activated exactly when she needs to be downregulating, that the unpredictable reward schedule of Instagram is the same mechanism that keeps people at slot machines.

Knowing isn’t the same as doing.

So a couple weeks ago I told her to try something different. Instead of reaching for Instagram when she gets into bed, open the Coach Keir AI app and type in what she’s feeling.

Here’s exactly what Coach Keir said:

Julie, put the phone down right now. Instagram at 10:30pm is gasoline on the anxiety fire — the algorithm is literally designed to keep your nervous system activated. I know it feels like comfort but it’s the opposite.

Here’s your downregulation breathing protocol. Do this right now: Close your mouth. Keep it closed throughout. Start with a quick body scan from head to toe — wherever you find tension (jaw, shoulders, chest), let it dissolve on your exhales. Now breathe:

• 4 counts in through your nose, belly-led

• 8 counts out through your nose, slow and controlled

• No aggressive pauses, circular and gentle

• When your mind wanders to work anxiety, gently bring it back without judgment — no self-criticism, just return to the breath. The extended exhale is the physiological key — it directly activates your parasympathetic nervous system. Your body cannot stay in fight-or-flight with a long nasal exhale. This isn’t woo, it’s autonomic nervous system science. Do this for 5 minutes. Then finish with one big inhale all the way to the top, slight hold, then the longest possible nasal exhale you can sustain. That final exhale is your reset.

One more thing: If you want guided support for this, Headspace has excellent sleep meditations that pair perfectly with this protocol. It’s the only meditation app I use and endorse. Your move: Phone face down across the room. Lights out. Start breathing. You’ve got this Julie. Goodnight.

Two minutes to read that. Five minutes to do the breathing. She was asleep by 10:45. That’s not a miracle. That’s a tool.

The Irony Is Intentional

Yes, this requires using a phone to stop using a phone. I get it. That’s a real tension and I won’t pretend otherwise.

But here’s what I’d offer: the problem was never the device. It’s what the device is typically used for. Instagram, TikTok, and the news feed are engineered for maximum engagement. A breathing protocol is not. One is a slot machine. The other is a tool.

Catherine Price’s framework — ask yourself “What for? Why now? What else?” before you reach for your phone — is the right instinct. Most of the time, the answer to those three questions is damning. But occasionally the answer is: I need a downregulation protocol so I can sleep. And for that, a phone can actually help.

The Slowfit Method® has always been about intentional choices. Being deliberate about how and why we are living our lives, rather than just pouring more water into a glass that is already overflowing and hoping for the best. The app is the method in your pocket. Use it intentionally. For two minutes. Then put it down.

That’s the whole pitch.

Download My App

What “Julie” Said Last Week

“Honestly? I forget sometimes and I end up on Instagram anyway. But when I remember to open the app instead, I’m asleep in under 15 minutes. When I don’t, I’m awake until midnight and I hate myself a little.”

Not a case study. Not a controlled trial. Just a Foghorn athlete who found one thing that works slightly better than the thing that wasn’t working.

Which is more or less what the Slowfit Method® is for.

My buddy from childhood is getting off Instagram. Good for him.

The phone doesn’t have to be the devil. But it’s up to us to make sure it isn’t.

Stick around.

Best,

Keir

P.S. The app is free to download. Coach Keir AI is available to all users. The full Vault — 270+ books, podcasts, tools, and on-demand workouts — unlocks with a paid subscription. Download here.

P.P.S. Want to work on sleep, distraction, or any other pillar of the Slowfit Method® with a real human coach? That’s what the 1:1 work is for. Book a session at foghornfitness.com. I have availability. Hit that button.

Book a Session

P.P.P.S. Paid Substack subscribers get the deeper dives and the full resource library behind every pillar. Upgrade here.

P.P.P.P.S. The new Foghorn Fitness site just launched. All ten pillars, the full method, everything in one place. foghornfitness.com.

Well, nothing really “great” about it, let alone “Great” with a capital “G,” but I feel better.

I just scanned through the 2,000 humans, corporate entities, and digital personalities I follow on Twitter. Over the past few months, I had grown weary of hitting my head on the 2,000-follower limit imposed by Twitter. On dozens of occasions of late, I was smacked down by Twitter when I clicked the “Follow” button on someone new. Gave me a digital headache.

Now, I suppose this 2,000-follower limit (hereafter, the “2FL”) is intended to prevent fake people from artificially inflating their own questionably-purposed Twitter follower count. But this policy is akin to a dark blue-suited unspeaking stranger standing next to me at a cocktail party, slapping away my right hand as I am just about to greet someone whom I’ve never met before. I have hit my alloted limit of friends, and can’t add another one to my life. Actually, a tighter analogy might be if the prospective new friend is blind-folded, and doesn’t even know I’m standing there, but is reaching his or her hand outstretched, waiting for a grip from another new friend. Unless that other new friend is already being followed by the blind-folded friend. And if that is the case, and if the blindfolded prospective friend has also hit his or her 2FL, then the dark-suited stranger will slap away the blind-folded person’s hand.

I believe I have this right.

Net net, seems like anywhere you look (or, um, can’t look because you’re blindfolded; so maybe it’s more anywhere you look regardless of whether you can see in the direction you look), the result at this stage is the same: Somebody is getting their hand slapped. Probably several somebodies. Several hand slaps. If the room is large enough, it just might be a continuous gaggle of hand-slapping. Could even sound like hearty applause. Except the only person who will actually hear a slap is the person whose hand is slapped. They can’t hear any others’ hands being slapped.

SLAP!

So I blame my digital behavior this morning on Twitter’s 2FL. In order to let new people into my digital life, I’ve had to, well, let a bunch of others go. As in, “Grab your personal digital effects, put them in your digital cardboard box, and exit the digital premises forthwith, escorted by two burly (albeit digital) security guards.” Digitally frogwalked right down the digital staircase, and deposited on the sidewalk.

I had no choice. Or if I did, it was a Hobson’s Choice at best. A whole series of Hobson’s Choices. And now I have a pile of roughly 300 digital carcasses just lying there, dizzy and confused. They did not deserve this shoddy treatment, this sudden twist of fate.

Well, as it turns out, some of them maybe did deserve to be caught up in the Great Twitter Purge of 2014.

You see, there is this mildly creepy website called Goodbye, Buddy! that will let you know exactly who “unfollowed” your Twitter account recently. I haven’t been on the site for years (really, I swear). On this shameful list, I found a number of Twitter handles that professed to be THE world-beating expert on search engine optimization (apparently my Twitter account did not need optimization), corporate recruiters (probably couldn’t figure out what I wanted to be when I grew up), leadership coaches (probably figured I was not coachable), inspirational gurus (I’m good on the inspiration front, thank you), the Molokai Visitors Bureau (that’s OK, I was not planning on going to Molokai anytime soon), an ad agency where my little sister formerly worked (little sister, I sincerely hope that you didn’t push the “Unfollow” button when you were still working at said agency!), several professional DJs (this particular exodus en masse I cannot explain), etc.

I wish i had the diplomatic chops to leave it at “etc.” But alas…I do not. And for some strange and admittedly childish reason, I am slightly offended by a few former Twitter followers of mine who, I imagine, crept out under the cover of darkness, thanking their lucky stars to be free from the constant inane chatter that spews from my Twitter feed. (Kind of like this blog post.) For example, I noticed that the Union Street Ice Rink unfollowed me. Now, we have just scheduled our annual family pilgrimage to this rink, combined with a couple other families, to boot. Maybe we’ll cancel the reservation, and take our clumsy splits-on-ice elsewhere. I’m sure some other rink would have a better appreciation for my 8 year-old’s James Brown imitation (the dancing, not the singing).

Another example: Red Bull. Red Bull? First, it is odd that a huge brand with 1.77 million Twitter followers would follow me. While I have had a fair amount of interaction with the Red Bull brand for business stuff, that interaction has been more with the San Francisco Red Bull folks. I don’t think the local guys hold the keys to the master Red Bull Twitter handle at HQ. Although one of the local guys does appear on my Goodbye, Buddy! blacklist, and he’ll have to live with that. Or rather I will. Well, one of will. Maybe both. But one business contact of mine who I suspect did have the Red Bull Twitter keys at one point left the company some time ago. I suppose he could have hit the “Unfollow” button on Red Bull’s Twitter dashboard on his way out the door, but I doubt it. Plus, he still follows me on his personal Twitter account. This one’ll have to remain a mystery (for now).

In any event, I’m done with The Great Twitter Purge, at least for this year. For those of you I had to unfollow, please accept my sincerest apologies. Unless you unfollowed me first, in which case, serves you right. The rest of you are safe, at least until my next visit to Goodbye, Buddy! Could be 15 minutes from now, could be one year from now. And for those who fear the slice of the digital ax arcing through the air towards their digital heads, there is salvation: I’m at @kjbeadling, and you know where the “Follow” button is.

Thanks for reading.