Don't Look it Up: An Attempt at Rewiring my Brain

What a digital detox and 68 crossword puzzles taught me about my brain chemistry

I wrote and submitted this essay to an online literary magazine back in March, when my digital detox was fresh in my mind, and tells a story about the subtle ways I noticed my brain shifting and changing during that three-week period.

I got an email this morning that my submission was not accepted, so I thought I’d share it here instead of letting it rot in my Google Drive (or working too hard to find a new place for it).

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Don't Look it Up

I’m sitting at the breakfast table on day one of a three-week digital detox. I grab my phone, only to remember I’ve deleted all the scrollable and mildly entertaining apps—not just social media, but news, games, and even Zillow. I’m not looking for a house, so Zillow is not considered a tool for me, and therefore, it must go.

Breakfast would typically be spent playing that day’s Wordle or scrolling through [insert social media app], but those options are not available to me right now. I shouldn’t even check my email—I set a boundary that I’d check email during the detox no earlier than 9 am and it’s only 7:25.

My eyes dart and land on the bright blue New York Times crossword puzzle book I purchased last week—Monday puzzles only; I’m not ready for anything more advanced. This detox encourages having a few analog activities at the ready for moments when boredom or panic sets in—books, hobbies, household tasks.

I haven’t done a crossword by hand in decades and I don’t know what compelled me to buy a crossword book, but I did and now it’s staring at me. Out of desperation, I grab it.

I open to the first page and realize I don’t own a pencil but I also don’t trust myself enough to fill this out in pen. Not yet.

My husband, a designer, has pencils. I ask to borrow one.

“This is a nice pencil,” he says. He’s right. He knows I’d never buy a pencil like this. The last time I bought a pencil I was in college, and I am pretty sure it was a plastic mechanical Paper Mate. The ones that look like wooden pencils but are in fact plastic and mechanical.

He hands me a yellow Draft/Matic DM03, which retails for $17.97. I could get thirty-six Paper Mate pencils for $12.33.

Equipped with a very nice pencil, I glance through the first set of clues.

1-Across: 33 ⅓ r.p.m. records. LPs, I think as I jot that down. 4-Across: Cher or Adele, musically. They’re Altos, I remember.

17-Down: India’s first P.M. I don’t know that one. But I eventually solve it by correctly identifying the answers to 16, 19, 22, 25, and 30-Across. Nehru.

44-Across: Spot for a teacher’s apple or Apple. Desk. This one makes me chuckle. I like the clues that are puns.

I move through the clues, one at a time, unsure if I’m enjoying myself or if I’m just enjoying the distraction. A small, familiar hit of dopamine hits my brain with each clue I solve—the harder the clue, the larger the hit. The waves of discouragement for not knowing ‘her’ in French or for forgetting “Kesey’s first name, who wrote One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest” are fleeting, and there’s a promise that I may be able to still figure it out.

I get as far as I can go, in that moment, in this first puzzle, and it’s not completely solved. I start to flip to the back, where the answers live, to plug in a clue or two that I missed. But I quickly stop myself.

I decide to give it some time.

A few hours later, I’m at my desk working. I hit a wall—a moment of wanting distraction and procrastination. This would typically be a moment for a five or twenty-five-minute scrolling break. I reach for my phone and remember there are no apps that can help with that goal.

I open the weather app and check the weather here in Brooklyn today. I swipe to some of my saved weather locations and take a peek at the weather in Chicago, in Los Angeles, in Rio de Janeiro, in Hudson, NY. I open my calendar and check my schedule for the next three weeks. This is the bleakest form of scrolling I’ve engaged with to date.

I remember my crossword puzzle book and am greeted with the morning’s attempt. I glance through the clues. Kesey’s first name, who wrote One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, is Ken, I recall to myself. Round Mongolian tents are yurts. How did I forget that one?

I solve 54, 58, 61, and 64-Across and now I know that ‘her’ in French is elle.

I move through the three-week detox and find myself continuously reaching for this crossword book. I realize answers like ‘ales’, ‘antes’, and ‘aloe’ are used often. I remember that tense and pluralization of a clue matter, which helps when I’m stuck between a word ending in -ed or -s.

I carry my crossword book around the house and stow it in my bag when I leave—it’s particularly useful while on the subway.

I find myself more patient when moving through the world in general, trusting that if I wait long enough, the answer will come to me.

A week into my detox, I’m at a bar with some friends, not able to remember the third city in Ohio that starts with a ‘C’—for some reason, none of us can. We’ve got Columbus and Cleveland, but the third city isn’t coming to us.

A friend reaches for their phone to look it up. “Wait,” I say, more loudly than I intended, as I find myself reaching my arm out in order to place my hand in the space between their phone and their face. “It’ll come to me. Don’t look it up.”

I write down “Ohio cities that start with a C, not Columbus or Cleveland” in a note in my phone titled: Things to look up (later). The idea is that while on this detox, I can go through this note once a week and look up anything that I still want to know.

I’m washing the dishes four days later and am struck with a random thought. I look up and mutter, “Cincinnati”. I text my friend, who responds, “Yeah, we looked it up when you were in the bathroom”.

By the time I finish my three-week detox, I have completed 68 crossword puzzles, with two in progress (I’ve set a rule that I can have no more than two puzzles in progress, if not I know myself and I’d have a book of almost-finished puzzles waiting for me).

The Draft/Matic pencil is mine now, though ownership was never officially transferred. It lives in this book, and I confirm that my husband has .03 lead for when I need a refill.

On my first day post-detox, at the breakfast table again, I download the New York Times Games app and complete that day’s Wordle. Missing my crossword habit, I open that section of the app and start a puzzle. It feels unnatural. I put my phone down and grab my crossword puzzle book. I finish those two puzzles I have in progress.

The next day, again at the breakfast table, I open my phone to do the Wordle but don’t have it in me in that moment. I find myself gravitating towards my crossword puzzle book. I skip the Wordle for a few days and realize I’m no longer beholden to my streak (this is coming from someone who kept their Wordle streak while in labor).

I was hopeful that this digital detox would reset my relationship with social media—and it did. I didn’t expect a crossword puzzle book to show me what was really hiding behind my social media habits. ‘

While I thought my curiosity and need for information were harmless, I realize I am deeply uncomfortable with the idea of not knowing something. Instant access to Google allowed me to forgo that discomfort, but without it I needed to face it head-on.

A crossword book taught me patience and helped me learn to trust myself and my instincts again. Now, my brain is learning to work in the way I think it’s supposed to — slow curiosity, focusing on one thing at a time, and finding comfort in letting it go when an answer isn’t immediately obvious.

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This essay was written in March of 2025. Some things are the same, some are different. I still carry a crossword book around (a new one!), and spend time in the mornings doing them, but scrolling has also crept back in to fill some of that space.

I barely do the Wordle anymore (the words are getting too crazy), but I do look forward to those silly LinkedIn games.

Much to my chagrin, I have abandoned my “two puzzles at a time’ rule, and my current book is littered with almost-finished puzzles that I can’t bring myself back to. I knew this would happen.

I do find I have to resist the urge to look things up immediately, and I’m not always aware I’m doing it until later. But the awareness still comes in at some point, and sometimes I even catch myself before I’m able to complete my search — a metaphorical hand between my phone and my face.