In a Hyperconnected Digital World, Why So Many of Us Are Turning Analogue

I belong to a generation that remembers life before constant connectivity. As a millennial, I grew up making plans we couldn’t instantly change, waiting for photos to be developed, reading glossy magazines and spending long stretches of time unreachable.

Interestingly, I also came of age alongside the technological boom. Watching the internet, smartphones and social media steadily reshape how we work, socialize, shop, receive news and understand ourselves.

And I have to admit, I’m feeling tired of being in a relationship with my phone.

I work as a writer in the magazine arena, a space that prides itself on reading cultural signals early. And lately, one signal keeps surfacing: a growing unease with digital saturation, and the retreat from it.

Among editors, trend forecasters and laypersons alike, one unexpected prediction has been quietly circulating. That in forthcoming years, our most fashionable accessory won’t be a new device, but an analogue/semi-analogue life.

This was aptly echoed by Cosmopolitan in November when they highlighted an “analogue bag” as a fashion accessory. A purse designed not to carry tech, but books, notebooks and a camera. Objects that demand presence and hobby interests rather than just your phone and latest trending overpriced and overhyped water bottle. Similarly, in the same month for the guys, The Telegraph published “How to Be an Analogue Man” encouraging reducing screen time and leaning into more nostalgic past times.

There have been whispers of something else: a “posting zero.” A cultural moment where being constantly online, constantly visible, no longer confers status. Instead, restraint, selectivity and even disappearance are beginning to feel elusively aspirational.

I’m not for one minute suggesting that we go completely tech-free and live in the woods, however delightful it sounds, but I am saying that enough of us are noticing digital burnout from overconsumption. And maybe a semi-analogue life could be calling us on a landline telephone in the near future.

Firstly, we should look to the reasons why we’re feeling the pull of analogue both consciously and subliminally.

Today, roughly 60 percent of the global population uses social media. Digital platforms are deeply embedded in everyday life: shaping how we work, socialize and construct identity. Yet studies in the United States show that adults who use social media heavily are more than twice as likely to report feelings of loneliness compared with lighter users. Digital proximity, it turns out, does not guarantee emotional closeness.

Psychologist Sherry Turkle warned of this dynamic over a decade ago in “Alone Together,” arguing that technologies promising connection can, paradoxically, erode our capacity for intimacy. We communicate constantly, yet avoid the vulnerability and attentiveness that deep relationships require. We are, as Turkle put it, “alone together” in digital spaces.

Her insight feels increasingly relevant as digital life becomes ever more performative.

Nowhere is this more visible than in influencer culture. For years, influencers functioned as tastemakers, trailblazers, aspirational figures and informal advertisers. But in a world increasingly polarized by economic pressure, their authority is eroding. Endless consumption: new clothes, new products, new “must-haves” land very differently when many people are struggling with rising rents, stagnant wages and mounting uncertainty.

Overexposure has also almost dulled the edge of influence. When everything is an ad or we have constant access to these people, nothing feels authentic. What once felt intimate now feels transactional. The influencer economy, built on visibility and desire, is running up against a collective fatigue with excess.

This fatigue may help explain the appeal of posting less–or not at all. A “posting zero” moment reflects a subtle but significant shift in values. In a digital ecosystem that rewards constant output, choosing silence can feel like a literal silent rebellion. Maybe a feeling that not everything needs to be shared and not every moment needs an audience.

Globally, the psychological toll of constant digital performance is becoming harder to ignore. A multinational study spanning 34 countries found that in 2023, 27 percent of young adults described themselves as “distressed and struggling.” Researchers point to a convergence of pressures: economic instability, digital overload and social disconnection. For many, stepping back from the feed is also a survival. Digital detoxes are widely encouraged and time restrictions on apps are on the rise.

And against this backdrop, the sexy pull of analogue life is re-emerging as a worthy counterweight.

Knitting circles, pottery studios, photography clubs, reading groups, repair cafés, listening sessions, supper clubs and even retro gaming meet-ups. A once nostalgic indulgence could point to our instinctive adaptive response to digital burnout. Cultural commentators increasingly describe “slow” hobbies as a form of medicine, helping people regulate attention, rebuild social bonds and reconnect with themselves outside algorithmic loops.

I’ve seen it myself in the massive uptake of book clubs and run clubs in my area. Our want to connect in real time, real life, with real things is exposed in our social habits. It’s almost a symbol: a visible refusal of constant consummation from our blue-light rectangle.

Sociologically, this moment is far from unprecedented. Throughout history, periods of rapid technological change or collective upheaval have led people to seek grounding through slower, more embodied ways of living. During the Industrial Revolution, the Arts and Crafts movement emerged as a response to mechanization, emphasizing handmade work as a way to restore dignity and meaning to daily life. During and after the Second World War, people turned to domestic rituals: gardening, sewing, cooking, letter-writing and communal gatherings as sources of stability, care and connection. In the 1960s, as mass consumerism, bureaucratic systems and Cold War anxiety intensified, the music scene and counter-culture interest peaked in search of authenticity and shared purpose.

Seen this way, today’s return to analogue hobbies is not only nostalgia but a deeply human impulse: when life becomes too fast, people reach for practices that reaffirm dignity, agency and belonging. What we are witnessing now fits that pattern. People instinctively seek out practices that restore balance with connection.

Analogue practices offer several quiet but profound benefits.

• They restore slowness and intentionality. Digital platforms are designed for immediacy: likes, notifications, infinite scroll. Analogue activities introduce friction. Knitting a scarf, developing film, shaping clay or reading a physical book demands patience and sustained attention.
• They rebuild community through shared experience. Craft nights, photography circles and reading groups bring people together in real rooms, with real bodies. There is no algorithmic substitute for eye contact, community or collective laughter.
• They offer resilience amid economic strain. Many analogue hobbies are more accessible and cheaper than subscription-heavy digital entertainment or consumer-driven leisure. They emphasize reuse, repair and creativity over constant purchase, an important shift in a world grappling with inequality and environmental limits.
• And they restore agency. In digital spaces, attention is constantly extracted and redirected. Choosing when and how to connect: offline and  intentionally, returns a sense of authorship over one’s time and identity.

This societal moment carries particular weight for me. An analogue return reflects a shared intuition that human experience cannot be fully dictated by screens. And for those of us navigating life before and after the technological boom (and soon to be navigating life before and after an AI boom), an analogue resurgence is less of a rejection of progress and tech use, and more of a course correction.

We are not opting out of the future; we are insisting that it and we remain humane as it develops.

The message is increasingly clear: presence is becoming culturally relevant again.