Phew. It was, to my surprise, an emotional parting. After more than a decade with iOS, switching to a new system felt a little like saying goodbye to an old, familiar friend. I was leaving behind a comfort I had learned inside and out. I even took the day off work to make sure every photo was backed up and every digital stone was turned, determined not to lose anything in the move. When the package finally arrived, I took my iPhone out of its case one last time, gave it a final clean, and held it for a few moments, appreciating the device it was before beginning the switch to the Galaxy Z Fold 7.
I had spent probably too much time watching unboxings and reviews, so I knew what to expect. Or so I thought. Nothing could have prepared me for how ridiculously thin the phone is. Taking it out of the box was mind-blowing; folding it open for the first time felt like performing some kind of magic trick, like bending an iPad Mini in half.
But the real journey began with the setup. I had researched for months, so I knew the theory of Android, but I had never put it into practice. It was like standing before a high-end coffee setup you’ve only ever seen on YouTube. You know all the steps, but your hands have never actually done the work.
That first attempt at a “brew” was… disappointing. Like using water that’s too hot or a grind that’s too fine, the initial experience came out bitter and flat. I was overwhelmed by a flurry of logins and new settings, and for a moment, I missed the simple predictability of my old machine. But then, you try again. You start to dial things in—a coarser grind, a few degrees cooler on the water. You learn to create a custom folder, you download a new messaging app (you can do that?!), and you get a hint of the perfect cup you were hoping for.
The world starts to open up. And somewhere in that beautiful, maddening, and exciting chaos of the first few days, I rediscovered something I hadn’t felt from a phone in years: it was fun.
Those first few days were a maddening flurry. It was a chaotic mix of logging into every app from scratch, hunting for alternatives to the few that don’t exist on Android, and grappling with a whole new digital language. The initial moments weren’t the clean, seamless transition you see in commercials; it was a beautiful mess.
There were definitely a few “hold your breath” moments. A tense couple of hours when my wife and I couldn’t get our new RCS messages to work. A few group chats that stubbornly refused to port over, lost to the digital ether. For a moment, the comfort of the old, predictable system seemed tempting.
But in that chaos, an unexpected calm began to emerge. Forced to set up every notification from zero, I found myself with a new baseline. I was able to slash the number of dings and pings that interrupted my day, keeping only what was truly important. I even broke ties with some time-wasting apps that didn’t make the cut for the new setup. The brew was still a bit messy, but I was already filtering out the noise.
The real change, the moment the flavor profile went from interesting to incredible, came with customization. On iOS, you get a beautiful, master-crafted machine. On Android, you get a beautiful machine and a full toolbox to take it apart and rebuild it exactly how you want.
And I mean everything can be tweaked. The realization that I could download a completely different phone and messaging app was a revelation. I spent hours crafting a custom app folder flow, adding my favorite apps to a handy sidebar for one-handed use, and looking for new tools on different app stores. The walls of the garden were gone.
After just a few days of this tinkering, the phone began to feel uniquely mine. Now, a couple of weeks in, it feels like an extension of me. The colors, the layout, the way I navigate—it’s mine in a way I never quite achieved with an iPhone. It’s a device shaped by my habits, not the other way around.
Sure, there are still flickers of muscle memory to unlearn; my thumb occasionally still swipes to the middle of the screen searching for a finder that isn’t there. But those little hiccups faded quickly, replaced by something much more powerful: a genuine sense of enjoyment.
The switch, which once felt big and scary, has been an absolute joy. I find myself pulling the phone out just to explore and tinker, driven by curiosity in a way I haven’t been in years. It’s new, it’s complex, it’s fresh, it’s exciting. It’s… fun. The spark of discovery, that feeling of wonder I wrote about in my very first post, is back. And that, more than any feature, makes this new brew taste absolutely perfect.
]]>The first pour and the bloom that follows—that’s my favorite part of the coffee ritual. The smell of the grounds as hot water hits the bed evokes a sense of anticipation for that first perfect sip. I felt that exact same feeling as my digital life began to bloom anew in Notion. And yet, even with that excitement, there was a lingering, stale taste I couldn’t shake. It took me some time to place it. After falling in love with the boundless customization of Notion, I realized I craved that freedom everywhere. The place that hindered me the most? My phone.
I’ve been an iPhone user since 2008—you know, back when the App Store was just a baby and getting 3G felt like touching the future. For years, I was impressed by its seamlessness, the way the whole ecosystem “just worked.” But my digital life has changed. I use a Windows PC for work, my trusty MacBook is long gone, and my world is split between my iPads and my iPhone. While continuity features are nice, being able to copy on my phone and paste on my tablet only gets you so far. The taste of true customization from Notion was like having a specialty pour-over for the first time and then going back to the burnt, auto-drip coffee at the office. I had woken up. I couldn’t go back.
My first reaction was to furiously customize everything I could on my iPhone. I pulled every app off the home screen, started making aesthetic folders, and added widgets everywhere. I even experimented with Shortcuts to create custom app icons. The result was a home screen that was beautifully “me,” but functionally a disaster. Every tap was followed by a half-second of lag—a tiny moment of friction that grated on my newfound desire for intentionality. The experiment lasted all of one day.
While the new customization features in recent iOS updates were a welcome coat of paint, that’s all they were. The underlying machine was the same. The apps, the functions, the walls of the garden—they were all unchanged. I was craving more than just a new color; I was craving a whole new machine.
If I couldn’t rebuild the machine, I could at least choose my own ingredients. I started with the obvious: email. Apple’s Notes had already been replaced by Notion, so Mail was next. After trying a few, I found Spark. Is it for everyone? Probably not. But for me, opening it felt like taking a deep breath. It intelligently sorted the noise from the newsletters, giving me a sense of calm control I never felt with the default app.
Next up was Podcasts. My main requirement was seamless, cross-platform listening between my work PC, iPad, and phone. After a couple of duds, I found Pocket Casts. The moment I started it, I knew. A robust feature set, perfect syncing—it just worked. That success made me briefly, dangerously ambitious. ‘Music!’ my brain screamed. But after a few minutes of honest consideration, that was a hard nope. My meticulously curated library, stretching all the way back to my college iTunes days, isn’t going anywhere. Some digital baggage is worth carrying.
Finally, the browser. I fell in love with Arc from The Browser Company, but the lack of a full-featured mobile app made it hard to move tasks from my work computer to my phone. With a heavy heart, I settled on Chrome. The seamlessness of Safari was hard to give up, but the ability to truly pick up where I left off on any device was a trade I had to make.
I kept bracing for that “this is too hard” moment during the migration, but it never really came. Sure, there were flickers of muscle memory to unlearn—my thumb would still swipe for an app that wasn’t there, or my brain would momentarily forget what notifications were supposed to look like, but the replacements mostly just worked. The real change wasn’t in the apps themselves, but in my mindset.
This process has shown me the limitations of a system designed to be perfect for everyone, which means it can’t be perfect for me. It has steered me toward wanting to make the big switch: moving from iOS to Android. The thought of that change truly excites me. I’m feeling those old sparks of discovery as I research new phones and apps. I’m back in my pour-over renaissance, but instead of looking up V60s and Chemex brewers, I’m looking up intriguing new folding phones and a whole new world of productivity apps. It’s that feeling of unboxing a new piece of gear—the potential is what’s so exciting, the promise of a brew that’s entirely my own.
]]>There’s something deeply human about seeking comfort in routine. Like the familiar weight of a coffee mug in your hands each morning, our daily habits can wrap around us like a well-worn blanket. I know this intimately—I’m a creature of habit who finds solace in the predictable rhythm of my days. But the thing about comfort zones is that they can slowly transform from sanctuaries into cages. That’s exactly what happened with my technology.
I can still remember the anticipation of software season in my early twenties. Each update felt like unwrapping a gift, promising new ways to streamline my work and bring a spark of innovation to the mundane. Calendar apps weren’t just tools—they were gateways to a more organized future. To-do lists weren’t mere checkboxes, but the building blocks of my ambitions. Even the simple act of jotting down notes held a kind of magic, each idea captured feeling like a seed planted in digital soil.
But somewhere along the way, I found the garden walls. My calendar sat largely untouched, my reminders fell silent, and those notes apps that once promised to capture lightning in a bottle became empty digital notebooks. The old brew had gone stale.
As those apps sat unused, I felt my organization and productivity slip away. It’s the kind of thing that creeps up on you until it’s suddenly overwhelming; that feeling of drowning in forgotten tasks, moving through your day with the nagging fear that you’ve missed a meeting or forgotten a promise. That feeling had to change.
So, I went to the one place that seems to have all the answers: YouTube. I started looking around and found a couple of productivity channels, specifically Ali Abdaal talking about the Second Brain Method created by Tiago Forte. My brain went into hyperfocus mode. I dove straight down the rabbit hole, learning everything I could about building a “second brain” using the PARA method.
This left me excited, but with a critical question: how was I going to keep track of it all? I know myself, and scattering my new system across multiple apps was not an option. I needed a one-stop shop, a single place to hold my thoughts, notes, projects, and lists. The stock apps on my devices had become white noise. I needed something new, something that could be the digital equivalent of my pour-over station. Through all my watching and reading, one option kept popping up: Notion.
Okay, so I had my method plotted out and my tool selected. I was going to give Notion a try. But, boy, Notion has a ton of features. It was overwhelming at first, so it was back to the YouTube rabbit hole for me. Thankfully, there are amazing, Notion-focused creators out there with fantastic templates to get you started.
As I sat at my desk, typing and clicking away while setting up my PARA board, I felt it. That spark. The same excitement and enjoyment in technology that I used to feel every time I got a new device. I immediately downloaded the Notion mobile and calendar apps. There it was: my one-stop shop for meeting notes, long-form writing, project ideas, to-do lists, and my schedule.
I fell in love with the process. I found so much joy in tinkering, customizing, and creating within Notion. I started reaching for it to take notes in meetings and found myself opening it anytime a small idea or task came to mind. It was happening. This was the first pour, the one that starts the bloom.
]]>There was a time when technology fascinated me. It wasn’t just about the devices themselves; it was about the feeling they evoked—a sense of possibility, of connection, of joy. I’d sit down with a new gadget, take in its design, marvel at the way it felt in my hands, and explore its features with childlike wonder. Now, it’s as if I’ve forgotten how to enjoy it. I pick up my phone, my gaming console, my tablet—each one with its own potential—and yet, all I do is complete a ‘task,’ close it, and move on. It’s mechanical, routine. Somewhere along the way, that feeling fizzled out, the joy got lost in the noise.
I miss that spark. I miss the feeling of spending hours just exploring, letting curiosity take the wheel. The irony isn’t lost on me—I’m surrounded by more technological marvels than I’ve ever owned, living in what younger me would have considered a tech paradise. Yet here I am, treating these devices like background props in my daily routine instead of the gateways to possibility they once were.
The world around us is moving faster than ever, and technology is changing and evolving right along with it. That’s why I want to slow down. I found myself in this same place with coffee once—just using it for utility, for that morning caffeine hit. Then I discovered pour-over brewing. The ritual of heating the water to just the right temperature, the methodical pour, watching the grounds bloom—it made me slow down, appreciate the process. That intentionality helped me rediscover my love for coffee, transforming it from a mere necessity into something I could take pride in crafting. Now, I’m ready to bring that same mindful approach to technology, to rediscover what once made it feel like magic.
It’s a peculiar journey, from wide-eyed wonder to weary familiarity. There was a time when each Apple Keynote felt like Christmas morning, every Nintendo Direct a treasure trove of possibility. I’d spend hours scouring the internet for the faintest whisper of a leak about my favorite devices, heart racing at the thought of what might come next.
But somewhere along the way, that thrill began to fade. What once felt like revolutions—each new feature a world of potential, every interface tweak a gateway to efficiency—now register as little more than incremental steps. A new number, a fresh coat of paint on an all-too-familiar canvas. It’s a strange paradox: I’m surrounded by technology that once felt like a dream, yet the magic has faded. Why, in this age of incredible innovation, where the me of five years ago would have been over the moon living in what feels like a sci-fi future, do I feel this disconnect? Yet here I sit, surrounded by these marvels, feeling a creeping sense of ennui with each interaction.
It’s not the devices themselves that have become uninspiring—far from it. Technology is at an inflection point, with AI poised to revolutionize how we interact with and perceive the world around us. So why this disconnect? Why has the magic of technology faded for me? How can I see these familiar objects with fresh eyes? How can I transform this sea of black mirrors back into the portals of possibility they once were?
So, where do we go from here? If the problem is routine, then the solution has to be intentionality. I truly believe it’s not about chasing the newest gadget or finding the next big thing. Instead, it’s about rediscovering the wonder in what we already have, like an old, familiar book that you find new meaning in each time you revisit its pages.
The first step, I’ve found, is consciously breaking the routine. It’s all too easy to fall into these habitual patterns with our devices, using them on autopilot day after day until they simply fade into the background of our lives. My pour-over coffee ritual taught me the value of process, and I’m determined to apply that same mindfulness to my tech. So I’ve begun to shake things up, to use my devices with purpose rather than letting them use me. I’m experimenting with Spark for email, appreciating its clean design and focus on essential communication. Even rediscovering the tactile experience of writing my thoughts in a physical journal has helped me reconnect with the present moment in a way a screen can’t.
Even something as simple as redesigning my phone’s home and lock screens has brought a flicker of that old excitement back. It’s like redecorating a room you’ve lived in for years—suddenly, you see the whole space with new eyes, and it feels yours again.
Ultimately, this journey is about more than just apps and wallpapers. It’s about rekindling a sense of possibility. It’s about remembering that each device in our lives isn’t just a tool for tasks, but a gateway to creativity, connection, and discovery. But this is just the beginning.
Are you ready to join me? Let’s try to look at our devices with fresh eyes. In the next post, “A New Routine Blooming,” we’ll get our hands dirty and explore the first practical step in my new setup: building a “second brain” from the grounds up. Let’s embark on this adventure together, one mindful interaction at a time.
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