The digital age is a pain in the digit – and my texting thumb is over it

While I was grabbing the peanut butter the other day, a sharp pain shot through some obscure tendons in my thumb, making me shriek. A preliminary Google revealed that I’d acquired the embarrassingly 21st-century ailment of “texting thumb”, also known as de Quervain’s tenosynovitis, which should be reserved for a 15-year-olds discovering TikTok, not a 38-year-old mother whose text messages are limited to mundane missives like “see you soon”, “sounds good” or “on my way”.

In my 20s, I texted with the vigour of a Jane Austen heroine, messaging friends my long, monotonous thoughts on life, love and everything in between. Now, I regard “how are you going?” texts with dread, so I had no idea how I sustained a text-related injury until I realised I was scrolling through symptoms on WebMD with the thumb in question.

It’s a strange, unsettling sensation when our digital worlds cross into our physical realities. When our futuristic descendants dig up the remains of a 2025 human, they’ll be perplexed by our unusually muscular thumbs and hunched necks. They’ll wonder what possible evolutionary functions were turning us into ogres, as by then, I’m sure they’ll have digital interfaces implanted in their brains.

But my “texting thumb” tenosynovitis brought about another realisation: scrolling through news, social media, and Facebook marketplace are my primary sources of leisure. If I get a moment’s break between work, study and small children who need constant and enthusiastic feedback on their cartwheels and tumble rolls, I scroll. I can travel the world in one sitting yet feel I’ve gained nothing, often more restless and less informed than when I started. But it’s so easy. Scrolling is like eating McDonald’s: it’s fast and cheap, and you don’t have to get out of the car.

Arthur C. Brooks recently wrote in The Atlantic about how inept we are at authentic leisure. “When our work is most demanding, we typically define leisure as its opposite: complete inactivity” (read: binge-watching, doom-scrolling, Instagram reels). Brooks argues that leisure is “a serious business, and if you don’t do leisure well, you will never find life’s full meaning”. He points to 20th-century philosopher Josef Pieper’s conception that the opposite of leisure is not work but acedia, “an ancient-Greek word that means spiritual or mental sloth”, in Brooks’ words.

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Ironically, one of the more damning assessments of confusing leisure with mental slothery is the show we’re all binge-watching (in my case, phone in hand as I cross-reference actors on IMDb): HBO’s The White Lotus. In its glorious “eat the rich” tradition, we witness wealthy people learning that their pursuit of leisure (that is, drinking, partying on fancy boats, lying by the pool), often at the expense of those paid to provide it, is utterly meaningless in light of relationship fallouts, haunted pasts and the occasional murder. In the latest season, episode five, the toxic female trio of friends bent on having “a good time” come up against their insecurities and messy history on a wild night out. Partying and hooking up with random dudes start to feel pointless as their friendship unravels, one thread at a time.

Sometimes I justify scrolling through my phone because it creates the illusion of productivity, especially as a writer. Scrolling through reams of news stories is basically “research” for whatever story I can hammer them into, like a child’s pitiful papier mache. But it’s a pale imitation of the genuine pleasure of getting lost in a good book or learning something new; these are harder to start, but with a greater pay-off.

It’s helpful to see leisure as a spiritual discipline – something to be cultivated and nurtured, like a flourishing garden. My family’s Christian faith always taught me the power of rest, something God doesn’t just suggest but commands. The idea of a tech Sabbath has always appealed to me, even though I’ve never had the chutzpah to implement it.