Why Lush Stores Smell Like That

Published in Racked, April 2017. Article link / Archived link.

Why Lush Stores Smell Like That

You can smell it from a block away, but what’s going on with that scent?

You’ll know the Lush smell — even if you’ve never stepped foot inside a branch, you’re probably familiar with it, as the plume stretches halfway up the street. It hits you like a punch in the face. You’ll be walking along, minding your own business, when BOOM! There it is. The Lush smell is a squeaky-clean flower assassin that slips up your nose and commands your attention. But what is the Lush smell, exactly?

At first whiff, the Lush smell is raw, bold, bright, loud, and unmistakable. I haven’t shopped there in a long time, but every time I pass a Lush — with 932 shops in 47 countries, there are a lot of them — I always have the same thought: peanut butter and banana milkshakes. It’s an odd association, but scent memory is a strange thing: My first Lush was next door to the best shake shop in town. That means that for me, even 17 years later, the craving resurfaces every time that flower bomb explodes in my nose.

In an effort to put my finger on the Lush smell, I spent an hour inside the biggest Lush shop in the world, found on Oxford Street in London. The place is a three-story Alice in Wonderland experience in every sense of the phrase: It’s fascinating and thrilling, and also overstimulating and a touch threatening. It’s very bright and colorful in there, with loud and upbeat music. By the door, a Lush employee whips up foam next to piles of bath bombs under a sign that reads “Great Balls of Bicarb.” Overwhelmed, I make some notes about the smell. “Soap,” I write. It’s definitely soap. “Essential oils. Herbs? Spicy.” This is not going well.

It’s surprisingly difficult to describe a scent. “I always think Lush is like a bakery: There’s this great smell, but you’ll never be able to take it home,” says Janie, who’s a fan. Each product has its own smell; the Comforter bubble bar hints of blackcurrant, and the Sea Vegetable soap is clearly lavender. “It feels a bit like chasing the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow,” says Janie.

But not everyone likes that cocktail. ”The Lush smell feels like an attack on my senses,” says Karima. “It’s so aggressive!”

Lush and its infamous smell has traveled far since the company started out in 1995 in Poole, England. (The founders originally wanted to name it “The Cosmetic Warriors from the Temple of Temptation,” but the name was taken, alas.) A Lush shop resembles a food market: soap stacked high like cheese wheels, bath bombs piled up like apples, and fresh face masks on ice like a deli counter. No, you can’t eat any of it, but everything at Lush is vegetarian and mostly organic, made from fresh ingredients with minimal preservatives, synthetics, and packaging.

It’s the last fact that makes it such a pungent experience, as most of the products are kept out in the open. “The Lush smell is a mixture of our top products,” says Brandi Halls, Lush’s director of brand communications for North America. “When I walk in, I can definitely smell the Avobath bath bomb, the Karma soap, and the Vanillary perfume. These are some of our cult products.” This suggests key notes to the Lush smell include lemongrass and bergamot from Avobath, patchouli and orange from Karma, and vanilla and jasmine from Vanillary.

Halls says Lush sometimes has to take steps to comply with odor regulations. “We’re often asked if we pump the fragrance out in our stores, [but] we actually spend a lot of money on ventilation systems to keep the fragrance in.” Lush does have a sense of humor about its trademark smell, having created several limited-edition products that supposedly embody the shop, like the 29 High Street solid perfume and the Oxford Street soap. “But if you’re new to Lush, the shop [probably smells] like a burst of freshness,” says Halls.

If you like a scent, being overwhelmed by it can be an enjoyable experience. “Sometimes I just go and stand in there to make me happy,” says Gemma, who didn’t use to be a fan of the Lush smell, but came around after learning about the company’s commendable ethics and political outspokenness. “It’s a place I associate with good memories.”

Laura has a similar reaction to the Lush smell. “I’m often daydreaming on the street, or running around in haste,” she says. Then that soapy tang hits her and shakes her up: “Something about [the smell] clears my head of feelings and thoughts.”

Maria Larsson, a Stockholm University psychology professor who focuses on smell and memory, says people can react very strongly and emotionally to odors. This is because signals from the nose make a beeline for the limbic system. “With smell you have an uncensored route to the oldest part of the brain, which is responsible for the most basic survival instinct that all mammals have: the ability to learn from emotional experience.”

Larsson laughs when I tell her about my Lush milkshake association. I’ll probably link the two forever, she tells me. “These types of responses are extremely resistant to the passage of time.”

People have highly individual reactions to smell. One person may love margaritas, while another had a terrible experience doing tequila shots at 21 and can’t go near the stuff. One person may feel nauseated by just a few molecules of odor, while others can handle loads without problem. Former Lush employee Lisa has to be careful around strong smells to avoid triggering migraines, but she says the shop never bothered her. “You don’t really notice the smell when you’re in it,” says Lisa, who has positive memories of her time at Lush. She was encouraged to get customers to sniff the goods. “Our training taught us to use imagery and emotion to describe the smell. Some products smelled like a sunny beach, while other smelled like a dark forest.”

The olfactory sense still remains something of a mystery, especially in terms of how smells trigger such strong feelings. Larsson says people are often unaware of their poor sense of smell, reacting with surprise when she tells them in her smell lab. But our noses are also important for tasting food. “There are just five basic taste perceptions — the rest is picked up by the olfactory nerve,” Larsson says.

This is good to know for when a smell offends you: Just breathe through your mouth. This is what Bernadette does whenever she goes to Lush to buy her favorite shampoo bars. “I locate the bars from outside the shop,” she says. “I grab them, pay, and go. The smell is eye-watering. It’s invasive, like the sound of very deep bass reggae.”

At the Lush emporium on Oxford Street, I keep waiting for my nose to adjust to the smell, but after 30 minutes it still came on strong. I’ve sniffed my way around three floors of this soapy Disneyland, and I’m starting to feel a little loopy. “My heart is like an open highway,” Jon Bon Jovi croons on the sound system, “I just want to live while I’m alive!”

“Yes!” I think to myself, nose deep in bath jelly, “I’m alive!” My memory’s a bit hazy from this point, but I know that I start shopping. I buy some bright purple shampoo and hippie deodorant. I add my name to the campaign to free Andy Tsege from death row. I buy lotion in support of Nanas Against Fracking.

The smell stayed with me for the rest of the day. It stuck inside my nostrils, and I could taste it in my mouth even after I’d eaten. I had a single glass of wine that night before I crashed. Now that I’ve slept it off, I understand: I was high on the Lush smell. It had short-circuited my limbic system, taking the open highway to my heart. I was lush with a little L that day — fresh, green, and drunk. For a moment I was wild and free, and so very fragrant.

At bedtime, nothing soothes like a YouTube video about space 

Published in Well+Good, November 2023. Original article link / Archived article link.

Struggling To Fall Asleep? Watching a Video About Space Could Help You Drift Right Off Into the Dreamy Ether

As I’m getting ready for sleep, the distant murmur of London traffic is a permanent part of the soundscape in my bedroom. Equally omnipresent is talk of subatomic particles and how the sun will swallow the Earth one day; my partner Luke likes to drift off to sleep amid the sounds of “black hole videos,” or videos about space and science. I found it odd at first, but I’ve come to appreciate the roster of pensive astrophysicists who accompany us to bed. Their engaging narratives and cool graphics transport us to the far reaches of the universe and of human understanding, as we shift into unconsciousness—but above all, says Luke: “They soothe me.”

These black hole videos are from the science channels of YouTube, here to educate and entertain. Luke’s favorite is PBS Space Time, hosted by astrophysicist and king of the jokey science T-shirts Matt O’Dowd (“Heat Death is Coming”). Luke also enjoys History of the Universe (“best for sleeping”), Quanta, Sea Space, Cool Worlds (“the best voice”) and Astrum, which recently launched Sleep Space, a podcast sharing intel about space in a “relaxing way,” geared specifically to all the people who, like Luke, use space videos to fall asleep.

“Intellectually, the universe is an escape—a respite from the constant noise and din of our lives,” says astrophysicist David Kipping, PhD, assistant professor of astronomy at Columbia University, head of the Cool Worlds lab, and host of the aforementioned Cool Worlds YouTube channel. Our lives here on Earth are full of stress—work problems, niggling relationship worries, money troubles, sadness about the state of the world—and it can all come to a head in the form of anxiety as we’re trying to go to sleep. But with a nighttime trip to extrasolar worlds by way of a space video, these Earthly worries can feel less significant.

Dr. Kipping also thinks that pondering space can spark awe, which can soothe a restless mind. As with art, we’re often drawn to questions of philosophy and science without necessarily any “bread-on-the-table functional purpose,” he says. “When we lie on the grass and look up at the stars wondering about their stories, there’s no foreseeable return on that investment.” And when so many of our daily actions are done with particular future-oriented goals in mind, this kind of aimless pondering can be an especially wonderful and relaxing thing, he says.

The existential nature of space videos (Dr. Kipping has been known to ask questions like, Why is something something rather than nothing?) can further stoke our fascination. “Deep down, I think there’s a sense of wonder within us all about these questions,” says Dr. Kipping. “Contemplating the cosmos stirs our imagination, and inspires and elevates our consciousness. It helps give us some context as to what our lives are really all about.” Considering we live in a moment obsessed with productivity and metrics (we’ve even gamified sleep by wearing trackers that tell us if we’ve done a good job sleeping), space videos can provide some much-needed perspective, which can then help us chill out and get some rest.

“These science shows can really remind us how small we are,” says sleep researcher Mathias Basner, MD, PhD, MSc, director of the University of Pennsylvania School of Medicine’s Unit for Experimental Psychiatry, Division of Sleep and Chronobiology. “[They] basically tell you that the Earth is just a tiny freckle in the universe, and you’re just a tiny freckle on Earth.” Acknowledging that reality can “shift your focus away from everyday anxieties and onto something more expansive,” says registered clinical counsellor Nilou Esmaeilpour, MSc, RCC, founder of Lotus Therapy. “Cosmic events are beyond our control, and accepting that can ease our worries.”

This is especially relevant for people who’ve experienced trauma and who may struggle to practice typical mindfulness exercises to calm their mind before bed, adds Esmaeilpour. “Some people with trauma can find it really hard to sit down and meditate…It can feel threatening to go inside themselves because sitting in silence can bring up disturbing images or thoughts,” she says. “What may be more helpful is to use soothing visuals, which can send a message to their nervous system: ‘You’re okay, you’re safe, and nothing bad is happening.’”

While the general consensus among sleep scientists is that looking at screens in the bedroom before going to sleep is bad (the blue light they emit can be arousing), Dr. Basner caveats that for some people, it’s okay to watch a show before bed if it helps with drifting off. For example, people who live in noisy places often report that a soothing show can help mask unwanted noise and allow them to fall asleep, he says. The important thing is to avoid anything loud or exciting, and make sure to use a timer so it turns off after a while, he adds: “Just like the brain needs to recuperate when we’re sleeping, the auditory system also needs to rest.”

Turning off YouTube auto-play, then, is a must for anyone who uses space videos to fall asleep; you want to watch your selected show and drift off—not worry about what your unconscious mind might absorb from an algorithm left to its own devices. Josh Pudlo, who lives in Connecticut, is especially aware of what he’s absorbing in the moments when he’s not quite awake, but not yet asleep. For him, watching space videos just as he’s falling asleep, while he’s straddling the border between conscious and unconscious, is a part of the appeal: “That’s the moment when your mind seems to be open to the idea of anything and everything being possible; you feel like you’re a part of the universe, of the unknown,” he says.

Josh’s favorite YouTube channel is History of the Universe because of the lengthy, detailed videos. “I’m an extremely vivid dreamer,” says Josh, explaining that watching these videos at bedtime often means he’ll dream about the topics, too. “All of a sudden, I’m traveling across the universe in a dream where there are no laws of physics, so the possibilities are endless,” he says. “Without these videos, my dreams wouldn’t be nearly as expansive and immersive.”

Zac Logsdon, who lives in Oklahoma, began to use space videos to fall asleep after being fed one by the algorithm of his TikTok “For You” page; the app now allows videos to go for as long as 10 minutes, giving physicists like Neil deGrasse Tyson and Brian Cox time to ponder the state of our universe. “I don’t have a long attention span, but I was just so drawn in by it, and now, [TikTok] shows them to me all the time,” says Zac, noting that the accidental discovery has been a boon for his sleep. “I have a difficult time shutting my brain off [at night]…My mind races with all the things I need to be doing or problems I need to solve. But watching videos like these helps me realize the insignificance of everything. It allows me to say to myself, ‘This is not a big deal. You’ve got your health, your kids are healthy, you’ve got a roof over your head—go to sleep.’”

For Luke, space videos have become a refuge from a world where people often pretend to have it all figured out. “We know so little, yet as a species, we walk around with such hubris, [telling each other that] if you follow the rules, life will go well,” he says. But in reality, we have so little control over preventing bad things from happening—a fact we’re often reluctant to acknowledge. “We all have a relationship with chaos, but most people just pretend the chaos doesn’t exist,” says Luke. For him, to watch a video about how the Earth will one day be swallowed up by the sun is to place himself in relation to chaos; it’s a way to face the chaos that’s everywhere, but at a safe distance. (After all, we have hundreds of millions of years left.)

Luke’s favorite nighttime YouTube subject is black holes, which reflect the frontier of order and human knowledge—where the laws of physics break down. “My black hole nighttime video routine lets me approach the horizon of knowability with curiosity, and that is empowering,” he says. Ultimately, we’re at the mercy of everything around us; we matter, yet also, we don’t. “Watching these videos makes me feel in calibration with the universe,” says Luke. And with that, he can relax and fall asleep.

“When the tide’s at full force there’s no chance you can swim against it”

Men’s Health, November 2025. PDF here.

Nigel Walley, 61, has been swimming in the Thames since he was a boy and now regularly tackles the iconic river’s tidal section. He explains what it’s like to be in the water as the tide surges. As told to Jessica Furseth .

We went for an hour and a half swim in the Thames the other weekend – I really can’t do that in a pool, it’s so boring. But in the river, it’s just a pleasure. We went up to Kew Bridge and got in when the tide turned, and swam with the tide all the way down to Hammersmith. A lot of it is about managing where you are in the water, as the river does much of the work. A key rule is to make sure you know where you can get out, because when you’re in the Thames, you’re on the river’s territory. 

I’m a Londoner, born and bred in West London. I’m married with two grown kids and I run a tech startup. I still live near the river, in Chiswick, and I’ll swim three seasons out of four, when the water is over 15 degrees. I’ll go in the river two or three times a week, always with friends – it’s crazy to swim alone. 

I mostly swim in the Thames tideway out of Hammersmith – it’s illegal to swim in Central London until you’re west of Putney Bridge. But the Thames is strongly tidal up to Teddington Lock, and the tideway is a difficult bit of water. A lot of people avoid it because the river is strong and surging. There’s a lot of boats and things moored in the river – pontoons, rafts and buoys. Up past the lock, the river is more like a lake. But you really need to keep your wits about you to swim in the tideway.

Swimming the tideway is all about timing. Often we go in at Hammersmith, when the tide’s still coming in. We swim with the tide from Hammersmith up to Chiswick where there’s an ait, an island in the river. If you time it right, the tide dies by the time you get to the end of the ait. We go around it and then the tide starts going out. By the time we’re coming back to Hammersmith, the tide is surging quite strongly.  

If we get the timing wrong, we have to swim the last 100 yards against a tide that’s just turned – it’s amazingly strong. When it’s at full force there’s no chance you can swim against it. One of my earliest memories was seeing a canoeist go under a pontoon in Richmond. He eventually came out the other side, but it was an important lesson in how strong the current is. It’s best not to be anywhere near a moored object, as the river will drag you under.

When I was growing up my parents had a boat on the Thames at Richmond, nothing grand but just something we could take up to Teddington on a Sunday. We’d swim anywhere as kids – there wasn’t the same focus on safety. As I got older we’d have a bit of a swim from Strand-on-the-Green in Chiswick before going to the pub. I was a rower as well, at Thames Rowing Club in Putney. The river has always been part of my life. 

You shouldn’t swim more than ten metres out from the bank in the tideway, and you should never cross the river – this is because of the shipping channel. There’s always boats and rowers in the river and they can’t really see you, and in any case, they can’t stop. You have to stay out of their way. I’ve been lucky that I’ve never had a dicey moment.

There’s a lot of focus on sewage spills into the Thames, so we always check if it’s good to swim. The river has been tangibly cleaner this year since we got the Thames Tideway Tunnel, the sewer diversion around London. But there are still some problem spots. We’re becoming more aware of the Thames as a complex river network.

The river is ours – it’s for all Londoners. One time there was a seal that came and swam with us. That was really special – a seal popping its head up and swimming with you for a bit. That’s how we know the river is mostly healthy. 

The Thames is like a national park that cuts right through the city. There’s something magical about being in the water in the middle of London. On the other side of Chiswick Ait, there are natural riverbanks on both sides and it feels really remote. There’s a real sense of peace, out in the middle of the Thames. We look at cormorants as we swim. And then suddenly, we’re back in Hammersmith again. 

Brev fra Europa

Uncertain States Scandinavia #25 “Europa”, september 2025. Original her (side 2).

Brev fra Europa

Jeg vokste opp i en liten verden, i ei norsk bygd med flere kyr enn folk – naturskjønn, men utrolig kjedelig for meg som tenåring. Vi begynte å lære engelsk på skolen da jeg var ti år, og jeg husker ennå hvor viktig det føltes, å lære dette språket som var nøkkelen til verden. Jeg teipet papir over undertekstene på TV for å oppfordre meg selv til å høre på hva de sa. Uten engelsk, ingen verden.

Jeg reiste fra Norge da jeg var 19, og flyttet til England med to kolli og en studieplass – det var et historisk lykkesøyeblikk, muliggjort av et system satt opp for å oppfordre unge folk til å bevege seg internasjonalt. Dette var rundt årtusenskiftet, mens de fremdeles snakket om «globalisering» som om det var uunngåelig. Vi skulle alle se ut mot verden, og utveksle varer, ideer og mennesker. Jeg var heldig: Lånekassen gav meg utenlandsstipend som dekket alle skolepenger, et studielån som tok seg av boutgifter, og jeg ble uteksaminert med en veldig overkommelig gjeldsbyrde. Foreldrene mine støttet mine internasjonale ambisjoner – de var helt sikkert bekymret, men det holdt de for seg selv, slik at jeg kunne se på verden som en godlynt mulighet full av gode ting som ventet på meg. 

Storbritannia var fremdeles medlem av EU den gang, så det var aldri snakk om grenser eller visum. Det var helt klart en privilegert posisjon – men jeg kjenner så mange som har en lignende historie. Universitetet mitt i England var fullt av europeere som så på utenlandsstudium som mer en en akademisk utdannelse – det var en mulighet for å lære om verden og om oss selv. Det jeg husker best er ikke skole, men oppdagelsen av at ting som jeg trodde var åpenbare og naturlige faktisk bare var kultur. Å bo i utlandet får deg til å se på ting med nye øyne: Er dette bra, eller bare noe jeg er vant til? Er dette noe jeg vil, eller har jeg aldri tenkt over det? Jeg prøver fremdeles å tenke slik.

Jeg har bodd i England i over 20 år nå – jeg kom aldri tilbake til Norge (jeg var nok en dårlig investering for Lånekassen). Men globaliseringa kom aldri – Europa har blitt mer isolasjonistisk, med land som er mer fokusert på sine egne problemer enn «den europeiske storfamilien». Jeg er dobbel norsk-britisk statsborger nå, på grunn av Brexit – jeg har enda ikke helt kommet over sjokket over at åpenhetsprinsippet som var grunnlaget for hele mitt liv, ikke lenger eksisterer, i hvertfall ikke der jeg bor. Jeg hadde ingen anelse om hvor skjøre internasjonale avtaler kunne være før jeg så dem bli skrotet, sånn helt uten videre. Det hadde ikke vært mulig for meg å bli værende i England etter universitetet under dagens immigrasjonsregler, da det ville krevd umiddelbar høytlønnet jobb for å sikre arbeidsvisum. Dette er noe jeg tenker på ofte – hvor stort et tap det er for Storbritannia å ikke lenger la unge europeere komme hit for å «drive dank» – ta sørvisjobber, lage kunst og forme band – slikt som 20-åringer gjør mens de finner ut av livet. Jeg tenker på hvor mange vennskap og ekteskap som aldri blir formet fordi grensene er stengt, hvor mange ideer vi ikke får delt, og hvor mange løsninger vi aldri kommer til å finne fordi vi ikke får sett ting fra andre synsvinkler. Migrasjon har blitt veldig alvorlig og veldig dyrt i Storbritannia, og det har gjort oss fattigere.

I denne utgaven av Uncertain States Scandinavia refererer Terje Abusdal til bevegelsesfrihetens privilegium, som kommer og går. Jernteppet er vekk, men EUs grensekontrollbyrå Frontex blokkerer fortsatt migrasjon fra sør – mennesker mister fortsatt livet i forsøket på å nå et fritt Europa. Dette har alltid vært et kontinent der historien er nær oss – Christian Belgaux snakker om en «Ny morgen i den Gamle Verden» med ekstreme høyrekrefter i tilbakekomst, nye kriger, og som vi ser hos Ada Zielinska og Ingmar Björn Nolting, den daglige hjertesorgen over den politiske uviljen til å takle klimakrisas fulle omfang. 

Prinsippet om bevegelsesfrihet gjør at vi europeere kan flytte oss fritt mellom 29 land uten å føle oss malplassert. Maria Di Stefano gir oss en sterk påminnelse om hvor sjeldent dette er på verdensbasis, i hennes fotografier av tenåringer som nektes europeisk statsborgerskap før de fyller 18 år. Dette gjør at de forblir «utlendinger» i alle sine unge år, og dette vil alltid forme deres selvbilde som europeere, også når de får formalisert denne statusen. 

Å bevege seg gjennom Europa som en person som alltid hører til er et privilegium – jeg forstår dette mye bedre nå, etter at jeg plutselig ble stemplet som «utlending» mens Storbritannia i flere år grublet over hvordan de skulle løse det problemet at de hadde 3,2 millioner europeere boende der, nå i prinsippet uten tillatelse. Mens det foregikk var jeg rasende, men den følelsa som sitter igjen er sorg – over alt som har gått tapt for alle som ikke var like heldige som meg, som opplevde et unikt historisk øyeblikk. Resultatet er at jeg føler meg mer europeisk enn noensinne, og jeg har lyst til å hoppe på et tog, som Amanda Iversen Orlich, og reise sakte slik at jeg kan oppleve hvor stort og variert Europa er. Jeg vil huske hvor heldige vi er, når vi kan krysse en grense og føle oss velkommen.

Why your brain needs silence

Published in New Humanist, Summer 2025 issue, p56-58. Online version.

A moment of silence for my overstimulated brain

My noise cancelling headphones are one of my favourite things that I own. I wear them constantly to listen to podcasts when I’m squeezed in next to strangers on the bus, they enable me to hear my YouTube videos when I’m cooking, and when I need a little boost to go get my steps in, I grab them so I can listen to an audiobook. With the notable exception of the nutters who think it’s okay to scroll shortform videos out loud in public, modern life is increasingly spent in headphones – they represent the option to escape boredom by dipping into the world of entertainment on the devices in our pockets. 

But if I spend every moment outside or work or socialising with something piped in through my ears or eyes – words, music, video, images – what am I doing to my brain? 

This question stood out to me when one day, I forgot my headphones. It was just a little errand, 20 minutes or so, but the experience of what they call rawdogging life – being out there with no buffer – was so jarring that I had to find a bench and sit down for a moment. I was suddenly extremely aware that my brain was receiving no input – I was just sitting there. The thought of having to do the boring errand without entertainment felt frustrating, and I was itching to use this time to continue my audiobook. But when was the last time I’d been bored? 

For a long time, I realised, the only time I was truly free of some kind of input was when I was sleeping, and maybe showering. Modern life means you barely have to go to the toilet without entertainment – not a moment wasted! As I went about my day, the thought stayed with me. I pictured my brain as the spinning beachball of doom, like an old computer straining under too many commands, trying to catch up.  

Because as it turns out, boredom has a very specific function. You don’t have to do nothing for very long before your brain realises it’s an opportunity – let’s daydream, mull over what happened yesterday, ponder about the future! Scientists call this the Default Mode Network, which is the brain state that activates when we’re awake but not focused on anything. As we idle, our minds drift and make unexpected connections – a little boredom may actually be a key ingredient in creativity.

Intrigued, I decided to see what would happen if I spent a little less time listening to podcasters debunking moral panics while folding laundry, and a bit more time in my Default Mode Network. That weekend I went for a long walk in the park, my headphones in my bag like a security blanket. As I made an effort to wear my headphones less in the months that followed, I felt my brain resisting, arguing for some light entertainment. But soon, something remarkable happened: I realised I was feeling less tense, my mood lifted, and I was less irritated by interruptions. I’m pretty sure my memory improved too, and I became convinced this was because my brain had more time to process, so it could put down memories and make connections. My brain was no longer being constantly bombarded with stimuli during my every waking moment, I figured, so it was finally able to rest. 

But is that actually true? To find out, I called Matti Vuorre, an assistant professor at the School of Social and Behavioral Sciences at Tilburg University in the Netherlands. Vuorre studies human nature in the context of how we use digital technologies, and how it impacts our wellbeing and cognitive functioning. Asked why it can be so difficult to just let our phones be, Vuorre says it’s early days for research in this field: “Many would agree with the sentiment that smartphones or social media are negatively affecting their abilities to attend to things. But the studies are much less conclusive.” The notion of an attention span is very difficult to pinpoint with any scientific vigour, adds Vuorre. “But humans have a natural tendency towards curiosity. We need to learn in a similar vein as how we have to eat. So maybe it’s the case that once we have the so-called information superhighway in our pockets, resisting may be difficult.” That’s good news, I guess – I’m not jonesing for entertainment because I lack discipline, but because information and novelty is simply more interesting than silence. 

But then Vuorre drops a clanger: “The brain as a unit of analysis in these questions is actually the wrong thing to focus on.” He explains that we can scan the resting brain in an MRI machine and pick up all sorts of readings, but that doesn’t really tell us anything about human physiology after we’ve been conditioned to using our phones 24/7. “It’s too complicated to quantify at the neural level. So when you say something is doing something to my brain, it’s a bit of a tautology,” says Vuorre. “You might as well say it’s doing something to me.” 

So much for my hopes for a neat answer to what happens to a brain that’s never idle. But maybe it’s a helpful reframing: it’s not that my brain is overstimulated, it’s that I myself simply feel better when I take a walk without headphones – and maybe that’s reason enough? 

In any case, Vuorre says that studying a brain that’s bombarded with stimuli is “not a common experimental setup”, although “the military might have done something in that space”. I’m reminded of the stories of music being used to “break” detainees in Guantanamo Bay, which is an extreme example of sensory overload if there ever was one. But even though it’s definitely a bridge too far to compare actual torture to the brain rot that sets in after too much infinite scroll, the research into the role of music in prison settings does provide a window into what happens when the brain is bombarded with stimuli. According to research from New York University, loud, repeated loud music stops the psychological process of orientation. The brain is constantly working on detecting patterns and making order out of chaos, and 24 hours of Eminem on loop prevents the brain from organising itself – soon, it breaks down your ability to make sense of the world. 

Every generation freaks out about new media. Once we were extremely worried about video games, and what would happen to kids who watched a lot of TV. The initial proliferation of newspapers was maligned for stopping people from talking to each other, and in the 1800s, novels were considered harmful for young women – too many books could inflame passions, spread radical ideas, and make the ladies uppity. By this argument, smartphones are just the newest version of this panic – at least Vuorre seems to think so: “A hundred years from now, some other version of you and me will be having this exact same discussion about some technology that we can’t yet imagine,” he says. “This [conversation] will keep happening.”

But I can’t help but feel that smartphones are actually different. They don’t provide anything truly new, but they’re the first media that we can access anywhere at any time. To have the same experience during my 90s childhood I would have to carry a Discman, CDs and audiobooks, a pocket radio, a portable TV, newspapers, comic books and arts books, a calendar and alarm clock, a set of stationary a walkie talkie, and I still wouldn’t have half the functions of my current smartphone. All of these things existed in the 90s, but because they weren’t in my pocket, there wasn’t the same urge to make use of every moment for productivity and entertainment.  

Whenever I look into getting a dumbphone to free me from temptation, I’m distracted by a desire to keep all manner of apps like the weather, banking, maps, and my meditation timer. So I still have my smartphone and my beloved headphones, but I keep a steely grip on the notifications. Most importantly, I keep my phone out of sight when I want to give my brain a chance to chill – research from the University of Texas at Austin has found that simply seeing your phone can be distracting, even if you don’t pick it up. 

This summer I’ve been walking the Capital Ring around London, and I’ve been deliberately keeping my headphones in my bag until I’m back on the train. It’s just me on those walks, and hours of placing one foot in front of another. I have to say, it’s been some of the best time I’ve spent with my brain, or should I say, with myself.