I remember the first time I strapped on my Apple Watch. It felt like the future had finally arrived, right there on my wrist. Messages lit up instantly, my heartbeat pulsed across a glowing screen, and a gentle vibration reminded me to stand, breathe, move. It was dazzling. It was empowering. It was… everything.
Or so I thought.
Over time, the magic dulled. What once felt like freedom slowly became a leash. Each ping pulled me away from my own thoughts. Each “health score” began to dictate how I felt, regardless of how my body actually did. It wasn’t just a watch anymore—it was a constant reminder that I wasn’t doing enough.
That’s when I began to wonder: Was my watch serving me, or was I serving it?
The Seduction of Smartwatches
There’s no denying the brilliance of the Apple Watch. It’s like having a tiny Swiss Army knife strapped to your wrist.
• Quick replies to messages while walking through the city.
• Heart-rate alerts that whisper you’re alive and being cared for.
• A gentle nudge when you’ve been sitting too long.
It was efficiency, safety, and health all rolled into one. At first, I loved that reassurance. But slowly, the reassurance turned into dependence. And dependence turned into noise.
The Noise Beneath the Glow
The truth is, smartwatches never let you rest. A text from a friend interrupts dinner. A Slack ping slices through your thoughts. Even sleep is scored, rated, quantified—like you’re never simply allowed to just be.
And then there’s the pressure. The little colored rings you’re supposed to close each day. The silent judgment of a low “sleep score.” The feeling that if you’re not moving enough, not breathing deeply enough, not performing enough—then maybe you’re not enough.
It’s subtle, but it’s exhausting. And one day I realized: my watch wasn’t helping me live better. It was making me live smaller.
A Different Kind of Time
That realization led me to an automatic watch. At first, it felt almost… primitive. No apps. No heart monitor. No messages. Just hands circling a dial.
But then, something happened.
I noticed the quiet tick of the movement. I felt the weight of steel and sapphire against my wrist. I realized it wasn’t asking anything of me—it was simply existing with me. My motion kept it alive, and in turn, it reminded me: time is not a notification. It is presence.
Unlike my Apple Watch, this one would never become obsolete in three years. With care, it could outlive me. It could be passed on, scratches and all, carrying the stories of my days long after I’m gone.
That’s not just a device. That’s a companion.
Smartwatch vs Mechanical Watch: A Personal Reckoning
| Apple Watch (Smartwatch) | Automatic Watch (Mechanical) | |
|---|---|---|
| Power | Needs charging daily | Powered by your movement |
| Lifespan | 3–5 years | Decades, generations |
| Experience | Notifications, apps, metrics | Time, silence, presence |
| Emotional Value | Disposable gadget | Heirloom, memory, story |
My Return to Silence
The Apple Watch once made me feel efficient, modern, unstoppable. But efficiency isn’t the same as fulfillment.
When I look at my automatic watch, I see something else:
• A piece of art, not a gadget.
• A heartbeat of gears and springs, not a glowing screen.
• A companion that ages with me, instead of expiring on schedule.
And most importantly: I see myself. Not a score, not a notification, not a step count. Just me, here, now.
Choosing Time, Not Tech
Switching from an Apple Watch back to an automatic watch wasn’t a rejection of technology. It was a choice. A choice to own my time, instead of renting it to algorithms and alerts.
It was the decision to measure moments, not metrics. To carry not just a watch, but a story. To live in time, not on a timer.
And that, I’ve learned, is a kind of freedom no smartwatch can offer.