A gecko broke my iPhone.
Well, technically I broke my iPhone, but the gecko started it. I was about to sit down on my lanai sofa when this smug little lizard popped his head out from between the cushions. I startled like a cartoon character, and my phone launched from my hand, landed face-down on the cement, and cracked into a spiderweb of regret.
No big deal. I have Apple Care because I plan ahead for things like unexpected reptilian sabotage. I booked an appointment with the Genius Bar, and the Apple employee smiled that Apple smile and told me they’d have my screen fixed good as new in a couple of hours. But first, a diagnostic test to make sure the lizard hadn’t damaged the innards of the phone. (This is a sentence I never imagined typing.)
Now, here’s where things spiraled. I’m a beta tester for Apple’s iOS—because clearly I’m elite—and apparently, my fancy unreleased software didn’t play nice with their diagnostic tool. Long story short, my phone had to be wiped and reset to factory settings.
No problem, I thought. It was only 1:00PM and my phone would be ready by 3:20PM. I’ll just drive home and come back.
Except I couldn’t drive home. I own a Tesla. And my Tesla key? Yep. It’s my phone.
Cue mild panic. But wait! I also have an Apple Watch with the Tesla app.
Except that didn’t work either because my watch is tethered to the phone that just got Thanos-snapped back to factory default. My Apple Watch was now just a glorified bracelet that told the time.
So I was stranded at the Apple Store. No phone. No car. No ability to contact anyone. But it’s fine—I’ll just use one of those glorious showroom iMacs and log into my iCloud to send a message.
Plot twist #17: Two-factor authentication.
Apple sent the security code to my device. The one they just wiped. My phone. Which no longer exists as far as the digital universe is concerned.
Maybe my spouse could see the code on our home computer! Great idea! One problem—I had no way to tell her that. Couldn’t email her either because my Google account is also secured with two-factor authentication. That code? Sent to my phone. Which, as you may recall, had been lizard-bombed into oblivion.
Okay, new plan: social media. I’ll message her there. Except I couldn’t remember any of my passwords because I rely on Face ID and Thumbprint ID like the tech-zombie I’ve become. After several incorrect guesses, I got locked out of Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter.
I was marooned. On a desert island made of brushed aluminum and minimalist lighting. I was thirsty, hungry, alone, and probably visibly sweating in the Apple Store.
To pass the time and avoid full existential collapse, I pulled up Wordle on Safari. My go-to starter word is “penis” because it makes me laugh and I have the emotional maturity of a 13-year-old. I shielded the screen to avoid judgment from nearby strangers who didn’t ask for this level of honesty.
Then—salvation. I remembered I had just joined BlueSky, the new Twitter. AND I remembered the password. I messaged my spouse with a dramatic SOS about being stranded in a first-world apocalypse.
Her response? “I’ll unlock the Tesla from my phone and put it in Valet Mode. You can drive home.”
She’s brilliant. Maybe she should work at the Genius Bar.
I walked to my car, which opened like magic, and drove home. In silence. Because Spotify and Apple Music live in my phone and my phone was still a blank slate. It was just me and my thoughts.
Terrifying.
That 20-minute drive felt like the Oregon Trail. I made it home with no music, no memes, no GPS. Just sheer willpower and the realization that I don’t know how to function without the tiny rectangle that controls my car, my calendar, my passwords, my friendships, and honestly, my identity.
That brief disconnection sent me spiraling into a dark question: What if a gator eats my phone next time? I live in South Florida. This isn’t some hypothetical sci-fi scenario—it’s Tuesday.
So now I’m buying an Apple Watch with cellular capabilities. Because apparently the solution to being too dependent on technology… is more technology.
And while we’re on the topic of chaos and cracked screens, let me slip into my “fun-at-parties” persona for a second: Have a plan. Seriously. Write down important phone numbers. Keep a physical list of passwords and key information in a safe place. Teach your family a contingency plan—where to meet or how to check in if tech fails. Because if a natural disaster, cyberattack, or gator-related incident knocks us offline, “just text me” won’t cut it. I’m all for optimism and laughing through the absurdity of it all, but preparedness is the grown-up version of optimism. It’s not paranoid—it’s disruptive foresight. You’re still cool. You’re just also ready.
And that’s where the real lesson emerges:
We’ve built our lives around convenience, and now we don’t know how to exist without it. What started as tools to make life easier have become the very systems that run our lives. Our cars don’t start without them. Our homes don’t unlock. Our relationships depend on emoji reactions and typing bubbles. We’ve outsourced our memory, our connections, and our sense of direction to machines.
Here’s the uncomfortable truth:
If tech went down tomorrow—cyber attack, solar flare, zombie uprising—we wouldn’t even know how to find each other.
We’ve engineered the world to fit in our pockets. But we forgot to build a backup plan when that pocket rips.
So here’s your disruption challenge:
Take one day to live like your phone doesn’t exist. No apps. No autopilot. Just you, unplugged. Notice how it feels. Notice what you reach for. And then ask yourself if the convenience you’ve gained has come at the cost of something more essential.
Because it’s not just about the lizard or the iPhone.
It’s about who we become when the signal drops.
*Before you go: If you like this post, would you consider sharing it? I’d love to grow my tribe of disrupters and you sharing is the most powerful endorsement.
