Whenever I sit in any waiting room, I have a ritual that makes the time go by faster. I pick a letter of the alphabet and scroll to the corresponding contacts on my phone, painstakingly deleting the entries of people I haven’t spoken with since I retired.
It’s a weird ritual, but oddly satisfying. What surprises me most are the names that stir nothing—people I genuinely have no recollection of at all. That’s strange, because I’m meticulous about how I enter contacts. I never just type a first name. Like, ever. My system includes a full name, an organization, and often a note reminding me how we met.
I once shared contacts with my wife, but had to veto that arrangement because her phone is littered with entries like “Rick.” That’s it. Just Rick. The fury of such a thing. Hence, we now operate as separate entities in the contact universe.
But my little waiting-room purge isn’t just a digital cleanup; it’s an emotional audit. Sometimes I stumble upon a name that transports me back to another chapter of my life. Many are from my years in policing. Colleagues I knew intimately, worked beside for decades. And yet, when their names flash across the screen, I feel nothing. They’ve become strangers who once had recurring roles in my story but now only make cameo appearances in my memory. Their season ended. And that’s okay.
Then there are the contacts that don’t even warrant a walk down memory lane. No image. No flicker. Just a name and a company. I hold down the entry, hit delete, and when my iPhone asks, Are you sure? I am. With unshakable conviction.
Other names make me pause. I open their contact card and try to remember the last time we connected. Was it me who initiated? It usually was. I’ll scroll through our message history and find that every exchange is me checking in, me facilitating the “buddy check,” me keeping the connection alive. Their responses are polite but hollow. “We should get together soon.” Those words are the currency of avoidance, and I’ve learned not to assign them value.
There’s a certain type of person who never meets you halfway. You’re always the one going to them, literally and figuratively. Over time, I’ve stopped giving discounts on intent and now place a greater value on effort and action. If they wanted to, they would. No one is that busy. No one is that important. It’s not personal; it’s just data. And sometimes, data tells you it’s time to delete.
Still, I hesitate. Because what if one day they do reach out? What if I delete them and get a random “Hey!” text, forcing me into that awkward “New phone, who is this?” dance? I hate that game. So sometimes, I let them stay. Ghosts I can’t quite let go of, names I revisit during future purges, hoping maybe this time they’ve earned a sequel.
Then there’s the “good riddance” category. A small but deeply satisfying collection. Some were contacts of convenience, people I needed to communicate with for professional reasons. Others were friends turned foes, casualties of promotion or principle. When I moved up in rank, some couldn’t handle decisions that didn’t favor them. They vanished, leaving resentment in their wake. Deleting those names is cathartic. A reminder that their chapter closed exactly when it should have.
And finally, there are the neutral ones—the “someone I used to know” crowd. People who drifted in and out of my life without drama or damage. I smile when I see their names. We shared a moment, a season, a purpose. Our paths intersected, and then they diverged. Delete. Not with sadness, but with gratitude for the cameo.
A friend of mine has her own system. She checks text threads on birthdays. If the last message was last year’s birthday wish, she deletes. Brutal, but efficient. When she told me that, I checked a few of my own and realized some friendships exist entirely in the “Happy Birthday!” archives. It’s a clean metric, but I’m softer. I don’t erase those just yet.
My waiting-room ritual is oddly therapeutic. It reminds me that not everyone is meant to stay in the story. Some people are written in pencil for a reason. Others are written in ink. Either way, it’s healthy to edit.
Because the truth is, life only has room for so many recurring roles. The cast changes. The set evolves. And clearing out the extras makes space for the people who still show up, who bring depth, energy, and mutual effort to the scenes ahead.
It’s not about erasing people. It’s about releasing them. Making space for connection that’s real, reciprocal, and worth keeping.
That’s the beauty of disruption. It’s not just breaking things apart; it’s clearing the clutter to make room for what matters next.
If this resonated…Forward it to someone — Help me grow our tribe of disrupters!
🖤 Onward and upward,
Kristen
