The continuity of life makes it hard to believe there are young Americans alive today with zero memory of the Muslim attack on September 11, 2001. Just like my grandparents' generation could never forget Pearl Harbor, 9/11 seared itself into the national soul. Those of us who watched the towers burn live on TV, glued to the screen for days, felt the raw uncertainty: planes turned into weapons, fellow citizens dying by the thousands in the name of Allah. Only about 3,000 perished thanks to the raw heroism of firefighters, police, first responders, and everyday citizens who ran toward the fire.
For kids born around 2001 or later, it's abstract history—like December 7, 1941, was to me growing up. They can't imagine a world without smartphones, social media, GPS, streaming, Amazon, YouTube tutorials, or immersive games that make the old Asteroids arcade cabinet look like a fossil.
But we lived that world. Pre-9/11, even pre-Y2K whimper, life moved slower and quieter—not because we were saints, but because the noise wasn't constant. No 24/7 news cycle blasting fear. No pocket device feeding you endless dopamine hits tailored to keep you scrolling.
Car breaks down on the interstate? No AAA app. You walked miles to a payphone, fed it quarters, hoped it wasn't coated in whatever germs the last user left behind. Need directions? Unfold the ripped paper map from the glove box, squint at faded lines, guess your exit, stop and ask strangers politely. Face to face. No anonymous trolling, no keyboard courage. Piss someone off in person, and you might catch a fist—real incentive for common decency. We called it "agree to disagree" because the alternative hurt.
Long-distance calls cost a fortune—dollars per minute. You talked fast or not at all. Landlines had rotary dials or push buttons; miss a digit, hang up and start over. Phone books were thick, smudged tomes with tiny print. You scrolled alphabetically like a caveman.
Stimulation? You earned it. Football games, rock concerts, discos, bowling alleys, pickup sports, playing in a band, racing cars, enlisting and serving, standing for the anthem, pledging allegiance, celebrating Christmas even if you weren't Christian. You visited friends unannounced—knocked on doors, shoveled driveways or cut lawns for $10 cash. No likes, no followers, just real human contact.
The last century wasn't utopia. Free speech means every American thinks the next one is an asshole sometimes. But the brain was quieter. No algorithm echo chambers trapping you in rage loops. No constant barrage of notifications hijacking your attention.
Then came smartphones and connectivity. I love the convenience and hate the intrusion. It's annoyingly useful, wonderfully invasive. Algorithms feed you more of what you "like," building perfect cages of confirmation bias.
That's where Shedooby comes in—your personal digital drill sergeant for an 8-week Mind Camp. No, you don't ditch the phone (you need it to run the app). But you lock down social media completely. No alcohol. Zero excuses.
You set three concrete goals: one professional, one personal (a hobby, skill, something meaningful), one physical fitness. For 56 days, you train willpower like basic combat training. Say no to instant gratification. Shut off the cheap dopamine pipeline that's really just marketing to sell you more shit. (I'm a die-hard capitalist—free markets built real prosperity; socialism is poison—but even I know when the game's rigged against your focus.)
Shedooby isn't for wimps or the easily offended. It's for people with the guts to face themselves without distractions. It's nostalgia for how we used to live—focused, disciplined, human—and a sampling for the young: prove you can disconnect, recalibrate, and still thrive.
Enlist. Complete the mission. Emerge harder, clearer, in command of your own mind.
Drop the excuses. Your 8 weeks start now.
(Disclaimer: Consult a doctor before any major lifestyle change, especially if alcohol dependency is involved.)