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New York —

With our homes and lives swarming with AI-powered devices, assistants and chatbots, a backlash is brewing.

Pitched as “analog lifestyles,” it’s different than a short-term digital detox. Instead, it’s an effort to slow down and find tangible ways to complete daily tasks and find entertainment, especially as generative AI platforms increasingly do the thinking and doing for us.

It’s hard to quantify just how widespread the phenomenon is, but certain notably offline hobbies are exploding in popularity. Arts and crafts company Michael’s has seen the effects: Searches for “analog hobbies” on its site increased by 136% in the past six months, according to the company, which operates over 1,300 stores in North America. Sales for guided craft kits increased 86% in 2025, and it expects that number to go up another 30% to 40% this year.

Searches for yarn kits, one of the most popular “grandma hobbies,” increased 1,200 % in 2025. Michael’s chief merchandising officer, Stacey Shively, told CNN that the company plans to dedicate more store space for knitting materials.

More people are using crafting as a mental health break to get away from doomscrolling, especially after the Covid-19 pandemic, Shively said.

“I do think it’s this really big cultural shift happening right now,” she added.

Spurred on by the trend, I wanted to try it for myself. For 48 hours, I lived like it was the ‘90s.

Logging off for just two days sounds easy. For most, it probably is. For me, it meant ditching my three iPhones, one MacBook, two even bigger desktop monitors, a Kindle, an Alexa — and the primal Gen-Z urge to swipe between all of them.

Before embarking on my journey, I spoke to regular analog-ers to get some inspiration. If you want to reach Shaughnessy Barker, a 25-year-old in Penticton, British Columbia, you’ll have to ring her landline.

Like many preteens in the 2010s, Barker’s introduction to the internet was through “stan Twitter” for British boy band One Direction. But she says that as she’s gotten older, “everything is meant for profit (on the internet) and nothing is meant to just be for enjoyment anymore.”

The transition to an analog lifestyle wasn’t difficult for Barker, who describes herself as an “AI hater to my core.” She grew up listening to the radio and vinyl records, and she has an extensive collection of cassettes, DVDs, VHS and records. She hosts tech-free craft nights and wine nights, writes notes, and sets limits on her computer time.

The biggest jump came when Barker bought an adapter to use a landline at home and a “dumb phone” app when she’s out.

If you want to get a hold of me, Barker told her friends, call me or write me a letter.

But even for Barker, it’s become increasingly difficult to go completely offline. For example, the only way she can do outreach for her vintage shop or her “snail mail club” is the internet.

“I’m a walking oxymoron being like, ‘I want to get off my phone and I’m going to make TikToks about it,’” Barker said.

Analogers are tired of doomscrolling and AI slop, or just frustrated that ChatGPT and other generative AI services are doing the thinking and creating for us.

“AI slop is quite fatiguing both in the actual action of viewing the content and the fact that it’s so repetitive, so unoriginal,” Avriel Epps, an AI researcher and assistant professor at the University of California Riverside, said.

It doesn’t mean swearing off all technology, and analog participants don’t say they’re anti-technology. Some people have simply picked up parts of the lifestyle: For example, replace Spotify and the AI-powered shuffle with an iPod. Instead of snapping a million photos in the same pose (guilty), slow down and take a film photo you can hold in your hand. Even small acts like buying a physical alarm clock can feel liberating.****

“Going analog is not necessarily about cutting myself off from the information on the internet, but it’s more so about cutting the internet off from the information about me,” Epps said. She recently got off the Google suite and does screen-free Sundays.

The morning was easy enough on my first day offline. I woke up naturally with the sun, cosplaying a lifestyle influencer: I journaled, opened up an old copy of “Wuthering Heights” and got ready in half the time I usually do. I didn’t have time to find an old iPod or VHS player, so I depended on crafting and reading to get through the days.

My biggest issue was the feeling that I was putting on a performance.

I was writing about this for a digital media publication and speaking to people I found on social media. I also chose the easiest replacements for digital life; I knew writing out my grocery lists would be way easier than choosing to never FaceTime my family again.

Still, on my tech-free walk into the office, I noticed how many other people were screen-free. Usually, I would sidestep the tourists gawking at skyscrapers, but this time I followed their gaze. On this clear day, the Empire State Building truly did look glorious.

When I attended a weekly knitting circle at a Brooklyn library during my two-day challenge, women of all ages were swapping stitch tips and color ideas — screen-free. In the warm room of roughly 20 people, everyone remarked how they used their knitting time as a way to decompress.

“Knitting gives you something to do with your hands so you’re not on your phone,” Tanya Nguyen, a regular knitter at the event, said.

My own day freed up so many minutes to finally get through “Wuthering Heights,” send my 8-year-old cousin a postcard and perhaps, after about a dozen more knitting lessons, make that scarf. I felt like I accomplished something outside of work and a bright blue screen.

Like so many people in my generation, I just needed a TikTok trend to tell me to do it.

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