I Quit My Group Texts to Save My Social Life

Did you know that if you want to quit a group text, your iPhone makes you click a button that reads, in cautionary red type, "Leave this Conversation" not once, but twice? After you tap it, a second box pops up like an error message, and you have to hit it again—the same way the villain in a sci-fi movie has to turn a series of dials to detonate the big bomb.

It's probably just a way to prevent people from accidentally hitting the button with their clumsy little fingers, blasting themselves into social isolation by mistake. But when I made the very deliberate decision to leave all my group texts one recent night, the second "Leave this Conversation" felt more like a warning.

I'd been thinking of quitting my group texts for more than a year and, fuelled by a resolution to diminish screen time (and a little wine), I finally worked up the nerve to do it one night in January. I wanted to see if it'd ease some of my (very millennial) phone anxiety. Studies have shown that "over-dependence" on smartphones leads to increased stress, but let's be real, I don't need peer-reviewed research to know my own phone is making me anxious. My work day, like most people's, is already overrun with tiny red notifications yelling at me to respond, and watching messages pile up throughout the day was adding unnecessary stress-fuel to the fire.

But I also wondered if my group texts were giving me an excuse to be incredibly lazy in the friendships I consider to be my best. Yeah, we're all in near-constant contact, but scrolling through my messages, I realized I rarely texted anyone individually anymore. When I had news, I blasted it to the thread to save time. When I was bored and wanted company, I dropped a deeply impersonal, "What's everyone doing?" in the group—basically the platonic version of a "u up?" I felt like sending an occasional response cleared the bar for "good friend," and when I didn't reply enough, I felt guilty. What used to be a way for us to stay in touch felt increasingly pointless.

Making My Anxious Exit

The thing is, I had friendships before iMessage made mass texting incredibly easy in 2015. I hung out with people before all planning happened in a giant thread of people asking, "OK, so what time?" So, after harnessing some wine-induced courage, I tapped "Leave this Conversation" twice for each of the four chats I was in. I'd toyed with various versions of goodbye, something like: "Hey guys!!!!! Nothing personal but I'm leaving all my group texts for work/to feel less stressed about my phone. DON'T FORGET ABOUT ME!! ILY BYE!" But everything I typed felt stupid and overdramatic. I chose to bail without comment.

It was harder than I thought. My first worry was that my sudden dip from the conversation would make it look like I didn't want to be part of the group in real life, or like I was somehow ~too cool~ for the mass text. A few days after I left, a source (aka someone still in the convo) told me that people noticed I'd left and texted within the group about it. She asked if anyone had reached out to me—these were my closest friends—but no one had. Which made me feel weird, like when you leave a room and know the people still inside are gonna start talking about you the second you're gone.

Open invites to shit-talk aside, the rest of my concerns were classic FOMO—that I'd miss out on the happy hours and hangs that come together last minute in a group text. That's what I'd always liked the threads for—their efficiency in quickly arranging an activity, as opposed to casual banter throughout the workday. In that way it felt selfish to leave, like asking people to send a special invite to me, the only one not in the chat.

Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me???

Panic first struck on a three-day weekend, less than a week into my post-group text life. On Sunday evening, I realized I'd only seen two friends (for brunch that morning) and started picturing all these cozy hangouts in bars everyone must be having without me. I held strong and refrained from asking someone to add me back and, instead, decided to text a friend individually to check in with her.

I started noticing how quiet my phone was at unexpected times—like when I was at a work event where I didn't know anyone and wanted a chatty group text to distract me, but had no notifications to respond to. Instead, I scrolled mindlessly through my e-mail. I got upset with myself so I put my iPhone away and tried to be "more present." I realized how silent my cell was again one day at work when I had a quick dating-related question I wanted to run by a lot of people at once...before realizing that wasn't allowed on my no-group-thread diet.

After two weeks, I panicked that this stupid thing I'd done was actually going to wreck my friendships. But I panicked more over the thought that, if a fucking thread was the only thing maintaining these relationships in the first place, we were ever that close at all? Only one friend from my abandoned convos had reached out to ask when I was coming back, giving me the disturbing reminder that life (and group texts) really does go on without you.

I sent a few desperate messages to people I'd only really ever communicated with in the threads—things like checking in with a friend about her work drama—that I previously would've dropped in our group. My irrational anxiety worried that my unexpected text would freak her out or that she wouldn't respond. But she did, and kindly. I mean, of course she did! We're friends! Something inside my brain realized how broken it'd become. I'd been relying on my group chats for so long, they'd morphed from helpful tools to full-on social crutches that kept me from texting some of my favorite people on my own.

So, Like, Should You Try This?

It wasn't all doom and gloom. Instead of texting a thread, "Who's gonna be there?" before a recurring Tuesday night happy hour, I just showed up and was pleasantly surprised when some friends were there. Even better, we actually had stuff to catch up on. I spent a couple of cans of beer talking with a guy friend about things that were common group text fodder, like who he'd been dating and how my relationship was going. It felt good to have the conversation in person without already having gone over the highlights digitally earlier in the week.

It was, of course, also nice to cut down on my notifications. Not once during my group-free month did I look down and see more than four or five unread messages—which, yes, felt nice, although it's not like I noticed my shoulders were suddenly more relaxed or anything.

But as a stubborn Aries who wanted this to be the Best. Thing. Ever. and spent weeks proselytizing about it to friends, it pains me to say I don't know if I'd recommend quitting your group texts. It's been a month, and I'm not really sure what's next: Do I go back? Am I even allowed to? Do I need to beg for forgiveness? The constant notifications are annoying, but do not disturb exists for a reason—and I didn't realize how much I enjoyed laughing along to the ridiculous shit my friends say until I removed myself from the conversation.

One recent Saturday morning, three weeks sans group text, I woke up to a message from a conversation I'd forgotten to leave. It used to be incredibly active—it's how the five of us kept in touch when we moved to different cities—but it had been so dormant I didn't even notice it on my cleaning spree.

The message was nothing important—just a photo of a woman with 30+ bridesmaids that a friend had seen on Facebook, thought was funny, and wanted to share. The others sent back equally nothing texts: "Oh my God," "Imagine having this many friends," et cetera. I thought about leaving—did this sully my monthlong experiment of going group free?—but decided to reply instead. "Holy shit hahhahahahaha," I typed, and pressed send. Sure, it didn't mean anything, but it felt good to be included.

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