One of my distinct memories of childhood is the “computer room”. When I was young, computers weren’t a ubiquitous feature of our lives; they were bulky appliances with a fixed location, and you had to go somewhere to use them.

At home, it was my parents’ study. The first computer I remember using is their iMac G3, which is about as portable as a small tree.

At my grandparents’ house, it was their office in the corner of the house. Their desktop PC was far from the kitchen, bedrooms, and living room, sandwiched between the coat rack and the washing machine.

At school, it was classrooms with computers shoved in haphazardly, maximising the number of screens above all else. Outside the IT department, computers had their own desks. If a teacher wanted to use the computer in their classroom, they’d get up from their regular desk and move to the computer chair.

Even in buildings which didn’t have a dedicated room, computers still had a fixed location. If you wanted to use a computer, you had to go to it – whereas today, computers follow us around.

The laptop was the first device to test the walls of the computer room. Early laptops were limited compared to desktop computers – they were slower, battery-constrained, satellite devices to your main machine. If you wanted files on your desktop to be available on your laptop, you had to copy them manually using a floppy disk or a flash drive. You could use them to work from the sofa or the kitchen table, but they were so compromised that it was rarely your first choice.

Over time, laptops got better. They got faster processors, better battery life, and wireless networking. Laptops became more convenient for more types of task, and soon they were good enough to be your primary computing device.

Laptops promised a previously unknown level of computing freedom, the idea that you could now work from anywhere – a beach, a coffee shop, a couch. We welcomed the change, because the physical constraints of a desktop computer suddenly felt like an unnecessary friction.

Yet, some physical restrictions remained – laptops were still heavy and bulky objects. They were something you had to carry in bags, and not something you’d take out casually. There were lots of places where you’d never see or use a laptop.

Smartphones followed a similar trajectory to laptops. Early models were compromised, limited, and companion devices to “real” computers. I still remember what a big deal it was when Apple announced that iOS 5 would allow you to set up an iPhone without plugging it into a computer first – something we take for granted today. Over time, smartphones evolved in capability and performance, and for many people a smartphone is now their primary computing device.

The smartphone could go places the laptop never could – pockets, bathrooms, bedrooms. The compact size meant they could be carried anywhere, and in previously computer-free spaces it became easy to glance down at your phone. Computers had well and truly escaped the boundaries of the “computer room”, and could go with us practically anywhere.

The miniaturisation required for smartphones allowed tech companies to take this even further, and is now used in wearable devices like watches, glasses, and pins, allowing computers to maintain a permanent physical presence in our lives.

The cost of convenience

Unlike many trends in consumer technology, the shift towards portable computing wasn’t forced upon us by tech companies; it was something we actively welcomed. We fell in love with the convenience. The ability to work from a coffee shop, watch TV in bed, or answer messages on. a packed commuter train made computers more useful.

The smartphone tooked this further, pairing portability with consolidation. A single multipurpose device could fulfil the functions of a dozen single-use gadgets. The logic seemed sound: why carry a separate iPod, camera, dictaphone and notebook when one pocket-sized device could do all that, and more?

I don’t want to underplay these benefits – these changes have made computing more affordable, accessible, and useful. It would be disingenuous to argue that things were better when I was younger, or to suggest that we all go back to desktop towers. But this trend isn’t all good, and recently I’ve been more aware of the downsides.

Making computers more portable didn’t just make it easier for us to get to digital services; it made it easier for digital services to get to us.

Mediated by the smartphone, apps and websites now have a permanent, physical presence in our lives. A notification can reach us at any time, in any place – a phantom tap on the shoulder, distracting us from the physical world. These surfaces have become weaponised, and enormous resources are spent on designing addictive environments to maximise the time we spend within them.

I see the effects of this in my own behaviour. I check my phone every few minutes, not because I’m expecting a message, but because I’m waiting for that next dopamine hit. It’s become a reflex, a digital itch I’ve been trained to scratch, whether or not there’s anything worth seeing. When nothing arrives, I fill the silence with scrolling. I cycle repeatedly through the same few sites, looking for something new, glancing at content for seconds before moving on.

We’ve never found ourselves in a more aggressive information environment, and the physical proximity of our devices makes it hard to escape. This assault on our attention is not something our brains have evolved to cope with.

I don’t want to deny the benefits of portable computers, or the freedom of unshackling ourselves from a desk – but increasingly I find myself wishing for the walls of my childhood computer room. I long for the boundaries it once enforced, and the physical restrictions it put on the competition for my attention.

Rebuilding the walls

Over the last year, I’ve been trying to re-introduce those boundaries in my own life.

I’ve always been very strict about what apps can send me notifications – only things that really demand my attention. That includes messages from people I really care about, on-call pages from work, and extreme weather warnings. Breaking news, chatty group chats, and in-app marketing don’t make the cut.

I wore an Apple Watch for a while, primarily for the health features, but even with my limited notifications, it still became a distraction. Too many quiet moments with my partner were disturbed by a gentle buzz from my wrist – tiny demands for my attention that just weren’t worth the interruption. I’m currently trying a screenless fitness tracker, which sits silently on my wrist and never demands my attention.

My primary computer is now a desktop with a large monitor, and I’m fortunate to have a room I can use as an office. I also have a laptop, but I only use it when I leave the house – otherwise, it lives in a drawer under my desk.

My phone lives on a charging stand in my office, and I leave it there when I sleep. I also leave it there when I’m around the house, if I’m not waiting for something immediate like a phone call. I’ve actually taken to wearing skirts and dresses that don’t have pockets while I’m at home, to remind me to leave my phone at my desk.

There’s a growing trend among Gen Z to resist the all-in-one allure of the smartphone, and go back to dedicated devices. They’re swaping their smartphones for single-purpose tools like point-and-shoto cameras or dedicated MP3 players, devices that lack the ability to receive notifications. I haven’t gone that far yet, but it’s something I’m considering.

My computers are no longer something that follow me around – they’re confined to one room, and they can only get my attention when I’m in that room and working at my desk. The rest of the time, they can ping as loudly as they like, but I won’t hear it.

Since I started making these changes, I’ve felt calmer and more relaxed, especially when I’m at home. I can focus on the things that actually deserve my attention – cooking a meal, reading a book, chatting with my friends, playing on the sofa. I’m less worried about the distraction of my digital devices, or the effect it has on my life.

The computer room disappeared because we wanted more convenience, more ease, and less friction in our computing lives. But after a year of rebuilding those walls, I’m reminded that friction isn’t always a bad thing – it slows me down, but it also slows down the companies competing for my attention.

I don’t mind the extra steps it takes to reach my computer; I’ve become grateful for the distance. When I walk into my office and sit at my desk, I’m choosing to be there. When I walk away, I have a door I can close, and a life outside the room that the digital world is no longer allowed to reach.