Against the backdrop of disillusionment, the lure of my old life began to sneak up on me, even after a good ten years. Rena and I went away for a few days to celebrate my birthday, and one night while we were away, I had this sudden, gnawing urge to watch something from my childhood. And we did, a show from the ’90s that was really okay.

That should’ve been that. We came home, and I got on with Plan B, copywriting and content writing. But that urge was still there. I’d sit at the dining room table, laptop open in front of me, ostensibly working, but busy with other things more often than not. There was a whole world at my fingertips. I remembered the excitement of the shows I’d watched as a kid. It had been years, decades, but suddenly I needed to see them all over again; had they put out another episode? Another whole season? How had the actors come along?

That night we’d spent watching one show on vacation proved to be only the beginning, and now, I was spending hours watching old shows, basking in the joy of old familiarity: a line, a joke, a song I could hum along to.

Nothing was really unclean, it was all fairly innocuous, but it was heady, bringing me back to a time and place when life was carefree, when I had no responsibility — and a part of me hankered for that.

It had been a rough year. I was left with the scars of my ill-fated teaching fling and the pressure of needing to provide for my family. I had to squeeze money from a crowded field, where you could be taken advantage of if you didn’t really know what you were doing, where you could spend more time networking than working.

The computer is where the work is, but it’s also where the distraction is, and almost anything can be justified on account of building your business, even a little “coffee break” here and there. And when it wasn’t the shows — that were clearly an escape — it was LinkedIn where I stumbled.

LinkedIn is designed to entrench you. The numbers and goals keep rising: Congratulations, you have 30 connections, now on to 100, how fast can you get there? I justified the time spent endlessly scrolling as necessary for work; the topics all seemed pertinent to my field, but there was so little value in the feeds, in the mounds of opinions.

Although LinkedIn was the extent of my social media use, it was enough to give the yetzer hara the foothold he wanted. I was writing content for a website at a super-low starting rate, and I found the work wholly unmotivating. Desperate for distraction, I kept checking LinkedIn. Any new notifications? New comments? New clips? And the clips led me to YouTube, where it was really a losing battle.

One clip morphed into the next, and time slid down the drain.

I was home, on the computer, when my son Shimmy came home from school.

I quickly shut the computer.

“Hi, kiddo, how was school?”

He smiled, got himself a cookie, and when he went to read a book, I escaped, taking the laptop and closeting myself in my bedroom.

“Tatty’s busy,” I said through gritted teeth, when I heard Shimmy calling me.

Sometimes I’d catch myself — Is this impatient bear really me? — but most times I was back to the screen so fast, I didn’t have a moment to take stock.

And it wasn’t all bad. I built a network of many frum connections on LinkedIn, which did prove valuable, I started a Zoom shiur, and I led a kumzitz online during lockdown. It was the gray that threw me off, though, that kept me from just upping and leaving.

Sometimes I didn’t recognize myself, the person I’d become. There was this relentless buzz inside me. I’d stand in shul, holding a siddur, and the words blurred; I couldn’t focus on davening like I used to. I’d open a sefer and read through a few lines, steeling myself to focus, but there were notifications flashing in my brain. I was a man consumed.

One long night after coming home from singing at a wedding, I did a quick check-in on LinkedIn and ended up scrolling into the wee hours of the morning. When I woke up there were two urgent messages waiting for me. My brother had texted me to call him immediately, and there was a voice mail from my mother: “Call me.”

I dialed my mother. Her voice was shaking.

“Abba stopped breathing, Baruch Dayan HaEmes.”

“What?”

My father had had colon cancer, but the doctors had predicted that he had a while. And now he was gone.

I spent shivah in a daze. I didn’t touch the computer or LinkedIn. I was disgusted at myself for frittering away time mere minutes before Abba passed on. If they were to call me just like that from On High, I thought, what would I say? That I’d spent x number of hours on LinkedIn? That the squandered hours were the cost of the field?

A small voice whispered that I’d once wanted to be a rebbi. I’d trained, I had it in me. But after my first dismal experience, did I want to try again? And where would I even start to look?

For now, I started to make boundaries with Internet use. I resolved not to use the computer after nightfall, not on Erev Shabbos or Yom Tov, not on Chol Hamoed, and not in front of the kids.

I was starting to gain some control, but I was still stuck. Some nights when I felt like I really needed to air out, I found an excuse to take out the laptop. I watched more Jewish-related content, but I knew I was still wasting time. It was hard. I needed to do something more concrete if I wanted this to last.

On Lag B’omer I was in Skver. The news of the Meron tragedy had reached us, and our hearts were heavy.

After Maariv, I watched as some people got kibbudim because of safeguards they made in areas of technology use, and something started to shift internally.

What if I too…? Some feeling possessed me, and I silently said, “Hashem, if You help me become a rebbi, I’m going to get rid of my LinkedIn.”

And just like that, the words were out.

About a month later, I was working on an article when I got a call from an acquaintance.

“Are you looking for a job for next year?”

“Well, maybe,” I replied cautiously.

“You might have heard I’m becoming the menahel in another mosad,” he said. “I’m leaving my position as first-grade rebbi and I’m looking for a replacement.”

I closed the laptop and started pacing the room. I hadn’t told anyone I was looking for a job in the classroom, I hadn’t actively job searched, and now this guy was calling…. He worked in a well-known school, and first graders sounded a lot less threatening than the boys from my sixth-grade stint.

I forced myself to restrain my racing thoughts. It’s just an offer, I told myself. He said he’d mention my name to the menahel. I opened my laptop and got back to work.

The school called to schedule an interview a few days later. The meeting went well, but I still didn’t want to get my hopes up. I waited a few days, trying not to make too much of it, but the promise I’d made back on Lag B’omer hovered in my consciousness. Maybe…? And then the answer came. The menahel invited me for a meeting and formally offered me the position.

I left his house, breathed in the evening air, and looked Heavenward. I had to do my part. Get rid of my LinkedIn account.

Rena wisely suggested that I not make a brouhaha by posting publicly about my decision. I sent some private goodbye messages to a few connections and let them know I was leaving LinkedIn to become a rebbi. They bade me well, and with a sigh, just like that, I deleted my account.

I waited a few days for withdrawal to hit, but all I felt was freedom. There were no notifications to check, no invitations or pressing messages waiting. My mind was free and clear.

I thought it would be harder, that I’d miss the click-click-click and the reality-escape videos, but I found that the lure is only there as much as you’re in it. I was out. It wasn’t an option, and I couldn’t be bewitched from the outside.

I started the school year holding my breath, but gradually I relaxed. I realized I could do this; it was worlds away from those sixth graders. I saw what fulfilment could look like. I’d taken one huge leap by deleting LinkedIn, and Hashem was helping me along.

Recently, a fellow chassid told me about an initiative: Give a kvittel to the Rebbe with the names of the chassidim who’d committed not to watch any videos or clips for the next two years, excepting parnassah purposes. Where just a few months prior it would have been inconceivable to me, now I could consider it. After giving it some thought, I joined.

And like after deleting my LinkedIn account, I found the draw to the screen is when you’re there. I hardly missed watching — not the shows I’d briefly fallen back into, and not those short clips. It was something I was no longer doing, and that was that.

Now, during the weeks of Shovavim, I’m taking it further. No news sites, even the frum ones. What I need to know I’ll hear already, I found myself telling Rena.

Then I laughed. That sort of comment was so not me, not by a long stretch. But maybe it now was.

I’m doing what I couldn’t imagine a year ago, even a month ago. I’m living pis’chu li pesach k’chudo shel machat… and watching in wonder how far He can take me.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 896)