The Art of Going Offline: What Iceland Taught Me About Being Present

I didn’t go to Iceland looking for a digital detox. I went because it is one of those places that has been on my bucket list for a very long time.

Volcanoes, glaciers, hot springs, skies that glow. I wanted to see the wonders of Iceland, properly and completely, and I assumed my phone would come along for the ride, as it always does.

What I didn’t expect was the realisation that some places ask something different of you. Not more content, not better angles, but your full attention.

The night we saw the Northern Lights started quietly. At first, they looked like pale grey clouds stretched across the sky, almost unremarkable. You could only really see the colour if you lifted your phone, took a photo and checked the screen. The green smears appeared there first, glowing faintly through the lens. It felt like a cheat code, proof that something special was happening even if your eyes couldn’t quite catch it yet.

Then slowly but surely...

The lights intensified, growing brighter and more vivid until they were suddenly undeniable. Colour filled the sky in a way that felt unreal, almost confrontational. This wasn’t the subtle version you scroll past online. This was the rare kind you can see clearly with the naked eye, the kind people travel across the world hoping for and often miss.

That was the moment I put my phone away.

I felt emotional in a way that surprised me. Not teary exactly, but overwhelmed. Like, my brain couldn’t quite process what my eyes were seeing. It felt bigger than documentation, bigger than proof. Standing there, I realised that no photo could capture the scale or the feeling of it.

The sky moving above you, the cold air, the quiet awe shared with strangers. It deserved more than a quick snap and a caption drafted in my notes app.

Later in the trip, the same instinct surfaced again at Sky Lagoon. I could have taken my phone in. Plenty of people did.

Phones raised carefully above the steaming water, people checking screens, adjusting angles, making sure the moment looked as good as it felt. I stood there weighing it up, already imagining how good it would look on Instagram, before deciding to leave my phone in the locker.

It was my choice, but it felt almost like a relief.

Without my phone, I didn’t have to worry about dropping it into the water or whether the light was good or if I’d posted too much already that day. I could just float. I leaned into the heat, the sound of the water, the slow passing of time. Being offline forced me to be present in a way that felt rare and intentional. Relaxation didn’t need to be productive. It didn’t need to be shared.

I think part of this comes down to how our generation experiences things. We see something beautiful, and our instinct is to capture it immediately. Not always for ourselves, but for everyone else. Proof that we were there. Proof that the trip was worth it. Proof that we’re living.

There’s an unspoken question that hovers over modern travel. What’s the point of flying all the way from Australia to Europe if you don’t shout it from the rooftops on social media?

But Iceland made something very clear to me. Some natural wonders are so vast and layered that even the best camera cannot do them justice. The photos flatten them. Strip them of their weight. They become content instead of experiences.

What surprised me most was how peaceful it felt to stop trying. After taking a photo or two, it felt almost respectful to really observe what was in front of me. To look longer. To notice details. To let the moment exist without turning it into something else.

At home, my phone is everything. Clock, map, planner, entertainment, connection. It fills the quiet spaces automatically. Waiting becomes scrolling. Silence becomes something to fix. Iceland disrupted that rhythm, not by force, but by offering something better.

This isn’t about abandoning technology or pretending we don’t live online. It’s about intention. About recognising when a moment asks for your presence instead of your proof. About remembering that some experiences are meant to be consumed fully, not uploaded.

Iceland reminded me that the world still has the power to interrupt us. Not with notifications, but with moments so beautiful they make documentation feel unnecessary.

Sometimes the most meaningful response is to put your phone away and let yourself be there.

M x