My laptop just turned seven years old last Thursday. I know this because I’ve had it marked in my calendar as “Laptop Birthday” with a little cake emoji since 2017. My friends think this is absolutely ridiculous, which, fair enough. But we celebrated with a small cleaning ritual—compressed air for the keyboard, microfiber cloth for the screen, and a gentle wipe-down of the case that’s now more sticker than aluminum. I even changed its desktop background to a festive photo of a forest I took last autumn. My flatmate Kate caught me in the act and just shook her head, mumbling something about me being “weirdly sentimental about technology for someone so anti-consumerist.”
But here’s the thing—I’m not sentimental about the laptop itself. I’m celebrating what it represents: seven years of not contributing to the overwhelming environmental disaster that is our tech consumption cycle. Seven years of resisting the siren call of newer, shinier, marginally faster devices. Seven years of saying “actually, this still works just fine” while tech companies desperately try to convince me otherwise.
The environmental impact of our digital lives is something we’ve become remarkably skilled at ignoring. We worry about plastic straws and fast fashion (as we should), but somehow give ourselves a pass on the relentless churn of smartphones, tablets, laptops, smartwatches, wireless earbuds, and the ever-expanding universe of gadgets that have wormed their way into our daily existence. The numbers are staggering when you actually look at them—which most of us carefully avoid doing.
A single smartphone’s production creates around 60-70 kg of CO2 emissions, not counting the mining impact of extracting the 30+ minerals needed to build it, many of which come from conflict zones with appalling human rights records. Most of a device’s environmental impact—about 85-95% typically—happens before it even reaches your hands. That sleek box you eagerly unpack carries a massive ecological debt that’s already been paid by the planet.
I fell down this particular rabbit hole five years ago when researching an article about e-waste. The statistics haunted me for weeks afterward—500 million smartphones discarded annually, less than 20% properly recycled, toxic components leaching into soil and groundwater at processing sites typically located in countries with minimal environmental regulations. Even when recycled, we recover only a fraction of the precious materials used. It’s a staggeringly wasteful system by design.
Around that time, my phone screen cracked after an unfortunate encounter with my kitchen floor. The Apple Store genius (a job title that continues to make me cringe) informed me with practiced sympathy that repair would cost nearly as much as a new phone, strongly implying that upgrading was the sensible option. “Plus, the camera is so much better on the new model,” he added, clearly following a script designed to overcome hesitation.
I almost went for it—that’s how powerful the upgrade treadmill psychology is. But standing there, I remembered the factories in China, the mines in Congo, the e-waste processing in Ghana. “I’ll just get it repaired,” I heard myself saying. The genius (sorry, can’t type that with a straight face) looked genuinely confused, as if I’d responded in an alien language.
That moment became something of a turning point for me. I started researching repair options beyond official channels and found a wonderful independent shop run by a woman named Meena who fixed my screen for a third of Apple’s quote. While waiting, I noticed a poster on her wall showing how to extend device lifespans. We got talking, and I ended up interviewing her for my blog. She became my gateway into the world of digital minimalism and sustainable tech use.
The concept is simple but revolutionary: What if we treated our devices as durable goods meant to last many years instead of disposable products to be upgraded whenever a company releases a marginally improved version? What if we reclaimed the right to repair, upgrade, and maintain our technology instead of surrendering to planned obsolescence?
This approach requires both practical skills and a mental shift. On the practical side, I’ve learned basic maintenance that significantly extends device lifespan. Regular digital decluttering prevents the software bloat that eventually makes every device feel sluggish. Cleaning vents and fans prevents overheating. Proper battery management (not constantly charging to 100% or letting it drop to zero) can double battery lifespan. These aren’t complex tasks—they’re the digital equivalent of changing your car’s oil regularly instead of running it until the engine seizes and buying a new one.
I’ve also embraced the repair movement with unexpected enthusiasm. I own a precise set of screwdrivers designed specifically for electronics, which makes me feel like some kind of tech surgeon when I use them. My first internal repair was replacing my laptop’s battery in year four—a procedure that required watching three YouTube tutorials and sweating profusely through the entire 20-minute process. But the satisfaction of closing that case and seeing my computer spring back to life with a healthy battery was genuinely thrilling.
Since then, I’ve graduated to more complex repairs. I’ve replaced a cracked screen on my e-reader, swapped out a failing hard drive for an SSD (which actually made my ancient laptop faster than when I bought it), and performed emergency surgery on my mother’s water-damaged phone (success rate: partial, but it bought her enough time to backup her photos). Each repair feels like a small act of rebellion against a system designed for disposal.
Of course, hardware is only half the story. Software obsolescence can kill perfectly functional devices when companies stop providing updates or intentionally slow older models. This is where open-source software has become my unexpected ally. When my first-generation iPad became unusable with Apple’s newer operating systems, I almost relegated it to the drawer of forgotten tech. Instead, I found it could have a vibrant second life running alternative operating systems designed for older hardware.
Learning to install and use Linux was a minor revelation. The ancient laptop that my brother was about to throw away now runs a lightweight Linux system that’s perfect for writing, browsing, and basic tasks. It won’t run the latest games or edit 4K video, but it handles 95% of what most people actually do on computers perfectly well. I’ve since become something of an evangelist for Linux, rescuing aging laptops from friends and family and giving them digital second lives.
The mental shift required for digital minimalism is perhaps harder than learning technical skills. We’ve been programmed (quite literally, through billions in marketing) to equate new technology with progress, happiness, and social status. Breaking free from that conditioning means questioning assumptions that have become almost invisible to us.
For instance, do you really need a device that’s 0.02 inches thinner but can no longer be repaired because everything is glued together? Is a marginally better camera worth the environmental cost of manufacturing an entirely new phone when your current one works fine? Does having last year’s model actually impact your life in any meaningful way?
I’ve found that adopting a more intentional relationship with technology actually enhances my appreciation for it. My seven-year-old laptop isn’t just “making do”—it meets my needs perfectly because I’ve customized it, upgraded the components that matter, and maintained it carefully. There’s a satisfaction in this approach that’s completely absent from the endless upgrade cycle.
This doesn’t mean never buying new technology. My work eventually required more processing power than my ancient desktop could provide, so last year I did purchase a new computer—but only after exhausting upgrade options for my existing one and researching the most repairable, upgradeable options for its replacement. I chose a modular desktop from a company that explicitly designs for longevity and repairs. It cost slightly more upfront but is designed to last a decade through component upgrades rather than wholesale replacement.
The financial benefits of this approach are obvious. The average person now spends thousands annually on technology that rapidly depreciates. By extending device lifespans and making deliberate purchases, I’ve reduced my tech spending by roughly 70% compared to my previous habits. That’s money that goes toward experiences, savings, and occasionally splurging on really good cheese (everyone needs priorities).
But the sustainability impact is what really matters to me. Every year I extend the life of my devices represents resources not extracted, emissions not produced, and waste not created. It’s one of the most direct ways I can reduce my environmental footprint in our digital age.
I’ve also found unexpected allies in this approach. The right-to-repair movement has gained remarkable momentum, with legislation advancing in the EU and even making progress in the traditionally corporate-friendly US. Farmers demanding the right to fix their own tractors have found common cause with smartphone owners tired of being told they can’t replace their own batteries. Independent repair shops like Meena’s are creating jobs while keeping devices out of landfills.
There’s also a growing community of people sharing knowledge about maintaining and repairing technology. I’m part of a monthly Repair Café in Bristol where people bring broken items—from toasters to tablets—and volunteers help fix them. The joy on someone’s face when their “dead” device comes back to life is genuinely moving. It’s also created connections across generations; I’ve learned incredible repair techniques from retired engineers in their 70s who approach electronics with a “of course you can fix it” attitude that predates our throwaway culture.
Naturally, tech companies aren’t thrilled about this movement. They’ve lobbied aggressively against right-to-repair legislation, designed products with deliberate obstacles to repair, and even programmed devices to detect and disable third-party replacement parts. Apple particularly deserves special mention for pioneering new anti-repair techniques with each product generation, like using proprietary screws or serializing components so replacements won’t work without official authorization.
But the tide seems to be turning. Even Apple has begrudgingly introduced repair programs (after fighting legislation that would require them), and modular, repairable designs are becoming selling points for some manufacturers. Framework’s laptops, designed from the ground up for repair and upgrade, sold out their initial production run completely. Fairphone has proven there’s a market for smartphones built around repairability and ethical material sourcing.
My personal approach to digital minimalism has evolved over time. I’m not perfect—I still get twinges of desire when a shiny new device is released. But I’ve developed a set of principles that help me navigate technology more intentionally:
First, I extract maximum value from what I already own through maintenance, repair, and creative reuse. My old smartphone now serves as a dedicated e-reader and music player, extending its useful life.
Second, when I do need something new, I research repairability scores (iFixit.com is brilliant for this) and choose devices designed to last. I’m willing to pay more upfront for longevity and repairability.
Third, I question whether software could solve my problem before buying new hardware. Often a different application or operating system can breathe new life into existing devices.
Finally, I properly recycle technology that truly reaches end-of-life through specialized e-waste programs, never in general trash. Though recycling is still deeply flawed, it’s better than landfill.
Last month, a colleague noticed me using my “ancient” laptop during a conference and laughed, asking when I was finally going to join the modern age and upgrade. Without thinking, I replied, “This is the modern age—an age where we can’t afford to treat complex, resource-intensive tools as disposable.” He looked startled, then thoughtful. A week later, he messaged me asking for recommendations on where to get his cracked phone screen repaired instead of replacing it.
Small victories, I suppose. My laptop and I will celebrate our eighth birthday next year, probably with a RAM upgrade as a gift. Kate will continue to find it weird. And I’ll continue to believe that in a world of accelerating consumption, sometimes the most radical act is simply keeping what you have, taking care of it, and being content with enough.
