Permission to Disappear

Last week, I disappeared.

No email. No social media. No news. No texts.

Just me, an island, and the quiet hum of real life.

Before I left, a friend challenged me—not just to unplug from work, but to disconnect from everything.

All of it,” he said. “No notifications, no news, no scrolling. Just go off the grid completely.”

I hesitated. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I knew exactly what would happen:

That twitch in your hand when you reach for your phone without realizing it.

That half-second panic—What if someone needs me?

That voice in your head that says, You’re not allowed to disappear.

But I said yes.

I told a few key friends when I’d be gone, gave them the hotel info in case of a real emergency, moved all my messaging apps off my home screen, and once I checked in at the airport… airplane mode stayed on. My phone went into the hotel safe. Done.

I only took it out twice to snap a few photos on diving trips—and even then, it stayed in airplane mode. For five out of seven days, I didn’t carry it at all.

I read books in hammocks under palm trees. I napped when I felt like it. I watched the sky change colors without needing to capture it. I met people. I had real conversations. I remembered what silence sounds like when it’s not trying to keep up with the noise of the world.

And I realized something:

This wasn’t about the phone. It was about permission.

Permission to disconnect from noise.

To connect with people.

To meet my own life again.

On our diving boats, I started talking with other travelers. A couple from the UK on their honeymoon. Backpackers from Ireland and Canada. An Italian sailor and his wife, who now own the hotel where I was staying—stranded there during the pandemic and never left.

Every conversation started with one thing: curiosity.

No scrolling. No distractions. No performance.

And presence.

I didn’t miss the world. I missed myself.

Every night, I met someone new. And one night, I did something different.

I walked into a restaurant alone. Sat down. Ordered a drink. And then I looked around and saw what I often see now: people at different tables, also alone. Eyes flicking up, then back down to their screens. A glance. A pause. Silence.

And I felt it—that tug.

The same feeling I challenge my workshop participants to lean into when I talk about real leadership.

The desire to connect.

The fear of bothering someone.

That moment when connection is waiting on the other side of your hesitation.

I could have stayed seated. I could have kept sipping my drink. But I knew something about myself:

The only thing worse than someone saying no… is the regret I’d feel if I didn’t try.

That feeling? It eats me alive.

So I got up.

I approached each solo diner—two women and one man—and asked if they’d like to join me at a table together. The man politely declined. The women smiled and said yes.

And just like that, we created our own little table of three. We talked for hours—about life, travel, fears, joy, the ridiculous beauty of meeting strangers in faraway places. We laughed. We listened.

The tropical heat, barbecue smoke drifting in from the kitchen, fans whirring overhead, reggae humming in the background.

It was… perfect.

And the reason it happened?

Because I had no excuse not to act. No phone to rescue me. No screen to hide behind.

Just presence. Just people.

I tell clients all the time: if you want deeper relationships at work, connection doesn’t come from strategy. It comes from taking the first step.

Connection doesn’t require a plan. It requires courage.

Not every moment will be perfect. Some people will say no. But someone else might say yes. And behind that yes could be a spark that changes everything—even if just for one short lunch hour.

Most people do want to connect.

They’re just waiting for someone else to go first.

Be that person.

And if your hesitation shows up in real-time—try this:

5... 4... 3... 2... 1... go.

It’s a tool I’ve used and shared with clients who overthink or hesitate when it matters most. The Mel Robbins countdown gets you out of your head and into action. Whether it’s starting a tough conversation, asking someone to join you for lunch, or closing your laptop and walking out the door on time—five seconds of courage beats a lifetime of regrets.

Now, if you're wondering whether this kind of disconnection is even possible in your role—whether your team, your business, or your inbox can survive without you—here’s the uncomfortable truth:

If your company can’t function without you for a week, it’s not just a systems issue. It’s an identity issue.

You haven’t empowered your team—or you’ve made yourself too central.

That’s not leadership.

That’s ego disguised as being indispensable.

Since coming back, nothing’s changed in the world.

The news is still dramatic. The emails are still waiting. The headlines are still loud.

But I’m different.

I came back clearer, calmer, more alive. Not because I worked harder—but because I disappeared long enough to return to myself.

And here’s what I learned:

You can’t be present and productive at the same time.

You can’t connect when you’re constantly “on.”

And you can’t discover the magic of a moment you’re too busy trying to capture.

So if you’ve been feeling tired, disconnected, uninspired—don’t assume it’s burnout.

Maybe it’s just time to get quiet again.

To connect with the people around you.

And more importantly—with the part of you that’s been buried under the noise.

So here’s your challenge:

Turn it all off.

Take the trip.

Talk to the stranger.

Be the one who says hi first.

Because what’s waiting for you on the other side of disconnection isn’t silence.

It’s everything that actually matters.

Toward the end of the night, one of them suggested we exchange numbers.

“Sorry, no phone,” I said.

So we did it old school—we asked the bartender for a pen and a napkin.

I folded it carefully, put it in the hotel safe next to my phone, and smiled.

Until next time 👋🏼

Love 💙 Roberto

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