My poor children have been the subject of all of my experiments.

Hearken, O children of ages yet unborn, and listen to the words of Shonda Rhimes, who speaks of her household as both laboratory and sanctuary: “My poor children have been the subject of all of my experiments. We're still doing what I call 'Amish summers' where I turn off all electronics and pack away all their computers and stuff and watch them scream for a while until they settle down into, like, an electronic-free summer.” In these words lies the profound truth that discipline, reflection, and liberation are often intertwined, and that even in play or protest, there emerges growth and understanding.

Consider first the act itself: the deliberate removal of electronics and digital distractions. In a world dominated by screens, constant communication, and endless streams of data, Rhimes’ practice recalls the ancient wisdom of retreat. Philosophers of old, from Diogenes wandering with his lamp, seeking truth in simplicity, to the Stoics who practiced withdrawal from excess, understood that the mind and spirit must sometimes be unshackled from external noise to achieve clarity and strength. The children’s initial cries are not rebellion but the stirring of awareness—the discomfort that precedes growth.

There is a duality in this experiment: it is at once discipline and liberation. As the children scream and resist, they confront the absence of devices that have long dictated attention and emotion. In this confrontation lies a lesson as old as the human story: to find balance, one must occasionally endure the withdrawal from that which has become habitual. Just as monks in monasteries renounce worldly pleasures to cultivate insight, so too do these “Amish summers” create a space for focus, imagination, and human connection.

The tale resonates with the story of the Renaissance scholar who, amidst the rise of printing and early scientific instruments, would retreat into silent chambers to read, reflect, and write by candlelight. Surrounded by a world of burgeoning technology and distraction, this scholar, like Rhimes’ children, learned that true creativity and resilience arise when one is forced to confront oneself, unmediated by tools or conveniences. The struggle against immediate gratification becomes the forge of character.

Rhimes’ words also speak to the necessity of parental guidance and intentional action. In an era where children are immersed in digital landscapes from infancy, the hand of the mentor, the parent, or the guide is required to instill mindfulness and autonomy. The “screaming” is part of the process, an echo of human resistance to change, yet within it lies the eventual settlement—a quiet awakening of the self unbound by the flickering glow of electronics.

From this, a lesson emerges that transcends time: balance is cultivated through deliberate withdrawal and attention to presence. To embrace the world fully, one must occasionally step away from the devices that mediate experience, to speak, play, and think without intermediaries. The children, initially resistant, learn to inhabit their own imaginations, to connect with one another, and to develop resilience in the face of discomfort.

Practical action flows naturally from this wisdom. Schedule periods of digital silence, both for yourself and for those in your care. Encourage walks, storytelling, reading, and creative play. Allow discomfort to arise, knowing it is the herald of growth. Teach that tools serve humans, and not the reverse, and that freedom often emerges in the spaces created when screens are set aside.

Finally, remember the eternal truth: the path to wisdom, creativity, and connection often requires intention, patience, and courage. Like Shonda Rhimes’ “Amish summers,” these periods of intentional withdrawal are not punishment but liberation, not deprivation but awakening. By embracing silence, presence, and mindful engagement, one cultivates strength of mind, richness of imagination, and depth of human connection, leaving a legacy of resilience and balance for generations to come.

If you wish, I can also craft a narration-ready version of this reflection, with natural rises and falls, evoking emotion, humor, and the heroic undertones of the lesson.