If you’re not careful, failing to defend your own focus might just be the most consequential case you ever lose.
The word vice traces its roots to a Latin word meaning “fault, defect, or failing.” Ancient Rome described moral corruption, physical flaws, or legal defects—any deviation from an ideal state. Roman law recognized vice not just as a personal failing but as something with legal consequences, influencing everything from contract disputes to criminal sentencing.
Over time, the word traveled into Old French as a vice, keeping its association with moral weakness and depravity. By the time it entered Middle English in the 14th century, it had solidified into a habitual moral failing, particularly one tied to indulgence, excess, or unethical behavior.
Long before we had devices, we understood vices as something to resist, something inherently undesirable. And yet, many of us dive headlong into both vices and devices. Even when we know it isn’t good for us. Even when we want to stop. I know that my vices ruled my life for a long time, and even now I must stay mindful of how I use my devices and how I frame my other “vices” as well.
The connection between vice and device is linguistic coincidence rather than etymological design, but their correlations feel undeniable. Devices, created as tools for innovation and progress, can just as easily become instruments of indulgence and dependency. You reach for your phone without thinking—me, you, everyone. It’s always there, waiting, glowing with what feels like possibility. A notification pings—you get a small hit of dopamine, an ounce of validation, and inevitably a tug of curiosity. You tell yourself it’s just for a second. Yet time stretches, minutes vanish, and before you know it, you’re lost in a loop.
A good lawyer understands that a contract is only as strong as its weakest clause—one overlooked loophole, and suddenly, what seemed like a protective agreement becomes a trap. Likewise, your relationship with technology depends on the agreements you make with yourself. Are you in control, or have you signed away your autonomy without even realizing it?
Lawyers are particularly susceptible to habits that may enhance their billable hours but destroy their balance and well-being. This can be just as much a vice as anything else. The notion that short-term suffering is justified for long-term gain is endemic in the legal profession. The problem is that the short-term suffering continues to be the focus of a law practice and the long-term gain is negated by all of that suffering. This is a counterintuitive vice that can wreak as much havoc on mental and emotional well-being as drinking or gambling.
Vices don’t announce themselves. They creep in through repetition, slipping into your habits under the guise of convenience or entertainment. What begins as a useful and fun tool morphs into dependency. The moment you wake up, your hand reaches for your phone. The moment you sit alone with your thoughts, the screen beckons.
Without intervention, habits deepen, carving well-worn grooves of dependence. Any good defense attorney knows that precedent matters—what has been established is harder to undo. The same is true for the patterns of your mind. Without deliberate effort, your habitual responses solidify into something as binding as case law.
We used to wait—in lines, at bus stops, at restaurants—without phones in our hands. And we were fine. Some would argue we were better off. Even in conversation with loved ones, your mind can itch toward the digital world, half-present, half-elsewhere. Yet we don’t call it a vice. We call it being informed, staying connected, maximizing productivity, and “taking a break.”
But what if you paused? What if you looked at your device not as a given but as a choice? What if, instead of letting it pull you, you placed it down with intention, reclaiming the space it quietly steals? Your mind is not meant to be filled with the noise of a thousand voices at once. Your presence is not meant to be fragmented. A device should serve you, not the other way around.
Your brain is wired for efficiency. It craves patterns, automates behaviors, and seeks rewards. Every time you reach for your device, your neural circuitry is playing out a well-rehearsed script—one designed to keep you engaged, often at the expense of your own awareness. Dopamine, your brain’s motivator, surges with every notification, every scroll, every tap.
Not because the content is inherently valuable, but because it’s unpredictable. The brain loves unpredictability. That’s why slot machines are addictive. Why infinite scrolling keeps you hooked. Each swipe, each refresh, holds the promise of something new, something exciting, something that might just be worth your time. And so, you go back for more.
Yet, your brain is highly adaptable. Just as it learns patterns, it can unlearn them. Awareness is the first step—recognizing the difference between intentional use and reflexive reach. The second step is interruption. The simple act of pausing, questioning, choosing. Each time you resist the automatic pull of your device, you rewire your brain toward autonomy rather than addiction.
Blaming your device for distraction is like blaming a bottle for alcoholism. The tool itself is neutral. It’s how you engage with it that gives it power. A device can be a portal to knowledge, a way to connect, and a means to create. It can also be an escape hatch, a numbing agent, a black hole for time and energy. The same screen that lets you learn a new language can also feed endless loops of comparison, outrage, or emptiness.
The difference isn’t in the device. It’s in you. A lawyer knows the power of interpretation—how the same set of facts can lead to vastly different outcomes depending on the argument made. Likewise, the role your device plays in your life depends on how you frame it. Is it a tool for growth, or an instrument of distraction?
Every moment spent scrolling, clicking, or watching feeds a system that profits from your distraction. If you don’t take ownership of your attention, something else will. A good lawyer fights to reclaim what’s rightfully theirs. Perhaps, in this case, your mind is your greatest case to win.
Your brain was not designed for this level of stimulation. The constant influx of notifications, news, and entertainment overwhelms your cognitive load, leaving little space for deep thought, creativity, or presence. The more fragmented your attention becomes, the harder it is to focus, to reflect, to engage meaningfully with the world around you. Over time, this rewires your neural pathways, making instant gratification the norm and sustained effort feel impossible.
Mindfulness is not about rejecting technology—it’s about reclaiming agency. It’s about noticing when you’re reaching for distraction out of habit rather than choice. It’s about creating space for stillness, for discomfort, for thoughts that aren’t immediately answered by a Google search.
In a world designed to keep you constantly engaged, the ability to step back, to be fully present, and to direct your own attention is not just a luxury. It’s a necessity. And if you’re not careful, failing to defend your own focus might just be the most consequential case you ever lose.
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