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When I was a child, I consumed books until my eyes blurred. When my GCSEs came around, I exercised the stamina of a ascetic, revising for lengthy periods without a break. But in lately, I’ve observed that ability for deep concentration dissolve into endless scrolling on my phone. My focus now contracts like a slug at the tap of a thumb. Engaging with books for enjoyment seems less like sustenance and more like a marathon. And for someone who creates content for a living, this is a occupational risk as well as something that made me sad. I aimed to regain that cognitive flexibility, to halt the mental decline.

So, about a year ago, I made a modest vow: every time I encountered a term I didn’t understand – whether in a novel, an piece, or an casual conversation – I would research it and write it down. Nothing elaborate, no elegant notebook or stylish pen. Just a ongoing record maintained, ironically, on my phone. Each seven days, I’d devote a few moments reading the collection back in an attempt to imprint the vocabulary into my recall.

The list now spans almost 20 pages, and this tiny habit has been subtly life-changing. The payoff is less about showing off with uncommon descriptors – which, let’s face it, can make you appear unbearable – and more about the mental calisthenics of the practice. Each time I look up and record a word, I feel a slight expansion, as though some neglected part of my brain is stirring again. Even if I never deploy “eidolon” in conversation, the very act of noticing, documenting and reviewing it breaks the slide into passive, semi-skimmed attention.

There is also a journalling aspect to it – it acts as something of a diary, a record of where I’ve been engaging, what I’ve been pondering and who I’ve been hearing.

Not that it’s an easy habit to keep up. It is frequently extremely inconvenient. If I’m engaged on the subway, I have to stop mid-paragraph, take out my device and enter “millenarianism” into my Google doc while trying not to elbow the person pressed against me. It can slow my pace to a frustrating speed. (The e-reader, with its integrated lexicon, is much easier). And then there’s the reviewing (which I frequently forget to do), dutifully browsing through my growing word-hoard like I’m preparing for a word test.

Realistically, I integrate perhaps five percent of these terms into my daily speech. “unreformable” made the cut. “Lugubrious” too. But most of them remain like museum pieces – admired and listed but rarely handled.

Still, it’s made my mind much keener. I find myself turning less often for the same overused handful of descriptors, and more often for something precise and strong. Rarely are more satisfying than unearthing the exact term you were seeking – like locating the missing puzzle piece that locks the image into position.

In an era when our devices drain our attention with relentless efficiency, it feels subversive to use my own as a tool for slow thinking. And it has given me back something I worried I’d forfeited – the pleasure of engaging a mind that, after years of lazy scrolling, is at last stirring again.