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When I was a child, I consumed novels until my eyes grew hazy. Once my exams came around, I demonstrated the stamina of a monk, revising for hours without a break. But in lately, I’ve watched that capacity for deep concentration fade into infinite scrolling on my device. My attention span now shrinks like a slug at the touch of a thumb. Engaging with books for pleasure feels less like nourishment and more like endurance training. And for someone who writes for a living, this is a professional hazard as well as something that made me sad. I wanted to regain that cognitive flexibility, to halt the brain rot.

So, about a year ago, I made a modest vow: every time I came across a word I didn’t understand – whether in a book, an article, or an overheard conversation – I would look it up and record it. Nothing elaborate, no leather-bound journal or stylish pen. Just a ongoing record kept, ironically, on my smartphone. Each seven days, I’d spend a few moments reviewing the collection back in an attempt to lodge the vocabulary into my memory.

The record now spans almost 20 pages, and this tiny habit has been quietly transformative. The benefit is less about peacocking with uncommon adjectives – which, to be honest, can make you sound unbearable – and more about the cognitive exercise of the ritual. Each time I search for and record a term, I feel a faint expansion, as though some neglected part of my mind is flexing again. Even if I never use “phantom” in dialogue, the very act of noticing, documenting and reviewing it breaks the slide into inactive, superficial attention.

There is also a diary-keeping aspect to it – it acts as something of a journal, a record of where I’ve been engaging, what I’ve been thinking about and who I’ve been listening to.

Not that it’s an simple routine to maintain. It is often very impractical. If I’m reading on the subway, I have to stop mid-paragraph, take out my phone and enter “millennialism” into my Google doc while trying not to elbow the person pressed against me. It can slow my reading to a frustrating speed. (The Kindle, with its built-in dictionary, is much easier). And then there’s the reviewing (which I often forget to do), conscientiously browsing through my growing word-hoard like I’m preparing for a word test.

Realistically, I integrate perhaps 5% of these terms into my daily conversation. “unreformable” made the cut. “mournful” too. But the majority of them remain like museum pieces – admired and listed but seldom handled.

Still, it’s made my mind much keener. I find myself turning less often for the same tired handful of adjectives, and more frequently for something exact and strong. Few things are more satisfying than unearthing the exact term you were seeking – like locating the lost puzzle piece that locks the picture into position.

In an era when our devices drain our attention with relentless effectiveness, it feels rebellious to use my own as a tool for slow thought. And it has given me back something I feared I’d forfeited – the joy of engaging a intellect that, after a long time of slack browsing, is at last stirring again.