Today, young adults like me would rather text for three hours straight, send fourteen voice notes in a row, FaceTime our best friend while lying upside down on the bed, and schedule Zoom calls for work, but we would not, in our wildest dreams, pick up an incoming phone call. When the phone rings, the brain has one response: pure, immediate fight-or-flight. The sound of a ringtone feels less like communication and more like a crisis alert.
For most Gen Z, phone calls feel like an ambush. They demand emotional presence. They require us to show up at a moment we didn’t choose, at a pace we didn’t control. And how can a generation that is already emotionally depleted be spatially or mentally present on command? Phone calls cannot be drafted, edited, fine-tuned, or rephrased. There’s no backspace. No deleting your voice note mid-sentence. They require live performance, and we have grown up communicating in a world where asynchronous conversation is the default. We think before replying. We curate our words. We pace our tone. A phone call takes that safety net away.
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And this isn’t just dramatic exaggeration, it’s conditioning. Phone calls feel confrontational because they are immediate. A ringing phone is like someone barging into your living room without knocking, insisting on a conversation you did not schedule. Every time the phone rings, the brain assumes the worst: is it going to be a problem, request, responsibility, or confrontation?
Calls are rarely neutral. They almost always come with an undertone of duty or demand. Parents call to check in, correct, interrogate, or assign tasks. Relatives call to judge or offer unsolicited life advice. Unknown numbers are either scams, banks, telemarketers, or some delivery agent telling you, “Madam niche aa jao”.
Messaging, in contrast, hands us control — of tone, timing, distance, and energy. A call is chaos entering our day uninvited, but a message is a polite knock. We have grown up in a visual-first, text-first culture with WhatsApp, Instagram DMs, Discord channels, and voice notes. Messaging is our mother tongue. Calls sometimes feel like artefacts of a past era.
The Gen Z guide to unwanted calls
How we handle those incoming calls is, frankly, comedy gold. When the phone rings, our first instinct is paralysis. We stare at it like it’s an enemy, a ticking emotional bomb. Once it stops ringing, we send a casual “What happened?” as if we were very busy (we were not). To make the lie believable, we wait a strategic fifteen minutes before responding. Unknown numbers undergo forensic-level screening; the entire process resembles a crime investigation more than communication. We rehearse our “hello?” several times before answering, adjusting tone, pitch, and speed as if it were an audition.
Let me introduce you to the unspoken ‘Gen Z Survival Guide to Unwanted Calls’. It begins with the classic text-back escape, the gold standard of call avoidance. Someone calls, we pretend we didn’t see it, and then we text, “Hey, sorry I missed your call, what’s up?” This sentence is rarely sincere. It is code for: Please don’t ever call me again, let’s keep this safely in text form.
Then comes the rehearsed hello, a phenomenon only our generation could create. Before picking up, we test out different versions of “hello?” like we’re doing sound checks: the polite one, the disinterested one, the neutral one, the one that makes us sound like an adult, and not a sleep-deprived raccoon. If we don’t feel mentally prepared, we simply postpone. Enter the scheduled call hack, “Can we talk at 7?” This is the adult equivalent of hitting the snooze button on emotional labour. When it’s planned, we can brace ourselves, script possible scenarios, and emotionally stretch before the performance.
Another widely practised ritual is the “two-ring pick-up” strategy. This involves letting the phone ring exactly twice, staring at it as if confronting mortality, and then picking up at the last possible second, brave enough to answer, but not so eager that we seem available. And when all else fails, we rely on the callback-after-recharge move. We take time, splash water on the face, regulate the breath, rehearse the conversation, and then call back with, “Sorry, I was in the bathroom.” We were not in the bathroom. We were negotiating with our nervous system.
But here’s the twist: while we avoid phone calls like the plague, video calls are perfectly fine. Somehow, FaceTime is relaxing while phone calls feel like a responsibility. We will happily lie on the bed and FaceTime for hours, watching someone cook daal, lying on the floor together, or sharing comfortable silences that would feel awkward on audio calls. FaceTime feels like hanging out, not performing. It’s personal, ambient, forgiving. A phone call is a task, but FaceTime is a vibe.
This one time, I stayed on FaceTime with my long-distance cousin for twenty-seven hours straight without hanging up even once. We watched a series together, slept together, woke up together, and went through our entire routines while staying virtually present. A phone call cannot do that. A phone call demands. FaceTime just exists.
Why does this happen?
The aversion to phone calls, however, isn’t a generational quirk. Researchers have called it “telephobia” or “phone anxiety”, a form of social anxiety disorder triggered by overstimulation, loss of control, and fear of confrontation. A 2024 study of Indian medical students found that 42 per cent of the surveyed respondents had some form of telephobia, which was also linked to higher internet usage.
Clinically, phone anxiety can induce nausea, breathlessness or an increased heart rate in some. Psychologists suggest behavioural therapy for those with severe social anxiety, which can interfere with daily life.
Headspace, a mental health app, spoke about the phenomenon in 2021. Psychologist Selena Snow attributes it to the lack of “nonverbal cues that help us feel safe” in phone calls. That one sentence captures the entire generational discomfort: without facial expressions, gestures, pauses, or visual reassurance, a call feels emotionally naked. No wonder it feels intense.
Maybe the problem isn’t the phone call itself. Maybe it’s the world that a phone call demands us to step into: immediate, vulnerable, unedited, and unprepared. A world where you cannot filter, soften, or cushion your reactions. Where you can’t disappear for a moment to breathe.
Until that world feels safer, we will keep letting our phones ring like alarms for a life we’re not ready to answer.
And until then, if it’s urgent? Text. Don’t call.
Aashika is an intern with the indianexpress.com
The phone's ringing, and I am out here rehearsing my "hello". (Photo created on Canva) 
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