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As a child, I consumed novels until my eyes blurred. Once my exams came around, I demonstrated the stamina of a ascetic, studying for hours without a break. But in lately, I’ve watched that ability for intense concentration dissolve into infinite scrolling on my device. My attention span now contracts like a slug at the tap of a finger. Engaging with books for pleasure seems less like nourishment and more like endurance training. And for a person who creates content for a living, this is a occupational risk as well as something that left me disheartened. I wanted to restore that cognitive flexibility, to stop the mental decline.

So, about a year ago, I made a small vow: every time I encountered a word I didn’t understand – whether in a book, an article, or an overheard conversation – I would look it up and write it down. Nothing fancy, no leather-bound journal or stylish pen. Just a ongoing record maintained, amusingly, on my phone. Each week, I’d devote a few moments reading the list back in an effort to imprint the vocabulary into my memory.

The list now covers almost 20 pages, and this tiny habit has been subtly life-changing. The benefit is less about peacocking with uncommon adjectives – which, to be honest, can make you appear insufferable – and more about the cognitive exercise of the ritual. Each time I look up and record a word, I feel a slight stretch, as though some underused part of my brain is stirring again. Even if I never use “phantom” in dialogue, the very process of spotting, documenting and reviewing it breaks the drift into passive, superficial focus.

Additionally, there's a diary-keeping element to it – it functions as something of a journal, a log of where I’ve been reading, what I’ve been thinking about and who I’ve been hearing.

Not that it’s an simple routine to keep up. It is often very impractical. If I’m reading on the subway, I have to pause mid-paragraph, pull out my device and type “millennialism” into my digital document while trying not to elbow the stranger pressed against me. It can slow my reading to a maddening speed. (The Kindle, with its integrated lexicon, is much kinder). And then there’s the revising (which I frequently neglect to do), dutifully browsing through my expanding word-hoard like I’m studying for a word test.

Realistically, I incorporate maybe five percent of these words into my everyday speech. “Incorrigible” was adopted. “mournful” as well. But most of them stay like exhibits – appreciated and listed but rarely used.

Nevertheless, it’s made my mind much keener. I notice I'm reaching less frequently for the same tired handful of descriptors, and more frequently for something exact and strong. Rarely are more satisfying than unearthing the perfect term you were searching for – like finding the lost puzzle piece that locks the picture into position.

At a time when our devices drain our attention with merciless efficiency, 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 pleasure of exercising a intellect that, after years of slack browsing, is at last waking up again.