I Swore I’d Never Buy an iPhone. Look at Me Now.

Three years ago, I crossed over to the shiny side.

It started innocently enough. My husband, then newly minted as an iOS developer, needed an iPhone for work. I, noble skeptic, rolled my eyes so hard I practically glimpsed my brainstem. “I’ll never be one of those people,” I told myself. You know the type – AirPods surgically inserted, referring to their devices by affectionate nicknames, pretending “ecosystem” isn’t just a euphemism for “financial hostage situation.”

And yet, here I am. The proud owner of an iPhone 17 Pro, a MacBook Pro, and an Apple Watch that buzzes to remind me to breathe, as if that’s ever been the problem.

To make things worse, I’m in love. Not the fleeting, dopamine-spike kind of love you get from a clearance sale, but the deep, ridiculous affection reserved for objects that glow softly at night. My phone feels like an extension of my nervous system. It’s beautiful. It’s fast. It takes photos that make me look like I’ve slept in this decade. It even syncs with my MacBook so seamlessly that I sometimes tear up. (No one told me Airdrop would change my life.)

And yet, I find myself… embarrassed? Defensive? Like I need to issue a public statement to explain how I, once a sworn Samsung loyalist, betrayed my principles and surrendered to the cult of Apple.

Because it’s not just a phone – it’s a betrayal. My old self would’ve mocked me mercilessly. “You’re telling me you paid extra for a charger that isn’t included?” she’d sneer. “You could’ve bought a washing machine for that price.” And she wouldn’t be wrong. Apple has turned capitalism into performance art, and I bought front-row tickets.

Meanwhile, my husband – who, remember – started this whole thing, now despises what Apple has become. He has all the devices too (of course he does), but he treats them with the same enthusiasm as a tax form. He uses his MacBook out of necessity, his iPhone out of habit, and glares at me every time I talk about the “new camera features” as if I’m personally responsible for Tim Cook’s profit margin. I can’t blame him. I used to be him.

Here’s the thing: when people tease me about becoming “one of them,” I laugh, but I also feel that twinge of guilt. Because deep down, I remember my moral high ground. I remember scoffing at the cult of Apple as if it were a lifestyle choice for people allergic to USB ports. I was principled. I was independent. I was, let’s face it, slightly annoying about it.

Now, I find myself talking about “continuity” and “seamless experiences” as if I’m in a pitch meeting. I compare wallpapers. I gush about MagSafe. I defend my choices to people who couldn’t care less. It’s like I’ve joined a religion that sells accessories separately.

But maybe that’s the trick of it. Apple doesn’t just sell you a phone – they sell you a feeling. That little whoosh when you send a message? That’s not sound design. That’s serotonin. They know exactly how to make their technology feel alive, and suddenly I, too, am a character in an ad shot in natural lighting with clean typography.

And yet, I can’t stop justifying it. To my husband. To my friends. To the ghost of my Samsung past. “It’s not just about status,” I tell them. “It’s about integration. It’s about the experience.” Which, translated from Apple-speak, means: I love it and I don’t want to talk about it anymore.

Maybe the reason I feel the need to justify myself isn’t guilt – it’s recognition. Recognition that I’ve been converted by the very thing I used to mock. That comfort, convenience, and design can override even the strongest anti-corporate rants. That we’re all just one satisfying click away from hypocrisy.

So yes, I’ve joined the dark side. I take mirror selfies with the new aluminium finish. I obsess over the “fine woven” case that everyone says is bad but I secretly love. I tell Siri “thank you” as if she’s a real person.

And maybe that’s okay. Maybe loving a beautifully designed piece of tech doesn’t make me a sellout – it just makes me human. A human who occasionally forgets to breathe until her watch tells her to. A human who knows she could’ve stayed with Samsung, but then she wouldn’t get to live inside this smooth, glowing bubble of joy.

So, to all my old Samsung comrades: I’m sorry. I’ve betrayed you. But also – have you seen this new Action Button?

I rest my case.

Erika Matic is a writer exploring the intersection of technology, identity, and everyday contradictions – with equal parts skepticism and delight.