Why I Stopped Using Food Delivery Apps

(SeaPRwire) –   Several years ago, while living alone in New York City, I struggled to figure out how to feed myself without relying on DoorDash, Seamless, or UberEats.

Most days, sometimes twice daily, I placed food delivery orders. Even though what I ordered—whether greasy, lukewarm fast food or a favorite $18 kale Caesar salad—rarely felt worthwhile, it almost always filled me with varying levels of guilt.

I earned a decent salary at the time, but my habit of ordering food delivery—alongside my online shopping addiction—was not financially sustainable. I’d simply charge everything to my credit card and hope things worked out. Cooking (and even worse, grocery shopping, let alone doing dishes) was, for much of my 20s, one of the most dreaded responsibilities of adult life.

At least when I had a partner, we could share those burdens, dividing up grocery runs, recipe brainstorming, preparing meals together, and tackling cleanup afterward (even if arguments often ensued).

But when I lived alone? Everything changed. With no one else to judge me, it became shockingly easy to succumb to the convenience these apps offered—no effort, no movement, no thought required. Just a few taps, payment of $20 that didn’t feel real since it existed only as digital currency, and food would appear at my door.

Food delivery apps aren’t just changing how we eat; they’re transforming our relationship with labor, money, and self-care.

Growing up in the 1990s, food delivery was a simple transaction between restaurant and customer. We’d call our favorite spot, and the restaurant would pay an employee to drive or bike deliver it to us. We’d leave a cash tip.

Delivery didn’t need Silicon Valley-style disruption. Like ride-share apps and taxis, delivery apps used venture capital to offer a slightly more convenient version of an already existing service. In doing so, they shifted consumer behavior and weakened a once-sustainable business model.

Moreover, delivery apps don’t always provide a better experience. Social media is flooded with horror stories about food delivery mishaps. A common scenario: the wrong order arrives two hours late, and the app refuses any refund. I’m sure you, dear reader, have your own tales.

How many times have you used a delivery app only to wait longer than it would take you to walk, drive, or use public transport to get to the restaurant and back? How often has your order arrived cold, incomplete, crushed, spilled, or otherwise ruined? And how frequently—even when you receive the correct meal, properly heated and intact—have you glanced at the ever-increasing “service” fees added to your bill (most of which go to corporate profits rather than the workers who cooked or delivered your food) and thought, Yeah, this really was worth it?

Even during my addiction to delivery apps, I believed they were overpriced. Now, I’m far more aware that they often undercut restaurants operating on razor-thin margins. I’m horrified by reports that some apps exploit delivery drivers who are frequently paid less than a living wage. At some point, no generous tip feels like enough to justify these harms.

Yet many people continue using these apps, despite good intentions, because they’ve become so normalized. Because they’re easy. Worse than easy: mindless.

I can’t claim moral superiority here. Over the past couple of years, I’ve largely quit using food delivery—but it wasn’t easy, nor did it happen quickly.

If I were still in the same situation—same job, same salary—I might never have stopped relying on delivery, not to mention my other addictions. It took losing my job, moving to the U.K., and starting over in a new industry for me to realize that paying more than £20 after ever-rising fees for a fast-food burger and fries is, frankly, ridiculous.

It’s not just the cost. I was also concerned about what the culture of instant convenience was doing to my mind and spirit. I didn’t want to become a passive person confined to my home, outsourcing every aspect of life, interacting less and less with real people in the real world, and spending more and more time staring at screens.

I believe we all need—as The Cut noted earlier this year—to embrace friction by rejecting the escapism of predictive algorithms and single-tap commands. Nothing less than our shared humanity is at stake.

In his upcoming book, Against Convenience: Embracing Friction in an Age of Endless Ease, journalist Gabe Bullard argues that delivery apps may promise easier lives, yet threaten long-term physical and mental well-being.

“We’re surrounded by tools, gadgets, apps, and schemes claiming to spare us unnecessary effort and stress,” he writes in the book’s introduction. “If our so-called conveniences do save time, money, or energy, the savings are fleeting, while the costs persist. These costs come in dollars and in the erosion of everyday life.”

I understand all too well that when you’ve just returned home from a long day at work, the temptation to disengage is overwhelming: open your phone, scroll through endless short-form videos, order something cheap and full of empty calories, maybe have a drink or two, then collapse on the couch before finally heading to bed.

Financial necessity forced me to get creative in those moments—and surprisingly, even when exhausted, irritable, and unwilling to cook anything elaborate, not every meal needs to be a grand culinary event. It just needs to be nourishing and satisfying.

Rice, frozen vegetables, and a fried egg on top takes ten minutes at most (my rice cooker is a lifesaver). I’ve learned that batch cooking works best when it’s not about preparing whole meals I’ll grow tired of by the third serving; instead, it’s about spending five or ten minutes here and there making small upgrades—like packing a jar of quick-pickled onions to jazz up bland meals, baking trays of chicken thighs on Sundays for versatile packed lunches, or simmering chia seeds with frozen berries, honey, and lemon for fiber-rich breakfasts.

I wouldn’t say I’ve fully converted into someone who loves cooking; there are still plenty of days when I open the fridge and sigh. But I’ve come to appreciate it far more: the meditative rhythm of putting on music and getting lost in chopping garlic and onions, the deep satisfaction of creating something with my own hands.