What now?
I’m not entirely sure why I finally made the decision to cut ties with social media, but maybe, deep down, I made up my mind a long time ago. As reluctant as I am to admit it, Instagram had become a source of constant stress, a stage where I curated the best versions of myself through carefully selected photos, perfect angles, and meticulously chosen hashtags. Each like and comment felt like a tiny hit of validation, a fleeting high that I chased relentlessly. I craved attention, even if it came from people I barely knew. It was a way to patch up the emptiness, a desperate attempt to feel seen by giving my time and energy to those who barely noticed my existence.
Deleting Instagram is supposed to be a remedy, a test of sorts — a way to sift through my connections and see who would reach out, who would notice my absence, who would bother to check in. It’s a kind of social experiment, stripping away the facade to reveal the true nature of my relationships. I wanted to believe that without the convenience of a digital platform, I’d finally see who cared enough to stay in touch. It would weed out the superficial from the genuine, or so I hope.
But there’s a fear gnawing at me, a quiet dread that whispers in the back of my mind: what if no one notices? What if, without the daily notifications, the tagged photos, and the quick likes, I vanish from everyone’s radar? Who will think to ask if I’m okay? Who will send a message, call, or invite me out? Who, if anyone, will wonder how I’m doing? The unsettling reality is that I might not like the answers to these questions.
The truth is, that social media became a mirror that reflected what I wanted to see — a curated image of connection and popularity. Without it, I’m left to confront the uncomfortable possibility that those connections were more fragile than I’d like to admit. I used to scroll through my feed, convincing myself that every heart emoji was a sign of care and that every comment was a form of validation. But perhaps I was just a passing thought, a momentary distraction in someone else’s busy day.
Now, without the noise of likes and comments, I’m faced with silence. And in that silence, I can’t help but wonder: how many of those digital interactions were genuine? How many were just habit, automated responses to keep up appearances? My feed was a tapestry of shared moments, but were they ever really mine to hold onto? And now that I’ve stepped away, I have to confront a stark reality: that without a platform to announce my every move, I’m just another person trying to navigate a world that is often too busy to notice. Social media is loud, I’d like to give myself the chance to feel the silence, the peace.
Maybe this is what I needed — a break from the endless cycle of performative connection, a chance to rediscover who I am without the influence of constant virtual validation. Perhaps, in the quiet, I’ll learn to listen to my own voice rather than the chorus of others. It’s terrifying, not knowing who will still be there when the notifications stop and the DMs go silent. But maybe it’s a necessary kind of fear, a prompt to find value in myself beyond the flicker of a screen.
So, what now? I guess I start by figuring out who I am when no one is watching when there’s no audience to impress and no phone to hide behind. I’ll sit with the discomfort, face the loneliness, and maybe, just maybe, find a version of myself that doesn’t need a platform to feel worthy.
