I created my Instagram account in middle school, about ten years ago. In the decade since, I’ve enjoyed a steady IV drip of content from family, friends, and strangers online. I’ve witnessed their picture-perfect lives and posted an editorialized version of my life for others to surveil.
Almost one year ago, I deleted Instagram from my phone. I didn’t delete my account, no, but I did make it decidedly less frictionless to use the platform. I scroll on my browser when I feel like seeing friends’ photos. On the rare occasion that I want to post something, I’ll briefly re-download the app before deleting it again.
There are countless studies showing how social media harms us. Despite the overwhelming evidence, we keep logging on. We keep scrolling. Our social lives have become gamified, a thinly veiled (if veiled at all) popularity game. Likes and comments and notifications pop up and make us ever hungrier for more. Naturally, we are never satiated. The fullness quickly subsides before we once again clamor for that sweet, sweet hit of external validation. And so we keep uploading content to a platform that doesn’t care about us, sells our data, and actively makes our lives worse.
I’ve mentioned a few times to friends that I deleted Instagram. Though I still have an account, I’ve been met with confusion and intrigue. I’m asked why I deleted it. And while there’s empirical evidence and countless news articles about its dangers, my answer is pretty simple and requires zero citations: it makes me feel bad about myself. When I’d post photos of myself or my life on Instagram, it was mostly performance. I pressured myself to craft the most perfect online presence. The photo and caption had to show that I cared, but barely. In reality, I cared a lot, often texting multiple people to get their feedback before posting. I was less concerned about connecting with friends and more interested in crafting my personal myth, creating the ideal version of myself. This version would be funny, charming, and pretty while exuding effortlessness. I became obsessed with controlling my narrative in a world that felt increasingly beyond my control.
Beyond amplifying my own narcissism and insecurities, Instagram distanced me from friends. For a social network, it made me feel pretty fucking lonely. I’d substitute genuine social interaction with a swipe, comment, message, or like. Keeping up with friends was essentially optimized– no longer did you have to text, call, or coordinate a meeting to catch up. You could just glance at their latest post and feel some shallow sense of connection. Social media provides the facade of friendship with little of the work or payoff. And so we drift further apart. We have hundreds of followers but few friends.
My boyfriend is completely off of social media now, having wiped his online presence over the past four years. It was easier to adjust than he thought it’d be and he’s been happier as a result. But though I’ve deleted the app from my phone, I can’t bring myself to delete my profile. Something about that feels so permanent. Deleting your online presence feels like deleting yourself and the friends/followers that you’ve acquired. As though the absence of social media will render your relationships null and void because you don’t have a concrete list of everyone you’ve ever spoken to in the past ten years. Deleting your profile means realizing that the time you spent curating it was a sunk cost.
I think there’s a fear of being forgotten as well. When you’re no longer popping up on people’s feeds, how will that friend from middle school or distant acquaintance remember you? Even if you’re gone from someone’s life, they might still follow you on Instagram. They’ll still watch your Instagram stories, however passively. In other words, there’s some seemingly tangible sign that they still care about you. That you still matter.
Years ago, I was listening to a podcast episode and one line stuck out to me. I don’t remember the podcast or who the guest was, but they proposed a reason why people believe in ghosts. He believed that it was because we cannot imagine a world in which we don’t exist. There’s this deeply human desire to be remembered, even by those at the margins of your existence. To be human is to be mortal, but we seem obsessed with surpassing this limitation.
I recently spoke to a friend about Instagram and Twitter and all the other social apps that litter our phone’s home screens. He questioned what might happen if one of the bigger social platforms simply dropped off the face of the earth. I wish I could say I had more hope in humanity. I wish I believed that might lead us to foster an authentic human connection which these apps have tried and failed to imitate. I wish I believed that we might leave our homes and do more things for the sake of the experience and not just the sake of capturing and posting that experience online.
But I’m a pessimist. I’ve seen how quickly people will download yet another social media platform that feels distinctive from its predecessors despite only surface-level differences. These apps have become glorified data pools and shopping platforms. Through our online profiles, engagement, and posts, we are these platforms’ products. Despite this, we still believe that it’s us that needs them.
Sorry for another (almost) month-long hiatus. I’ve been busy!!! Hopefully you can forgive me (yet again). Here are some things I’ve been reading/watching lately:
‘Girl math’ was a fun social media joke. Then it got complicated by AJ Willingham (CNN)
“Girl” trends and the repackaging of womanhood by Rebecca Jennings (Vox)
Linda Yaccarino has a coveted gig – but Elon Musk would never give her control by Arwa Mahdawi (The Guardian)
this video isn't for you!!! and that's okay!!! by Nicole Rafiee (YouTube)
Okay that’s all!! Enjoy the rest of your week and this ~lovely~ fall weather.
xoxo, Mia
Social media feels, unfortunately, like an extension of ourselves in many cases. For example: instead of asking for numbers when making friends, many people now ask for Instagram handles. I’ve been trying to go on Instagram less and less — sometimes it works, usually it doesn’t 💀 I have gradually stopped posting on my feed (except for once or twice a year), which has definitely taken a lot of stress off my shoulders when it comes to opening the app. I use it mainly to talk with friends in dms and spam nonsense on my spam story that I find funny or interesting. I often ask “then what’s the purpose of keeping a ‘main account’?” and I find myself at a loss of what to say even to myself. I’m slowly working up the courage to at least deactivate the account 🧘♀️
Great piece, Mia! Very insightful and encouraging. I’ve been thinking a lot about third places and the lack of them, and social media definitely plays a role in that. I’ve heard many people say it’s become a substitute for third places, especially during and after COVID, and I couldn’t agree more :’)
Ahh! I relate. I also deleted the app but can’t bring myself to delete my profile. It’s like I’m holding onto some sort of social marker or proof of life or coolness. I wonder how it might feel different to completely delete it.. 👀🌼🌈