Let’s get this out of the way right now: I am not a licensed therapist, a psychologist, or someone who should be giving out any type of mental health advice. If you came here hoping for a deep, scholarly analysis of social media’s impact on the human brain… sweetie, I’m just out here trying to stop myself from impulse-buying another aesthetic-but-impractical mug on Etsy.
What I can offer you is a deeply personal, questionably relatable recount of my ongoing toxic relationship with social media—a tale of love, chaos, and far too many saved Instagram Reels I’ll never revisit.
Now, I’m not here to bash social media. It’s not like my phone is sitting in the corner twirling its evil villain mustache, whispering, “Open TikTok. Just for five minutes. You deserve it.” (Except… it kinda is.)
Social media isn’t evil—it’s just a drama queen. The issue isn’t having it; it’s letting it sneak into your life, move in rent-free, eat all your snacks, and rearrange your priorities until suddenly you’re crying over a stranger’s engagement in Tuscany while your laundry sits untouched for three business days.
To the brave souls who’ve deleted social media entirely: you are mythical woodland creatures. I imagine you wake up with dewy skin, make sourdough from scratch, and know what peace feels like. Meanwhile, I’ve tried quitting social media more times than I’ve tried going “low carb,” and yet here I am—scrolling, liking, spiraling.
In my defense, I use social media for work (I say this like a woman defending her 5th espresso of the day). I love seeing my cousin’s baby pictures, catching up with friends who live far away, and occasionally posting a perfectly curated flat lay that took 47 tries. But let’s be honest: that’s not the problem.
The problem is the black hole.
I open Instagram to check a DM, and suddenly I’m deep in a rabbit hole of “Dreamy Cottagecore Vanlife in the Alps,” sobbing over some girl’s sustainable fairycore garden party, and wondering why I don’t own linen overalls and a goat.
Then there’s the skincare ads. Oh, the skincare ads. One minute I’m doing fine, the next I’ve convinced myself I need a 16-step glass skin routine and a serum that was blessed by a dermatologist under a full moon.
And don’t even get me started on Pinterest. That place is a trap. I log on for “healthy meal prep ideas” and come out convinced I need a greenhouse, a calligraphy set, and a vintage clawfoot tub.
But surely I’m not the only one… right?? Please tell me you, too, have Googled “best minimalist aesthetic oil diffusers” at 1:13 AM.
I’m trying to do better. I really am. I want to be that grounded person who does morning yoga and journaling instead of doomscrolling. But breaking up with social media is like breaking up with a charming but deeply toxic ex—it knows exactly how to pull you back in.
The solution? Balance. Boundaries. And, most importantly, a good laugh when you catch yourself two clicks away from buying a $90 water bottle that promises to “align your hydration with your higher self.”
Set app timers. Unfollow accounts that don’t spark joy. Replace your late-night scrolling with a cozy book or a warm bath or, dare I say, actual sleep. And when the FOMO hits? Remind yourself that what you’re seeing is a highlight reel, not the full picture.
That influencer with the dreamy Paris apartment? Probably cried over her WiFi bill this morning.
That beach vlog? Might’ve included 45 minutes of arguing over sunscreen and two sand-filled sandwiches.
Your life, in all its quirky, chaotic glory, is just as valid and beautiful.
So if you need a reminder today:
You are enough.
You are not your screen time average.
You do not need that air fryer. (But if you do get it, at least make tater tots or something tasty)
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