I still remember when social media was a fun place to meet like-minded people. As an emo teenager, Instagram, Tumblr, and Facebook weren't just apps. They were lifelines. I could express my frustrations and delights, discover new music and art, and most importantly, realise I wasn't alone. Someone out there understood me. I found community. I found belonging.

I've been hearing the word "enshittification" a lot lately. It describes what happens when online platforms prioritise profits over user experience, slowly degrading into something barely recognisable. That's exactly what happened to my once-beloved platforms. The spaces that used to feel like home now feel like something else entirely: algorithmic, cold, designed to keep me scrolling but never satisfied.

For a while now, I've been toying with the idea of deleting my social media. My Tumblr account has been gone for years. I barely use Facebook except through Messenger for group chats with close friends and family. This makes it hard to fully let go. But Instagram is the worst of them all. I see no benefit from it anymore, and yet I can't seem to delete it.

I always make excuses. What if I miss out on something? The fear of missing out keeps me tethered to something that no longer serves me.

The pattern is always the same. I open Instagram looking for inspiration: beautiful photography, interesting art, new ideas. Then, before I know it, I can't stop scrolling. Inspiration curdles into envy. Why am I not living that kind of life? Travelling to exotic places, living in beautifully designed spaces, owning nice things. The app that once made me feel less alone now makes me feel like I'm falling behind.

Last year, I tried an experiment. For a few months, I ditched my smartphone entirely and used a dumb phone. I wanted to silence the noise. And honestly? Those months were wonderful. I enjoyed the simplicity, the quiet, the sense of being present in my own life rather than everyone else's curated highlight reel.

But the practical challenges added up. My phone's limited memory meant constantly deleting messages. I asked family and friends to call instead of text, but they'd forget and send me long messages anyway, sometimes with links I couldn't open. Restaurants stopped offering physical menus, everything was QR codes now. The world had moved on, and my little rebellion felt increasingly impractical.

So I went back to my smartphone, and I immediately reinstalled Instagram.

For the first few days, it was fun. It’s like reconnecting with an old friend who'd been away and had stories to share. But then the old pattern crept back in. The scrolling. The comparing. The vague dissatisfaction that settled over everything.

When 2026 arrived, I made myself a promise: just delete the account. I'm too old for this. I don't use it for work. I'm not building a brand or selling anything. What's the point of staying?

Days passed. Then weeks. I kept putting it off.

But today, the universe did me a favour. I got hacked and logged out of my account. The thing is, I never updated my contact information. My old mobile number is long gone, and I deleted that email address years ago. There's no way to recover the account. I tried for about five minutes before I realised something strange: I wasn't upset. I was relieved.

The decision I couldn't make for myself had been made for me.

Finally, freedom. Now I get to find out what I actually want to pay attention to.