A One year into the pandemic, in early 2021, I was spending most of my time online. I sat and scrolled, on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram, letting the latest horrible news wash over me, or watching videos of cute animals, or messaging bored friends about our mutual states of crisis.
The more I scrolled, the more absorbing it became. I found myself instinctively reaching for my phone whenever I could. I would write a paragraph of an article on a tight deadline and then surf Twitter like a treat. I would watch TV and simultaneously check Instagram during scenes that would lose my attention; even in bed, i would drift to sleep and wake up with the blue light from my phone.
One morning, I woke up to a notification that one of my social media passwords had been compromised. I quickly changed it and accepted my phone prompt to log out of all my accounts, just to be safe. Unbeknownst to me, I had two-factor authentication enabled on my Facebook account, but now I couldn’t get the code I needed to log in because I had to log in to get the code. I was blocked.
I took this development as a divine intervention. Getting around had been taking up most of my time, and now that the world had started to reopen, I could just go cold turkey. I deleted the apps and immediately felt smug. There was a world out there waiting for me; this would be, I told myself, my ticket to a new creativity; a new way of committing to life.
Once I got over my fear of missing out, I found that I actually had more free time. I read more, focused on my work, and tried harder to keep in touch with my friends.
But I was getting bored. Setting limits for yourself can give you an illusion of clarity, but the joys in life are often found in unexpected connections and unplanned moments. I missed friendships who, at least in part, had come to exist online: the friend who works in the movies to whom I always sent silly bits of movie “speeches” on Twitter, or another friend with whom I traded memes. I missed his chatter distracting me from work. The silence of being offline was beginning to feel oppressive.
After a month or so of abstinence, I capitulated. I got my accounts back (minus Facebook where I was still trying to verify my identity) and decided to engage in social media with more intent. I put restrictions on the time I would spend online and the ways I would use various platforms. There would be no more bed scrolling, for example, and I started muting or blocking Twitter accounts that made me feel stressed or angry. I only followed friends, colleagues, and people who made me laugh. On Instagram I found my niche and followed TikTok compilation accounts and food bloggers. Soon the algorithm was giving me only what I wanted. I had manipulated the system to make my accounts a place of contentment.
I also realized how much I had missed the inspirational power of social media. Since people are unpredictable, so is the content they post online. Any given scroll could uncover the genius of Takuya Nakamura playing the trumpet over drum’n’bass, the writing of Okparanta shoeor a Sylvanian Family Drama. It turns out that a little wasted time can lead you down unexpected and enchanting paths.
Do you want to share your story? Tell us a bit about yourself and the change that didn’t work for you by filling out the form here.
