“The Secret Addiction That Controlled My Life”

I wasn’t the kind of person anyone would expect to spiral.

To the outside world, I was composed, efficient, and successful. I held a respectable job in marketing, ran five miles every morning, and kept a tidy apartment in the city. I smiled at baristas, always paid my bills on time, and remembered people’s birthdays. But what no one knew—what I wouldn’t even admit to myself for a long time—was that I was addicted.

Not to drugs.

Not to alcohol.

Not even to gambling or sex.

I was addicted to validation.

And I found it in the most seductive place of all: the internet.

The Beginnings

It started innocently, as most addictions do.

I created my first social media account in college. A few pictures, a couple of status updates, and a trickle of likes. At first, it was just fun—a way to connect, to stay in the loop. But slowly, I noticed something.

When a post did well—when it got comments, when it got shared—I felt invincible. I felt important. Wanted. Seen.

It gave me something I hadn’t realized I was missing: a sense of worth.

At first, it was manageable. I’d check in once or twice a day, scroll through feeds, reply to comments. Then came the selfies. The curated meals. The "candid" moments that weren’t candid at all. I was building a brand—and that brand was me.

A Slippery Slope

By the time I was 27, I was spending seven to eight hours a day on various platforms.

It started bleeding into everything. At work, I’d minimize spreadsheets when someone passed by, but I was really checking my stats—engagement, reach, impressions. On dates, I’d sneak glances at my phone under the table to see how my last post was doing. I once left a friend’s birthday party early just so I could edit and upload a photo while the lighting was still good.

Every notification felt like a hit of dopamine. Every silence between them felt like withdrawal.

People thought I was driven. They said I was creative. But the truth was—I was constantly performing. For likes. For approval. For a world I couldn’t touch.

The Cost of Applause

I missed so many real moments chasing digital ones.

My sister gave birth to my nephew, and while holding him in the hospital, I angled him for a picture—not to capture the memory, but to post it. I used hashtags. I picked a filter. I pressed share. I missed the moment entirely.

When my dad passed away suddenly from a stroke, I shared a black-and-white photo of us together with a poetic caption. The condolences poured in—heart emojis, praying hands, kind words from people I hadn’t seen in years. But in bed that night, scrolling through the comments, I felt nothing but hollowness.

Grief couldn’t be filtered. And real connection couldn’t be faked.

The Breaking Point

My breaking point wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t an overdose, or a scandal, or some public humiliation. It was quieter than that.

One night, I opened my phone, intending to set an alarm. Instead, I mindlessly opened a social app and spent three hours scrolling.

Three. Hours. Gone.

When I finally looked up, the sun was rising. My eyes were dry. My chest was tight. I was supposed to give a presentation in two hours. I hadn’t slept. And I didn’t care. All I could think about was why my last post wasn’t getting traction.

That’s when the realization hit me—not with a bang, but with a whisper:

“You’re not in control anymore.”

The Withdrawal

Quitting wasn’t easy.

I tried deactivating my accounts cold turkey, but the anxiety was unbearable. I felt invisible. Forgotten. Like I didn’t exist if I wasn’t being seen online. I reactivated them within two days, ashamed and exhausted.

So I tried something else. I started by deleting the apps off my phone. Then I set screen time limits. I told a few close friends what I was going through. One of them—Sarah, my college roommate—gave me the best advice I’ve ever gotten:

“You have to find the thing you were trying to get from strangers and learn to give it to yourself.”

It hit me like a punch to the gut.

She was right. I wasn’t addicted to social media.

I was addicted to feeling like I mattered.

Rebuilding From the Ashes

The first few weeks offline were excruciating. I was irritable, anxious, and constantly reaching for a phone that no longer held my world.

But slowly, things started to shift.

I began journaling every morning instead of checking my phone. I joined a local writing group—not for followers, but for the joy of creating. I started cooking meals without photographing them. I spent weekends off the grid. I walked without music. I learned to sit in silence.

I started seeing people again—not their filtered lives, but their real, messy, wonderful selves.

And, eventually, I started seeing myself again.

Not the curated version. Not the brand.

Just... me.

What I Learned

Addiction doesn’t always come with a needle or a bottle. Sometimes, it comes with likes and hearts and perfectly timed captions.

And recovery doesn’t always look heroic. Sometimes, it’s just going to bed on time. Saying no to a post. Letting yourself be unseen.

What I craved all along wasn’t attention. It was connection. Belonging. Worth.

And no algorithm could ever give me that.

Where I Am Now

It’s been two years since I stepped back from that world. I still have accounts, but I use them sparingly—and intentionally. I don’t chase virality. I don’t post to impress. And most importantly, I no longer measure my worth in notifications.

I measure it in quiet moments. In deep breaths. In real conversations. In eye contact.

And when I look in the mirror now, I don’t see a stranger seeking approval.

I see someone who broke free.

And that’s a kind of validation no one can take away from me.