Who's Going To Read My Stories Now?

"I grew up in a different time" is a phrase often tossed around, a nostalgic glance over one's shoulder at the past. For me, it is more accurate to say: I grew up in a difficult time. A time when smartphones and social media weren't just becoming popular, they were beginning to completely redefine the human experience. When people today reminisce about MSN Messenger or MySpace, that is the era I came of age in.

I was just starting my first year in secondary school when the first iPhone and Blackberry hit the shelves. I remember the buzz in the air, the excitement that felt so tangible you could almost taste it. This period was unstable, to say the least. The internet was still a largely unregulated frontier — a place of boundless information and opportunity but also one rife with unseen dangers. It was exhilarating and terrifying all at once.

This chaotic digital landscape shaped me in ways I am only beginning to fully understand. Social media and I grew up together. Its roots entangled themselves into my life slowly, so subtly I didn't even notice until years later. In the beginning, it was innocent enough: a Bebo page here, a Facebook profile there. Friends would nudge me: "Join!" they said. "Everyone's on it." The choice was clear: adapt or risk being left out.

And so, like many others, I adapted. One friend preferred Instagram, another swore by Facebook, others spent hours on Tumblr. To maintain my friendships, to feel a part of something, I had to fragment myself across multiple platforms. It was an exhausting juggling act, but it felt necessary. I couldn’t bear the thought of drifting apart from the very people who were supposed to be helping shape my wellbeing.

In those early days, social media was still novel, exciting. Uploading photos, getting likes, writing statuses, it was all part of this strange new dance. But slowly, something shifted. What once brought connection began to breed anxiety. The need for validation crept in. The question was no longer "Am I included?" but "Am I good enough?"

By the time I was finishing secondary school, social media had transitioned from a social tool to a lifeline for self-esteem. It wasn't just about keeping in touch; it was about constructing a persona that could withstand the constant scrutiny of the online world. Every photo, every comment, every post was a calculated move on a chessboard where the rules changed daily.

Over time, the dopamine-driven highs of likes and comments began to wear off, revealing the hollow emptiness beneath. I found myself endlessly scrolling, not out of interest, but out of compulsion. I consumed memes, gossip, politics, beauty standards, and lifestyle hacks in rapid succession. It was numbing. Comforting, in a way, like pulling a blanket over my head to shut out the noise of real life. But it was also deeply damaging.

I became addicted to distraction.

The psychological implications of this dependency were profound. Studies today show that heavy social media use correlates with higher rates of anxiety, depression, and even loneliness. I didn't need studies to tell me what I felt every day: an acute sense of disconnection from myself. I was more "connected" than ever before, yet more isolated than I'd ever been.

Even my dreams weren't safe. Advertisements, memes, and scrolling feeds started to seep into my subconscious. I'd dream of notifications, of comments and likes. I'd wake up feeling as if I hadn't rested at all. Reality and the virtual world had blurred into one.

The breaking point came quietly. There was no dramatic meltdown, no sudden revelation. Just a slow, dawning realization: this isn't sustainable. So, I did something drastic, I deleted my social media.

The first day was a shock to the system. I felt twitchy, reaching for a phone that no longer buzzed with updates. A hundred times a day, my brain screamed: "Check! Refresh! Engage!" And each time, I had to sit with the discomfort.

But slowly, a strange sort of peace crept in.

Without social media, the world didn't end. Life continued. It was quieter, less colourful maybe, but also more real. I had space to think, real, uninterrupted thought, for the first time in years. I rediscovered books, long walks, conversations where the other person's eyes weren't darting to a screen every few seconds.

Yet, breaking free also came with unexpected challenges. Without social media, I felt like a ghost drifting through a world built for the connected. How would anyone read my stories now? Who would celebrate my achievements? How would I stay informed about the lives of family and friends?

The absence of that constant validation was painful. I had to wrestle with my own worth, independent of digital applause. It was a long, gruelling process, filled with self-doubt and loneliness. But in the void, I also found something I had lost along the way: myself.

I learned to reach out to people directly, a phone call, a handwritten letter, even a face-to-face meeting when possible. These interactions were slower, less convenient, but infinitely richer. I celebrated my friends' victories not with a "like," but with a heartfelt conversation. I followed my family's lives through calls filled with laughter and real emotion, not filtered Instagram posts.

Looking back, I realize that my dependence on social media wasn't entirely my fault. I grew up at the exact moment when society itself was learning to navigate this new digital frontier. There were no warning labels, no user manuals for how deeply these platforms would embed themselves into our psychology. We were the guinea pigs, the first generation to live both offline and online lives simultaneously.

Today, I maintain a careful, intentional relationship with the internet. I use it, but I am no longer used by it. I have accounts, but they don't define me. I consume content, but I also make space for silence.

The lessons I learned are ones I wish I could impart to today's teenagers, growing up in an even more complex digital landscape. I want to tell them: You are more than your online presence. Your worth isn't measured in likes, followers, or retweets. I want to show them that there is a life beyond the screen, one that is slower, messier, and infinitely more rewarding.

Social media is not inherently evil. It connects people across continents, raises awareness for important causes, and fosters creativity. But like any powerful tool, it must be handled with care. Without mindfulness, it can consume us, leaving behind only curated versions of ourselves while the authentic, messy, beautiful parts are lost.

Growing up during the rise of social media was a difficult time. But it was also an opportunity to learn resilience, to understand the deep human need for genuine connection over digital simulation.

I don't regret growing up when I did. It taught me lessons that, had I grown up in a simpler or a more regulated era, I might never have learned. It taught me the importance of boundaries, of authenticity, and of facing uncomfortable truths about myself.

Most of all, it taught me that real life, unscripted, unfiltered, sometimes lonely and often confusing, is worth experiencing fully, even when it doesn't fit neatly into a perfectly curated feed.

And that's a lesson no number of likes could ever replace.