The Algorithm Knows Me Better Than My Best Friend

It started innocently enough — a few likes, a late-night search, a quick scroll before bed. But somewhere between my third “How to fix your sleep schedule” video and another ad for anxiety journals, I realized something unsettling. My phone knew me. Not just my name or favorite color — it knew my patterns, my moods, and even my thoughts before I could name them myself. Every scroll felt like looking into a mirror I didn’t remember building.

One night, I was thinking about buying running shoes — I hadn’t said it out loud, hadn’t typed it anywhere — yet, the next morning, my feed was filled with running playlists, fitness influencers, and sneakers on sale. Coincidence? Maybe. But when it kept happening — the breakup quotes after a fight, comfort food recipes when I felt low, self-help reels on Sundays — it stopped feeling random. It was like my phone had become a quiet psychic, reading my behavior, connecting dots I didn’t even know existed.

The scary part? It wasn’t just predicting what I wanted — it was shaping it. The algorithm decided which songs I’d play when I was sad, which influencers I’d trust, which beauty standards I’d chase. It whispered suggestions in my ear until I couldn’t tell where my preferences ended and its programming began. At first, it felt convenient — until I noticed how my world was shrinking. I wasn’t discovering new things; I was being fed more of the same. My curiosity was being trained to stay inside invisible walls.

Still, there was a strange comfort in it — that eerie feeling of being “understood.” When real friends were too busy or when I didn’t have the words to explain how I felt, my feed already knew. It handed me playlists for heartbreak, affirmations for burnout, and motivational posts right when I needed them most. The algorithm had become the perfect listener — never interrupting, never judging, always showing me exactly what I wanted to see. But here’s the catch: it wasn’t doing it out of empathy. It was doing it for engagement.

One morning, I opened my phone out of habit — before brushing my teeth, before thinking about anything else — and felt something snap. Every post, every ad, every suggestion felt like a piece of me, but one that had been repackaged and sold back with a price tag. That was the moment I realized: the algorithm didn’t just know me — it had trained me. To click. To crave. To consume. It wasn’t my best friend. It was my most subtle manipulator.

I started small — leaving my phone in another room during meals, calling a friend instead of texting, writing a note instead of sending a DM. And it worked. The feed got confused, messy, unpredictable again — beautifully human. Because being human means changing your mind, getting bored, making mistakes — all the things algorithms hate.

The algorithm may know my habits, but it doesn’t know my soul. It can predict what I’ll click — but not why I’ll dream. And maybe, that’s where our quiet rebellion begins — in remembering that what makes us human isn’t how much we’re seen, but how deeply we can choose to see ourselves.

If you want, I can also polish it further for Vocal publishing by adding a short, scroll-