It was the 2010s. The app was Instagram. It was an era before the eerily accurate algorithm was released and before the phrase “link in bio” became part of our lexicon. Instagram was basically where my friends and I (1) uploaded photos from parties and (2) stalked photos from other people’s parties.
Yet even in the early days of social media, there was a lot of talk about the chaos these platforms could cause, including research that tracked decline in mental health. I’ve been considering cutting ties with Instagram because I found myself falling into the classic trap of looking at what my friends were posting and wondering, “Why don’t I do what they do?” and “Should I do that?”
Once I spent most of my entire day comparing my real life to other people’s highlights. Then I looked at my bedroom. The sun had set and I had left my windows open. I realized I was cold and hungry. I felt more than a little shell-shocked that I had been neglecting my basic needs while my mind took a nightmarish vacation.
That’s why I deleted the app.
I mean, technically my account was still active, but I wasn’t. Months later, after realizing I could live (thrive, even!) without Instagram, my little break turned into my decision to delete my account and, as it turns out, spend years without Instagram.
Life after you decide to delete Instagram
My Instagramlessness wasn’t something I shared openly; it wasn’t something I hid from people either. Certainly, many references went over my head. When friends would register my look of surprise at a celebrity’s post or a mutual friend’s IG story brought up in conversation, I would often get the response, “Ohhhh, yeah. I forgot you’re not on Instagram.”
So I did what I think a twenty-something living off a trust fund would do when his friends complained about their jobs: I lent an ear when my friends celebrated, complained, or referenced the complexities of their experiences on social media.
But I couldn’t Real stories. And I was secretly happy because I didn’t know the name of a former high school classmate’s baby or the car model my distant cousin bought. Not knowing was like the first day of spring when you walk outside and realize you don’t need that heavy coat you’re wearing, so you just take it off. It felt like freedom.
Of course, I had to retrain myself to reach for something other than Instagram during trigger moments, including boredom or overwhelm. It’s fair to say that other forms of media have quickly taken their place: Netflix, YouTube, SnapChat. But none of them felt as emotionally sticky as Instagram. Nor did they suck me in for hours and set my emotions on fire.
The absence of the app sometimes made me question myself and my place in the world. “What should I do if I miss connecting with old friends or missing the opportunity to make new ones?” “What if I shared more of myself with the world?” “If I don’t post it, does it even happen?”
But I ended up meeting people IRL who weren’t using Instagram or at least prioritizing it, which made my anxiety disappear. Sometimes I’d Google famous or influential people who didn’t have an IG account (Brad Pitt!), which was strangely comforting. Maybe it’s because it reinforced the idea that you can be successful, influential, and even well-liked without posting image carousels.
Yet living without Instagram didn’t seem to completely change my life for the better either. I didn’t achieve spiritual enlightenment or develop the ability to never worry about all my friends hanging out without me. Besides, it’s not like I’ve replaced the time I spend on Instagram with healthy hobbies like reading books and hiking.
Anticlimactically, I was still human.
Interestingly enough, the thing that drew me back to Instagram years later wasn’t FOMO or the desire to doom scrolling. It was the fact that, after attending creative workshops and solo trips where I connected with amazing individuals, they asked me the same inevitable question before we parted ways: “What is your Instagram?” I’d say I didn’t have one, and we’d both be debating whether to exchange phone numbers (way too intimate somehow) or emails (too formal!). After a few years of that awkward dance, I gave in and decided to create a new account.
Returning to Instagram after 10 years
Ironically, I created a new account on IG to stay in touch with people I met in real life. But I will never forget the overwhelm I experienced when confronted with it random videos of people (called reels, I later learned) in my feed. I had had a brief introduction to TikTok in the intervening years, but didn’t expect Instagram to be so similar. So satiated.
I quickly realized that I was better off without social media, so I deleted the app again and went straight to yoga class. Just kidding. I completely fell for EVERYTHING the app threw at me! Yes, Tarot Card Reader, I want to know when the love of my life will appear. Of course, self-proclaimed business expert, I want to know if my body language is subconsciously communicating weakness. No, food influencers, I’ll never get tired of seeing people try Costco hot dogs for the first time.
I was amazed and humbled to realize that my attention could be drawn back to the app so easily. Any sense of superiority I had quietly built up by abstaining from all the things IG did flew out the window as quickly as you can say “meal prep hack.” That mental space I had reserved? It was quickly overtaken by the images, words, thoughts and feelings of countless creators.
Suddenly there was much less room for me.
Is life better with or without Instagram?
I don’t judge Instagram as good or bad; it’s not that simple. It has been my late night companion that gives me some much needed laughs. It’s been my makeshift support group that brings me to tears as I watch brave, vulnerable strangers share emotions that, it turns out, are just like mine. It has also given me identity-affirming language and an increasingly broad perspective on what it means to be human.
But despite all the times Instagram has affirmed me, my emotions, and my body, all that empowerment can seem completely washed away by the wrong post. Some of the more mind-bending content still makes me waver in favor of the most recent trend or theory. Sometimes it creates a hesitation about what I wear and eat, how I age and move, the way I behave and don’t behave.
Without realizing it, I had been practicing detachment while not using the app. I had allowed myself to experience life without Instagram even though I wasn’t happy with the way it made me feel. And instead of clinging tightly to my identity as Instagram-less, I had allowed myself to return to it when I was curious. And when it felt overwhelming and too time-consuming (again), I didn’t hesitate to delete the app from my phone.
It is very much what yoga teaches: that we experience life more authentically by not identifying ourselves with external things, whether it is a career, a relationship or a digital platform. Of course, we can still participate fully in life; but we need not confuse ourselves with everything else. Because we are wonderful, eternal, and part of the universe – and everything else is, well, kind of insignificant in the grand scheme of things. What matters is having the awareness to distinguish between the two.
I’ve had Instagram for a while now. Although my account is still active, I keep it at arm’s length. For example, at the moment I don’t have the app on my phone, so I’m only logged in on my laptop. Boundaries. If I find myself spending way too much time scrolling, I wiggle my toes or take a deep breath, as if leaving Savasana. That brings me back to myself enough that I can put my phone down and move on. If anything, my time off has strengthened my ability to return to myself again and again. It’s not perfect, but it’s a practice.
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