detachment

I’ve been online for a long time. I know how old this may sound but oh well. I was there with AOL Instant Messenger. I had a Myspace “Top 8” and a BlackPlanet page. I was coding before we even knew what coding was. I witnessed the internet go from raw and experimental to curated and calculated. And somewhere along the way, I started losing pieces of myself.

What started as self-expression slowly became performance. The internet became less about connection and more about perception — not who we are, but how we appear. I watched the culture shift. Suddenly, everything had to be branded: our names, our personalities, our joy, our pain. It all had to be shareable. And in the background of it all was the algorithm, quietly determining our worth by numbers — likes, shares, follows, and views.

For years, I played along. I shaped my voice to fit the platforms. I joined the trending conversations, often about things that didn’t even concern me, because being silent felt like fading into digital obscurity. I built online personas, curated content for top athletes and brands, and kept up with what they said mattered. But I’ve changed. I’m not that same person anymore. Growth feels quiet in a world that rewards noise. It’s not always something you post. It’s something you feel. And lately, I’ve felt the need to unplug — not because I’m anti-technology, but because I want to return to something real. I want to reclaim my presence. I want to speak without thinking about optics. I want to feel without needing an audience.

I participated in a week long social media fast and that started the detachment process from issues and internet discourse that don’t involve me. My peace doesn’t live in constantly being plugged into the chaos. I no longer feel the urge to participate in every trend, every think piece, every rage-bate post. And I’ve learned that not everything deserves my energy.

I want to be personable, not performative. I want to be more than a screenname. We’ve spent so long being told to “build a brand” that we’ve forgotten how to just be. This is a boundary. One that says, I don’t need to be visible all the time to be valid.