https://www.resistandunsubscribe.com

It occurred to me, as I began the process of deleting accounts and cancelling subscriptions, how little I was going to miss any of it. I’d not needed it before and certainly don’t now. I cannot think of one instance where the benefit has outweighed the cost, nor in which the consumption of the products I’m retiring weren’t an absolute time and energy suck. And I’ve became painfully aware of how easily I fell for the utopia of connection and creativity plastered all over the packaging.

In stark contrast to the allure and the promise of the new town square, the ease, the availability, and the convenience has shrunk our worlds drastically, and while our worlds and real life connections to things and people who matter slip through our swiping, tapping, scrolling fingers, tech bros swim in disgusting oceans of wealth, access, and a sort of untouchability and have come to wield a disturbing level of power and influence in spaces where they have absolutely no business meddling. And while they dip their greedy fingers into every pot and cake they can grasp at, we become increasingly isolated and dependent on their products. No need to go to the movies with a date or friend when we have massive screens in all our homes and can stream anything at any time (never mind that multiple streaming services are required in order to consume all of the must see TV and movies). We consume, consume, consume—and ka-ching, ka-ching, ka-ching—their pockets and egos grow saturated with the high price we pay.

This feeling is shame—and regret—because I wasn’t duped, right? I made choices. I made choices to follow the pack, to bow to peer pressure, to concede to belonging rather than be true to my intuition and instincts, to abandon my knowing for supposed to. And I hate that. But, I am also furious that this rotten cesspool of a social experiment birthed its slimy self during the most brutal stages of my young parenting and clamped down like a pit bull. And those quick fixes for connection, isolation, and loneliness left me vulnerable and raw, desperate and insecure, rather than connected, supported and inspired. And, most regretful of all, my kids grew up thinking it was normal. When, little more than a decade ago, it wasn’t even a concept. How did I allow myself to be persuaded that spending hours with a screen consuming and engaging in the distress, discontent, and vitriol, or, alternatively, manufactured perfection, bliss, and good fortune of complete strangers was going to improve my quality of life?

I appreciate a good film or TV show as much as anyone, but when did I decide that the routine of it was essential? There are shows I’ve enjoyed that I won’t be able to watch anymore, but again, I am pleasantly surprised by the fact that—I just don’t care; I won’t miss them and I don’t feel like I’m missing out. This is a perplexing and heartbreaking state of affairs for me, mostly because of the volume of my limited time that I have already allocated to something that took up space mostly because it had become routine and not because it supplied much nourishment or pleasure. There were stages in my life when seemingly profoundly mediocre media provoked an outsized number of clarifying, cob-web clearing moments, but the trick is knowing when the experience has run its course. From this perspective, I’m forced to ask myself how many routines in my life have run their course but continue to take up space simply because they are familiar and reliable and not because of any measurable benefit. I don’t need to open my news app first thing while having my morning coffee. This became routine because of access. I used to dedicate that sacred time to writing—I know I would be better served by reverting to that habit than continuing with the one that grew from convenience and access.

Very recently, my focus of contemplation and reflection has shifted to agency. I’ve spent sufficient energy unraveling the many tangled threads tied to the lack of control—things that happened to me to which I had to react, occasions that I had to rise to, but I have exhausted that track and am curious about the choices I’ve made, consciously or unconsciously, informed or uninformed that have charted my trajectory. Only through the exploration of agency will I be able to form a complete picture of me. The factors that contribute to a choice matter, but truthfully, it is the rarest of occasions when one can say I had no choice or it was my only option. Rather than unnerving, I find this fact to be strangely comforting. Agency and ownership of my trajectory is affirming and provocative.

Doomscrolling has become a term synonymous with social media and handheld devices, but those of us who understand the perverse comfort of the habit of anxiety know that doomscrolling requires nothing more than a brain and every possible worst case scenario. The reels, narratives, and internal conversations that I have the power to summon in seconds, rattle me to my core and it’s been that way since as long as I can remember, long before social media ever existed. Even now, I am perturbed by how often I reach for that thing I know well, like a familiar volume on a shelf, only to pause when I remember I’ve replaced it with titles like: Take a Breath, Slow Down, Not Your Job, Not Your Problem, and, I Promise—You Have Zero Control Here.

I will permanently delete my final social media account as my birthday present to myself and reflection is naturally a part of the process. I tick off the number of platforms I’ve signed on to and the circumstances that led me there. It would be disingenuous to claim that there was nothing of value gleaned over the years, especially since the signing up and deleting has been a window into the arc of my personal growth. I first logged into Facebook when my kids were small and I was isolated, depleted, and desperate for connection with family, friends and mothering peers. It was good for that, for a short time. The same metric can be applied to Substack, Medium, Instagram, and so many others—the thread of continuity being that, for all of them, it was short lived and remarkable how quickly one can go from being seen to being utterly invisible and how rapidly every new platform seems to devolve into utter despicability. I have zero interest in picking apart the reasons why, that’s a job for someone else, someplace else, with a much bigger audience of likers and clickers. For me, it’s a gentle remembering, of how reluctant I was every time I filled out the form for a new space, a new dedication of my time, a new pledging of my heart and soul to a void that would never offer up anything to satiate my lack. Each time, I longed for connection, but was instead instantly buried by the algorithm of unpopular. Succumbing to the torture of this relegated me to a space of insecure desperation at a time and stage of life when grounded surety should have served. Perhaps that is the point, to thrust us back and hold us all in the adolescent stage of angst and search for approval, magnifying our most vulnerable and needy selves. Preventing maturation ensures the survival of the cycle of lack that all of these spaces promise to fill. Holding us in a state of perpetual adolescence, within an insatiable quest for approval and validation guarantees a sustained need that will never be filled (and an absolute return on investment for the companies invested in keeping us all desperately insecure and lonely). Chances are, the roots of that toxic tree that need for us to remained trapped in our adolescent longing are the same societal forces that have insisted we not outgrow our prepubescent bodies, not grow into the shape and weight of maturity—(the detrimental obsession with body shaming and harm has ripped through and set up shop permanently in every single one of those social spaces, a voracious monster, void of any kind of accountability or empathy)—because the shape and weight of maturity and experience might not eat so readily and hungrily at the trough of slop they are offering.

In 4 days I’ll be 48 and should be way past that angst and insatiable thirst for belonging. How can I possibly hope to guide and support the generations coming up if I’m allowing myself to be held captive in the same self destructive and self limiting cycles? Adolescents are supposed to be constantly stumbling into their own way—it’s part of the process of growth, but it is a process that is supposed to evolve as we learn to find our footing on the rocking ship that is life. Holding us stagnant in a state of perpetual immaturity simplifies the end goal of keeping us unsatiated and desperate. Desperate people are so much easier to influence.

It is essential to routinely query ourselves as to who and what we are allowing to dictate what matters to us and what our needs are. I would wager that when we take a second to consider, we might discover that often the direction is coming from outside of us and we are allowing the flow to carry us simply because it is easier than saying, but wait, no, this doesn’t feel right, it doesn’t fit, I can’t find myself here.

This spring, the garden awaits. My grown children return and I will drink in every second I have with them. There will be walks with friends and sunsets and dinners and laughter and tears—and no need to post any of it.

And that makes me smile.