There was a time when opening a social media app felt like walking into a room full of people you knew. You might not like everyone equally, but you recognised the faces, understood the context, and felt, at least loosely, that you belonged there. Your feed was a collage of birthdays, blurry nights out, pets doing something mildly amusing, and the occasional overshare that made you raise an eyebrow and keep scrolling. It was messy, casual, and deeply human. But somewhere along the way, that room turned into a shopping mall, and most of the people I love seem to have vanished into the stockroom.
Today, our social media feeds rarely seem to reflect the lives of our friends and family. Instead, it’s a relentless procession of branded content, sponsored posts, and hyper-polished creators performing internet fluency as a full-time job. I follow hundreds of people I know in real life, yet I routinely miss the big stuff: a university friend’s new baby, my cousin’s engagement, my Mum’s long-awaited vacation photo dump. When I do eventually see these moments, it’s usually because I’ve gone looking for them, clicking directly into profiles like a digital private investigator, piecing together timelines after the fact. I’m almost always three days late to post a hyped-up comment on my friend's most recent thirst trap.
"Somewhere along the way, that room turned into a shopping mall, and most of the people I love seem to have vanished into the stockroom."
The original mission statement of social media was simple, almost utopian: to connect us more closely with the people we care about. It promised intimacy across distance, a way to share our lives in real time with those who mattered. But that mission now feels overridden by a louder, more lucrative priority. Platforms are no longer designed primarily for connection; they are optimised for engagement, monetisation, and scale. The result is a feed that prioritises what keeps us watching, not who we want to hear from.
At first, I thought the solution was to work with the system. I dutifully used tools like “Add to Favourites,” flagging key accounts as important to my algorithm, hoping this would signal my desire for a more personal feed. Surely, if I told the app who mattered most to me, it would listen? But it did not. Even after curating and pruning, I still find myself scrolling past strangers selling me products, news posts from outlets I don't follow, or influencers I've never heard of, before seeing anyone I could plausibly text.
And this dissonance has made posting itself feel strange. Social media no longer feels casual or personal; it feels performative by default. When you rarely see your own inner circle posting, the act of sharing begins to feel a bit... theatrical? Like doing an elaborate song and dance for an empty auditorium – or worse, an audience of like, three random people from your high school that you haven't seen in years. Without the familiar feedback loop of friends hyping you up or gently roasting you in the comments, posting can feel redundant, even embarrassing. Why share a moment if the people it’s meant for will never see it?
"When you rarely see your own inner circle posting, the act of sharing begins to feel a bit... performative?"
It seems I’m not alone in this unease. Just this morning, I was listening to Emma Chamberlain’s podcast, Anything Goes, specifically an episode titled “Is being offline cool now?” Chamberlain, herself being one of the internet’s most prominent creators, has long advocated for boundaries in our digital lives. There’s an irony there, of course, but perhaps that’s exactly what gives her perspective weight.
In the episode, she spoke about why so many people are re-evaluating their relationship with being online. The constant documentation of life feels increasingly inauthentic and cringey. The effort required to participate can outweigh the joy of sharing. There’s a sense that ordinary people are being forced into a competition with professional influencers, expected to perform at the same level of polish, wit, and visual appeal. What struck me most, though, was her articulation of something I’d been circling myself: social media no longer feels like a casual extension of life. It feels like a stage.
That shift has consequences. When feeds are dominated by people whose job is to be interesting online, the rest of us start to feel like amateurs crashing a professional set. The absence of our own circles only heightens that discomfort. If my friends aren’t posting, or if I never see their posts, then what am I doing here? Who am I posting for? The lack of visible community makes the act of sharing feel unmoored from its original purpose.
"The constant documentation of life feels increasingly inauthentic and cringey. The effort required to participate can outweigh the joy of sharing."
This has sparked a broader yearning for an earlier era of the internet – particularly the year 2016, when simplicity seemed to rule. Back then, in the Jurassic era of Instagram, feeds were dumping grounds for weekend party photos, grainy selfies, and inside jokes that only made sense to a small group. Chamberlain herself has reminisced about posting things as mundane as a photo of a packet of Cheez-Its she was enjoying. Personality was celebrated, not hidden unless it had viral potential. Content didn’t need to be optimised; it just needed to exist.
Now, posting feels aspirational by default, even when you don’t want it to be. Even the advent of 'Casual Instagram' (and its un-curated, messy photo dumps) feels like an even greater performance. Every image is unconsciously measured against influencer aesthetics. There’s a strange pressure to justify your presence, to offer something of value, however undefined that value may be. In that context, it’s no wonder people are retreating, posting less, or opting out entirely.
Posting online feels a bit like being Gatsby, throwing his lavish parties, hoping Daisy might wander in. Except Daisy is a stand-in for literally any of my real friends or family members, and the rest of the partygoers are bots, dropshippers, and bizarre brand accounts sliding into my DMs to ask if I’d like free sunglasses. The spectacle continues, but the intimacy is gone. The lights are bright, the music is loud, and yet the room feels strangely empty.
"There’s a strange pressure to justify your presence, to offer something of value, however undefined that value may be. In that context, it’s no wonder people are retreating, posting less, or opting out entirely."
The irony is that platforms often frame this evolution as progress. We’re told we’re being shown “better” content, more relevant content, content we’ll supposedly enjoy more. And yes, I suppose by that measure my screen time has certainly increased. But maybe that's because I'm spending longer trying to satiate that feeling of connection? I don’t need my feed to entertain me endlessly; I need it to remind me that other people I love are out there, living their lives alongside mine.
This is not an argument against creators or branded content existing at all. Many are talented, funny, insightful, and deserving of an audience. And brands will always chase attention where it lives. The issue is one of balance. When the scales tip so far that personal connection becomes collateral damage, something fundamental is lost. Social media becomes less social, just media.
So yes, this is a plea. To Instagram. To the algorithm overlords. Please, put my friends back on my feed. Not all of us want a perfectly curated For You page. Some of us just want to see our housemate's vacation photos from the weekend without having to ask if she posted them somewhere. We want our feeds to feel like rooms full of people we know again.
