What Happened When I Went Off the Social Media Grid

“Remember, being happy doesn’t mean you have it all. It simply means you’re thankful for all you have.” ~Unknown

It was 3 a.m. when I realized I was the only person not in St. Barts. At least that’s what it felt like on Instagram, even though I know it wasn’t true. I wasn’t the only person not dancing on tables to a saxophone in the Caribbean. My fiancé was asleep right next to me.

For the next three hours, I continued down the rabbit hole.

Three hostages were released. Trump did more things to avoid bringing up at dinner parties, even in Texas, where I found myself living by accepting a marriage proposal from a Houstonian after a lifetime spent proudly between New York and L.A.

I was served (and purchased!) an acrylic purse organizer for my closet that makes them stand just so, as if the algorithm had been privy to my frustration when they all fell limp sideways just yesterday. Some friends were pregnant. Even more got skinny—Ozempic. Shockingly, aside from procreators, on Instagram, no one ever gets fat. Which was how I was feeling then, now that I think about it. The fetal position is unbecoming for a midsection.

By 6 a.m., my eyes were bloodshot from the screen’s glow, and I official felt like the heaviest, least pregnant, most geopolitically confused loser, not in St Barts, with a messy closet—who lived in Texas.

It went on like this for weeks. Really only since I got to the Lone Star State and became a lone star with no friends, in a place I had considered visiting only if there were engine trouble. Devoid of an actual social life in a new city, I had begun to live vicariously through my old friends by staying in touch with them on Instagram. I’d never been more ‘connected’ or felt more isolated and alone. Still, I scrolled. And if I didn’t stop, I would never again get to sleep.

I was going cold turkey. Wasser: 1. Zuckerberg: 0.

When the time came, even my phone was skeptical. “Delete Instagram?” came the pop-up. I knew what I had to do. And so, with a swift ‘click-hold-delete,’ the Instagram app icon shimmied out of existence on my home screen. The joke was on me, though; getting back to bed was not in the cards. I couldn’t wait for my friends to wake up—on both coasts—so I could gloat.

“Just FYI—if I don’t get back to you on Insta, … I’ve deleted it from my phone,” I’d say with a cool, casual air of someone who’s escaped the matrix of social media, like I was better, completely leaving out the part where I’d become an addicted insomniac crackhead.

My L.A. friends called me “brave.” My New York friends were nonplussed if not annoyed: “So what? I’m supposed to call you now?”

While not exactly a Nobel laureate reception, here’s what happened when I had nowhere to hide and forced myself to live IRL. My sleep got better. Packages from China stopped coming as I stopped spending frivolously on clothing that couldn’t make it through a wash. But these were obvious upsides.

My screen time went down 42%, which, according to the Mayo Clinic, can improve your physical health, derail obesity, and boost your mood. Then, I did the math. By removing Instagram from my phone, I had taken back nearly two weeks of my life—every year.

I was markedly happier… With my dog and the way she takes over my pillow now that I wasn’t exhausted in the morning. With my fiancé, who is much more fun to be around now that we’re both paying more attention to phone-zombie behavior (mostly when I remind him). Even Texas isn’t that bad.

When I started looking up versus down at my screen, life in the present got prettier (even with Houston’s lack of zoning laws that puts fine dining establishments next to an AutoZone.)

And then it hit me. The hardest part of growing up is coming to terms with who you are and, moreover, all of the versions of yourself you’ll never be. As an older millennial, I have had social media tracking my life since I was eighteen. I am now thirty-seven. I have been so many people.

I’ve had multiple attempts at careers until I found one. I have had dreams I’ve let go of. Dreams that haven’t died. Loves I’ve lost. Men who still looked at my story even though I never wanted to speak to them again. They still bring me right back to being nineteen/twenty-two/twenty-seven every time I see their name.

Social media connects all my ‘eras.’ Every success, failure, false start, and hair color that comes with adulthood and the people, places, and things that accompanied them. All my past timelines living amongst my present, right in my pocket. No wonder I found it so hard to let any of them go. And even less shocking, I couldn’t make new friends. My dance card—albeit virtual—was full.

Within weeks without Instagram, I found myself with time on my hands. I was exercising more. The dog and I found walks we like in the neighborhood. I went out and actively looked for community outside my phone screen. It existed. Turns out the adage is true—you are where you put your attention.

By making eye contact and staying present when out at restaurants, or getting coffee, or at the gym, I’d even made friends. New friends I hosted for dinner. A dinner so large I had to rent a table because there were more coming than my six-person dining table could seat. A table I did have to source online, but not on Instagram—an app I only regretted not having when I wanted to give my friends at home major FOMO and show them what I was up to.