I am officially exhausted of being told to look on the bright side.
People have actual lives—messy, heavy, uncurated lives. Even though my old Instagram is still sitting there, fully intact, looking just as pristine as it always did, the ecosystem around it has become completely unlivable. We are drowning in a swamp of fake positivity, manufactured hope for a better future, and an industrialized, algorithmic cult of hustle.
Look at the feeds of people we know. It's either hyper-curated aesthetic perfection or emotional real estate being farmed out for likes. People monetize their own grief. When someone passes away, the eulogy goes up on the grid, complete with a carefully selected carousel, because everyone knows a sob story pulls in numbers. Hell, my late mother’s photograph gets better views than I ever did. And trust me, I look like her—she was an absolute iron woman. But I refuse to turn a personal loss into public currency just to feed the algorithm.
I’m just so tired of being told to be motivated. I don't want to be motivated. I want to be depressed when things are heavy. I want to scream when I'm mad. I want to cry in peace.
By the way, science tells us people usually cry from innocence or pure sadness. But me? I only cry when I'm furious. When I'm actually sad, I go entirely silent.
When you live online, you lose the ability to self-regulate because you don't even know what you're actually feeling anymore. The algorithm wish-washes your brain until your emotions aren't even your own. Just the other day, I started crying because a random post triggered the living hell out of me, leaving my eyes swollen over something that shouldn't have even registered. That's the danger of toxic positivity disguised as motivation: it doesn't inspire you; it erodes your emotional boundaries.
And don't get me started on the "build your dreams" hustle gospel. Sure, everyone has the right to be the main character of their own story—the keyword being their own. But the internet is currently overcrowded with a million people desperate to be the center of a universe that doesn't want them.
Months ago, I was talking to a friend and realized something liberating: I don't even want to be the main character in my own life. I don't have to be. I am perfectly happy playing a supporting role. My cats are the real focal points of this household; my work is just what I do; and as for me? I am just me. That’s all I can be, and it’s more than enough.
Yet, seeing everyone else's manufactured spotlights on Instagram used to freak me out so much that I'd end up mass-muting people just to protect my peace. That's why I started hiding behind humor, sarcasm, and throwing commercial breaks into my stories—anything to pop the bubble of that fake reality.
That’s why YouTube feels like a sanctuary compared to Meta. On YouTube, you search for intent. You select what you consume. On Instagram, you are at the mercy of a radius around you, force-fed a toxic diet of other people's curated illusions.
I’m stepping off the stage. You can keep the hustle.
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