We all want to be witnessed—to feel that our lives matter because someone, somewhere, has noticed. But I’ve built my life around being seen. Not consciously, not as a performance I rehearsed, but in the quiet, invisible ways that shape everything: the pause before posting, the thrill of a compliment, the sting of silence. For as long as I can remember, my sense of self has depended on the reflections of others.
I’ve never felt beautiful unless someone told me I was. I’ve never felt smart unless someone saw my intelligence. I’ve never felt thoughtful until a man looked into my eyes and told me I had a beautiful mind.
I wish I could say otherwise. I wish I could tell you that I’ve always been self-possessed, unshakable, sure of my worth. But that would be a lie. What’s true is that attention has long been my proof of existence. It has told me: Yes, you’re here. Yes, you matter. Yes, we see you.
And yet, there’s something hollow in that proof. Attention is fleeting, unreliable, contingent on others’ whims. It doesn’t ask who I am—it asks who I can be to someone else. When a stranger double-taps my photo, they’re not really affirming me. They’re affirming a version of me I’ve curated for their consumption.
That realization has been gnawing at me for years.
The Currency of Relevance
Instagram is perhaps the most seductive arena for this kind of validation. I know I’m not alone in that. We call it connection, but let’s be honest: so much of it is performance. We are expected not only to be, but to be seen. And not just seen—liked, shared, saved, remembered.
Relevance is the currency. And once you have it, the fear of losing it is intoxicating. I would post and then wait. Did people notice? Did they approve? Did I still matter today?
I used to think this was harmless, maybe even fun. But over time, I started to feel how it warped me. I wasn’t asking myself: Do I like this photo? Do I want to share this thought? Instead, I asked: Will they like it? Will they want to see it?
And so, I deleted my Instagram.
Not in a grand, ceremonial way. There was no announcement, no dramatic “last post.” I simply pressed a few buttons and watched it vanish. At first, it felt like cutting off my own limb. I was twitchy, restless, reaching for an app that no longer existed. But slowly, a strange kind of spaciousness began to unfurl.
The Privilege of Access
Part of my decision came from realizing how many people had access to me. Not intimacy, not closeness—but access. My face, my thoughts, my life—all open to scrolling eyes. People who hadn’t spoken to me in years could keep tabs on me with a swipe of their thumb. People I barely knew could gather details about my routines, my vacations, my friends.
And I had been complicit in giving that access away. I handed it over gladly, like a business card at a networking event. Look at me. Remember me. Don’t forget me.
But I’ve grown tired of being consumable. Of scattering pieces of myself across a platform that will never love me back. Deleting Instagram has been, in part, an act of reclamation. I get to decide who sees me now. I get to decide what parts of myself are for public view and what parts remain tender, private, mine.
The Writer in Me
I think some of this is tangled up in being a writer. Self-expression has always been my compass, my way of reaching for identity. But there’s a difference between writing to discover myself and posting to prove myself.
When I write, I’m not asking for approval—I’m asking for truth. I’m building meaning, brick by brick, out of language. I’m not trying to convince you of who I am; I’m trying to become who I am.
But Instagram blurred that line for me. It turned self-expression into a sales pitch. It made me believe that the measure of my voice was the speed with which it could be consumed, rather than the depth with which it could be felt.
Deleting it, then, has been an attempt to give writing back its power. To remind myself that words are not just captions under photos, but doorways into understanding. That when I write, I am not performing—I am returning to myself.
Learning to Matter Without Proof
Do I miss it? Sometimes. There are moments when I feel invisible, cut off from the stream where everyone else is swimming. I wonder if people will forget me. I wonder if my absence makes me irrelevant.
But then I remember: relevance was never the point.
The point is presence. The point is truth. The point is learning to believe in my own beauty, intelligence, and thoughtfulness without someone else holding up a mirror.
Deleting Instagram hasn’t solved that for me. But it’s a start. It’s a small rebellion against the part of me that still craves proof. It’s a reminder that who I am isn’t up for public vote.
I want to live a life that is not constantly asking, Am I enough? but instead quietly, firmly declaring, I am.
And maybe, without the endless scroll of validation, I’ll finally learn to believe it.
This has me so torn. I love this for you and want to be supportive of your journey but I was also quietly falling in love with your curation. It was your writing that initially drew me to you, so I guess I'll just have to fully lean into my first love....