We Volunteer For It
Notes on my toxic relationship with Instagram, and the reflex I'm trying to unlearn.(Not A Fashion Post)
My best friend called me the other night, hot and bothered. I could tell something was up the second she said hello, so I asked her what was wrong. She said, “You really want to know?” I did. The answer was layered, but the root cause was simple: Instagram.
And before I say anything else, I know I’m part of it.
I recently got back from Paris. It was a wonderful trip. I’m in love with the city — its big sky, its monuments, its history, its beauty. I posted photos. I shared moments. And I’m sure, without meaning to, I made someone feel something about their own life. A comparison. That feeling that you somehow missed something you didn’t even know was happening.
I’ve had that exact feeling.
So this is not me judging from the outside. This is me fully inside of it.
Because even when you know it’s curated and cropped and selectively lit, it still feels shitty. That small drop in your stomach when you see something you weren’t part of. That quick rewrite of your own life, suddenly looking a little less shiny.
It’s subtle. But it’s not harmless.
And yet, we keep opening it. Like muscle memory. Even though we know we are not going to get what we need from it.
Some days I do it a lot. Other days, I resist altogether. It hits me hardest when I’m waiting in line. Sitting in a car. The five minutes of free time I don’t know what to do with.
I used
Open. Scroll. Absorb. Repeat.
Every time I take a real break, I feel better. Not dramatically. Just… cleaner. Lighter. Less aware of things I was never meant to be aware of.
Because that’s the thing. We’re exposed to a volume of other people’s lives that no human brain was designed to process. And we treat it like it’s neutral. It’s not.
Instagram is a distorted mirror — but worse, it’s a crowded one. You’re not just looking at yourself. You’re standing in a room of a thousand reflections, trying to figure out which one you’re supposed to be. A horror show hall of mirrors.
Of course, it’s useful. It’s my business. It’s built careers. It’s made me money. But it also quietly chips away at you.
And then there’s the part we don’t really admit.
The social part.
Seeing your friends somewhere you weren’t invited. A dinner, a trip, a night that looked fun. It shouldn’t matter as much as it does. But it does. There’s always that half-second drop.
It’s not jealousy. It’s closer to exclusion. Just… pretty and polished.
And the craziest part is we volunteer for it. We open the app knowing there’s a chance we’ll feel worse. And still, we open it.
That’s the part that feels a little insane. Because when I look at where I actually feel connected lately, it’s not there.
If I had to pick a corner of the internet that feels nice, it’s here. Which I didn’t expect. But something about Substack feels different. Slower. More honest. Like I’m actually saying something and people are actually receiving it — not just double tapping and moving on. The following is way smaller, but it lands differently when someone texts me about something I wrote, or when I connect with someone I’ve never met in person and it still feels more real than a DM.
Substack is less performance. Less hierarchy. Less of that invisible “you can’t sit with us.” It actually feels more like… you can.
And it’s making me question this reflex. That every moment of boredom needs to be filled. That every pause needs to be avoided.
What if I just stood in line and did nothing. Or talked to someone. Or smiled. Or existed without documenting it or comparing it to anything else.
What if the point is actually there.
Because right now, we’re all walking around looking down at our lives while they’re happening. And then wondering why it doesn’t feel like enough.
And if you didn’t already know it — you are enough.
xo, Simone