Off-Line

setting myself free from social media

When anxiety holds my hand and a rush of overwhelmingness spreads through my system, I dream of the life of my ancestors. A life off-line, stripped from unnecessary performances, my feet deep in wet soil, my fingers reaching for a strawberry jiggling off its vine. A life in which talking to a stranger wouldn’t feel awkward, where a simple portfolio carried under an arm, opened doors to real conversations regardless of the number of followers, where the whir of a 16mm projector filled a small screening room, where a single exhibition was the culmination of months of work... Ultimately, a life in which, being an artist actually meant something and didn’t involve the consuming ritual of strategizing and posting across platforms multiple times a day, with the hope to be discovered among the saturated sea of self-proclaimed creators.

No matter how appealing this vision is, the reality is that I can’t cut off social media completely. Not because I crave the dopamine; not because my friendships depend on it; not because I care about celebrities; but simply because I need it to grow my businesses. Let me rephrase—I need it to grow and promote my online businesses. In essence, social media is an incredible tool that allows global connection, cross-cultural learning, and the free flow of knowledge. The problem isn’t the platforms themselves but what we’ve turned them into.

I recently came across a quote from Justin Welsh, the pioneer of solopreneurs, that reads:

"Modern luxury is the ability to think clearly, sleep deeply, move slowly, and live quietly in a world designed to prevent all four."

Social media, or more accurately, the pressure of maintaining an online presence that could cultivate a community and fuel my businesses, robbed me of thinking clearly, sleeping deeply, moving slowly, and living quietly. I was no longer creating from the heart, from being in the zone, from my soul, but from comparison to others, from fear of missing out, from the ego. I was producing because the algorithm demanded it, because my niche required consistency because trends needed to be followed in order to generate numbers. Slowly, along that process, my tastes, my opinions, my instincts—fundamentally, my values—slipped through the cracks. I was running on a treadmill, exhausting myself in pursuit of an ever-moving target. I stared at the glowing screen: a pixelated infinity, a hall of mirrors where every version of myself was refracted, curated, filtered through a prism of trends. Trapped between drafts and deadlines, my intuition was dulled by the insatiable appetite of an audience I can’t even see.

Just like in all aspects of life, one always has a choice. In the case of social media, one can choose to either be controlled by the trends, algorithms, and others’ perceptions or control their relationship to and involvement with the platforms. Social media can be a tool or a leash. The difference lies in who’s holding it. And so, the decision comes as a quiet recalibration. To decide what is worth sharing, and what is best left untouched. To recognize that presence does not have to mean omnipresence, that one does not need to stretch across every platform like a thin, tired thread.

There is a subtle difference between creating for consumption to creating for communion.The act of creation existed long before the feed demanded proof of it. There is no true return to the world before, no rewinding the tape to an era untouched by digital mediation. The world has moved forward, and so must I adapt. The difficulty lies not in abandoning the tools of modernity, but in learning to wield them without losing oneself. To exist within the current while refusing to be carried mindlessly by its tide. To build something lasting in a space designed for ephemerality.

There is power in discernment, in choosing where to place one's voice, in understanding that some spaces are simply not meant to be occupied. Not every thought needs to be condensed into a caption, not every creation needs to be instantly uploaded, not every success needs an audience. The only way forward is to redefine what it means to be "online." It should evolve from a plea for attention into a deliberate act of presence. A chosen space to share, not to shout. To contribute, not to contort. To be visible without being devoured. Participation over submission.

There is a relief in loosening the grip, in no longer seeking permission from an invisible crowd. A rhythm returns—slower, less desperate, more intentional. The work itself begins to breathe again, expanding beyond the constraints of metrics, growing in its own time, by its own logic. My hands recall the tactile certainty of ink staining a notebook… the weight of the camera resting against my palm… And in that moment, I become whole again.

For those who read between the lines—
essays, stories, and thoughts on film and culture.
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