Social Media


Photo by Finn Hackshaw on Unsplash

I didn’t want to issue a clarion call until I had a couple of posts under my belt in this space. But now that I’ve been at this for a good two-to-three weeks, I feel like I can lead a charge.

If you’re an OG Blogger—I’m talking Blogspot, WordPress, Livejournal, pre-Twitter and Instagram—you need to #dustoffyourblog.

You. Yeah, you. With a long-abandoned WordPress sitting under cobwebs in some corner of the Internet. Flip open your laptop (or your phone, because we can do that now) and come back to telling your story on the Internet.

“Why?” you ask. You’re an adult with a life. You’ve got a grown-up job, a spouse, children, a public profile to protect. What do you gain from journaling on the World Wide Web?

Because we’re in an increasingly isolated world. A world too often driven by mindless engagement.

And we could all use a space to take a breather. To wrap our minds around this new normal, slowly. Carefully. For audiences that care enough to click our links instead of stumbling upon on us via compulsive scrolling.

If you’re out there with a story to tell (and we’re living history, so who among us doesn’t?), I’m encouraging you to come back to the fold. It’s quiet here. And we’re waiting to hear from you.

Life & Times, Social Media

it's not you, instagram; it's me

Confession: I hate Instagram.

Not in the “too deep for superficial social media” way. For heaven’s sake, I’m a Twitter user and that place is a cesspool.

My Instagram hatred is specific to how isolated I feel among my peer group. Let me explain.

One day, I looked at my feed and it reminded me of how Facebook looked before I abandoned it. Parents with children or new baby bumps. Engagements and weddings and date nights and game nights. Live your best life memes. Selfies with “self-love/care/acceptance” captions. Glossy, post-edited photo shoot flicks.

Had I bumped my head and fallen through a portal into Auntie/Uncle Instagram?


My peer group is Auntie/Uncle Instagram. It’s not their fault I’m the 36-year-old weirdo who’ll go on a night on the town in December and only photograph the glittery balls hanging from the ceiling.

i was not exaggerating.

To be honest, I’ve never considered myself an Instagram person. Even when the app was iPhone-exclusive, I never clamored for an Android version because I understood, even back then, that my inner life was more compelling than the outer. “Twitter works for me because all the good stuff happens in my head,” I told a friend. “My daily life is pretty dull.” And that was when I was 28 and still had a social life.

At 36, my life doesn’t look like anyone else’s I know. Even my fellow spinsters have thrown themselves into careers, side hustles, and bucket list vacations. I’m not there, either.

And because I don’t want to resent my friends for being “normal 30somethings” or myself for being a… whatever the fuck I am… I deleted the app from my phone without ceremony and took my photo-taking talents to the VSCO. Apparently, socially-anxious teenagers and those searching for deeper meaning through photography are my people.

the chaotic collage-style profile lets you know this is where the non-conformists hang.

I occasionally check IG from my mobile browser with little proof of life photos here and there. I might hit one or two likes. Then I dip back out to the social mediums that don’t make me feel like a pariah.

So if I haven’t answered your Instagram DM, please do not fret. It’s not you; it’s me.