Published January 18, 2026 08:25AM
It was the 2010s. The app was Instagram. It was an era before the release of its scarily accurate algorithm and prior to the phrase “link in bio” becoming part of our lexicon. Instagram was basically the de facto place my friends and I went to (1) upload pictures of parties and (2) stalk other people’s photos of parties.
Still, even in the early days of social media, there was a lot of talk about what a mind-mess these platforms could create, including research that tracked declines in mental health. I deliberated cutting ties with Instagram because I noticed myself falling into the classic trap: looking at what my friends were posting and wondering, “Why aren’t I doing what they’re doing?” and “Should I be doing that?”
Once, I spent the better part of an entire day comparing my real life to other peoples’ highlight reels. Then I looked at my bedroom. The sun had gone down, and I’d left my windows open. I realized I was cold and starving. I felt more than a little horrified at having neglected my basic needs while my mind took a nightmarish vacation.
So I deleted the app.
I mean, technically, my account was still active—but I was not. Months later, after realizing I could live (thrive, even!) without Instagram, my little break turned into my decision to delete my account and, as it turns out, spend years without it.
Life After Deciding to Delete Instagram
My Instagram-lessness wasn’t something I openly shared; nor was it something I hid from people. Sure, many references went right over my head. When friends registered my look of confusion over a celebrity’s post or a mutual friend’s IG story brought up in conversation, I’d often receive the response, “Ohhhh, yeah. I forgot you’re not on Instagram.”
So I did what I imagine a 20-something living off a trust fund might do when their friends complain about working: I lent a listening ear when my friends celebrated, complained about, or referenced the intricacies of their experiences on social media.
But I couldn’t really relate. And I was secretly gleeful about not knowing the name of a former high school classmate’s baby or the model of car my distant cousin purchased. Not knowing was like the first day of spring when you walk outside and realize you don’t need that heavy jacket you’re wearing, so you simply take it off. It felt like freedom.
Of course I had to retrain myself to reach for something other than Instagram during trigger -moments, including boredom or overwhelm. To be fair, other forms of media rushed in to fill its place—Netflix, YouTube, SnapChat. But none of them felt as emotionally sticky as Instagram. Nor did they suck me in for hours and light my emotions on fire.
The absence of the app did, at times, make me question myself and my place in the world. “What if I miss out on staying in touch with old friends or the chance to make new ones?” “What if I should be sharing more of myself with the world?” “If I don’t post it, did it even happen?”
Eventually, though, I would meet people IRL who didn’t use or at least prioritize Instagram, which diffused my anxiety. Sometimes I’d Google famous or influential people who didn’t have IG accounts (Brad Pitt!), which was oddly comforting. Maybe it’s because it reinforced the idea that one can be successful, influential, even beloved without posting image carousels.
Yet living without Instagram didn’t seem to completely transform my life for the better, either. I didn’t attain spiritual enlightenment or develop the ability to never stress about all my friends hanging out without me. Besides, it’s not like I replaced time spent on Instagram with wholesome hobbies like reading books and hiking.
Anticlimactically, I was still human.
Interestingly, the thing that roped me back into Instagram years later wasn’t FOMO or the desire to doomscroll. It was the fact that, after taking creative workshops and solo trips where I connected with awesome individuals, they’d pose the same inevitable question to me before we parted ways: “What’s your Instagram?” I’d say I didn’t have one and then we’d both fumble over whether to exchange phone numbers (somehow waaay too intimate) or emails (too formal!). After several years of that awkward dance, I caved and decided to create a new account.
Returning to Instagram After 10 Years
Ironically, I created a new account on IG to keep in touch with people I met in real life. But I’ll never forget the overwhelm I experienced when I was confronted by random people’s videos (called reels, I later learned) in my feed. I’d had a brief foray with TikTok in the intervening years, but didn’t expect Instagram to look so similar. So saturated.
I quickly realized I was better off without social media, so I deleted the app again and headed straight to yoga class. Just kidding. I totally fell for EVERYTHING the app threw at me! Yes, Tarot card reader, I want to know when the love of my life will show up. Sure, self-proclaimed business expert, I want to know if my body language subconsciously communicates weakness. No, food influencers, I will never tire of watching people taste Costco hot dogs for the first time.
I was astonished and humbled to realize that my attention could be pulled back into the app so easily. Any sense of superiority I’d quietly accumulated by abstaining from all things IG went flying out the window as fast as you can say “meal prep hack.” That mental space I’d reserved? It was quickly overtaken by countless creators’ visuals, words, thoughts, and feelings.
Suddenly, there was a lot less room for me.
Is Life Better With or Without Instagram?
I don’t judge Instagram as good or bad—it’s not that simple. It’s been my late-night companion that gives me a much-needed laugh. It’s been my impromptu support group that makes me tear up while watching brave, vulnerable strangers share emotions that, as it turns out, are just like mine. It’s also given me identity-affirming language and an ever-broadening perspective on what it means to be human.
But despite all the times Instagram has affirmed me, my emotions, and my body, all that empowerment can feel completely washed away by the wrong post. Some of the more mind-melting content continues to make me second-guess myself in favor of the most recent trend or theory. At times, it instills a hesitation over what I wear and eat, how I age and exercise, the way I act and don’t act.
Without realizing it, I had been practicing detachment while I was off the app. I had let myself experience life without Instagram when I wasn’t happy with how it made me feel. Also, instead of holding hard and fast to my identity as Instagram-less, I had let myself return to it when I was curious. And when it felt overwhelming and too time-consuming (again), I didn’t hesitate deleting the app off my phone.
It’s very much what yoga teaches—that we experience life more authentically by not identifying ourselves with external things, whether a career, relationship, or digital platform. We can still fully participate in life, of course; but we don’t have to confuse ourselves with everything else. Because we’re awesome, eternal, and part of the universe—and everything else is, well, kinda unimportant in the grand scheme of things. What matters is having the awareness to differentiate between the two.
I’ve had Instagram back for a while now. Although my account is still up and running, I keep it at a distance. Right now, for instance, I don’t have the app on my phone, which means I’m only logged in on my laptop. Boundaries. When I notice I’m spending waaay too much time scrolling, I’ll wiggle my toes or take a deep breath, as if I’m in transitioning out of Savasana. That brings me back to myself enough so I can put my phone down and move on. If anything, my time away has strengthened my ability to return to myself again and again. It’s not perfect, but it’s a practice.
