One of my most pivotal moments in childhood happened offline, something unthinkable as a person who has been far too online for a decade now. The story sounds like it’s from a bygone era: in the middle of a sizzling West Texas summer, I gave up on my endless cable TV channel surfing and walked to the public library, flip phone in hand. There, I found a graphic novel that would change my life: Junji Ito’s Uzumaki. 

I may have gotten some serious nightmares out of it, but the closure of finishing this novel was relieving. I came out unscathed but changed. I was now a certified horror fan.

One decade and many b-list slasher films later, I decided to revisit Uzumaki. This time around, I was stopped in my tracks by something that was deeply familiar. That’s not exactly the feeling you want while reading about horrors beyond comprehension.

It is the story of an entire town of people consumed by a spiral. They see spirals in everything, everywhere. A girl’s hair turns into uncontrollable, beautiful spirals to capture everyone’s attention; her hair grows so fast, it drains the life out of her. One man quits work and focuses all of his art on spirals until he can’t talk about anything else. They are obsessed and overcome until all semblance of society collapses around them.

This sounded… well, a lot like my own life, post-2020. I boasted a frightening average screen time of 9 or 10 hours per day. I was sucked into old Internet obsessions. I watched multiple 6-hour YouTube videos about inane topics. To accomplish any task, I needed a cheesy TV show in the background. Talking to me was like reading a jargon-filled Reddit post. I actually spent 14 days TikTok-free over the holidays, trying to peel back a few layers of irony to remember my real personality, and was only partly successful.

I am hardly the first person to say social media is addicting. Mesmerizing. Magnetic and hard to give up. Recently, though, it seems more of us are turning away from the most popular apps in favor of “authentic,” niche or decentralized spaces—or simply going offline altogether. People stared into these spirals, were changed by them, and still chose to step away. 

Where political comics and think pieces lay blame on the consumer, I’m more interested in the Internet as something that’s grown beyond our control. A surreal, ever-present motif. A black hole doom spiral that we can’t help but be drawn to, even as we watch it change us inside and out. By this point, we know these apps and sites were designed this way on purpose. That’s why it is so fascinating to watch the rise of new platforms and apps that break this convention (or appear to, anyway).

Social media platforms follow the same rule as any media: if you are not paying for the product, you are the product. These spaces are built for you to respond urgently, often and always. The more time you take to pause or verify a source, the less you can suspend your disbelief. That’s why apps like BeReal tout themselves as an “anti-influencer” platform. Though rarely anyone uses it exactly as intended—posting right on time, no posing or retakes—there’s still a freshness you can’t find on Instagram or Snapchat anymore. 

If we’re talking about niche communities online, we can’t forget about Discord, another messaging/video chat app mainly geared towards gamers. The platform supports tight-knit communities from friend groups to entire fandoms. The way groups are sorted into servers is not unlike the forums of early 2000’s Internet culture, hinging on a common interest or friend group versus the endless, aggregated barrage of muck that fills your average Facebook timeline. Bonus: it’s profitable for brands!

“What began as a toe-dip into a promising, yet uncharted marketing territory has, in 12 months, blossomed into a go-to media channel for names such as Chipotle, Wendy’s, Macy’s, Samsung U.S. and Adidas. No longer are brands pondering whether they should create their own Discord communities (called servers)—they are. The focus today has shifted from the forest to the trees, where brands weigh which individual features to include in their servers and details that could marginally entice more engagement.”

There’s also Letterboxd, meant for film buffs and cult movie lovers to be pretentious together as they log films and write irreverent reviews. What sounds small in scope—movie snobs, and movie snobs alone—has grown massively in the last few years. There’s something wonderful there: a feeling that’s genuine, silly and a little more anonymous, reminiscent of the olden days of Tumblr (an app seeing its own resurgence in the wake of the Twitter mess). For a very Gen Z example of this, one of my closest friends only communicates with me via Letterboxd reviews nowadays. It’s the most stable relationship I’ve had in years, our sparse texts free of repetitive TikTok sounds or overly detailed aesthetics.

So what does this mean for brands, nonprofits and regular humans? Mainly, this tells us that walking away from the endless overwhelm is not just good for the soul, it might be the necessary next step. 

There’s a video of Bo Burnham from 2019 that circulated recently which seems prophetic. The fact that it has seven million views and counting is telling when it comes to our collective mood towards social media lately:

“The whole joke on the Internet is, ‘This place sucks, right?’ That’s kind of the thing. That’s why their [Gen Z] memes are all ironic and detached, and self-referential and 12 layers deep. Because truth is completely dead to them and they know it. They look at the president and they look at the culture, they go, ‘What the hell is this?’ They look at Coca-Cola commercials that are winking at them and smiling and they go, ‘Forget it.’”

– Bo Burnham, “Self Esteem in the Age of Social Media”

I’d argue this applies to far more than just Zoomers. People of all age groups are online now, just as billionaire social media owners seem to be faltering and losing favor quickly. Everyone’s starting to grow tired of our hyper-niche algorithms and commercialization. What do we do as humans—and as purpose-driven organizations who care about humans?

Platforms only care about the eyeballs on screens, often too focused on competing with each other to notice what users actually want from them. Relying on these vanity metrics does your work a disservice, especially if you’re organizing movements online. Always remind yourself of the ultimate goal in your social strategy and stick to it. Don’t get stuck in aiming for “likes”—you’re aiming for purchases, conversations or donations. Decide first what matters most for your mission, even if it’s unconventional, and strategize around that.

The best way to avoid feeling pressure to “react” is to spend time proactively building brand/community identity before the next scary thing happens. Your audience won’t be scrambling to know what you think if they already know where you stand. Consider ways to encourage quality over quantity in your content, whether that means leaving an underperforming platform or paring down your schedule. Talk about donations year-round, not just on Giving Tuesday. Be antiracist every month, unprompted—not just during Black History Month or Hispanic Heritage Month. People may not see you as often, but they’ll give more weight to what you choose to share. 

Millions of dollars are poured into digital ads daily, mostly sitting and doing nothing. Instead of feeding the endless void, try taking it back to basics. Keep it organic and interactive to see where your audience takes you. Hell, depending on your brand, you could even encourage them to go offline. If you see your audience uses Discord but not Instagram, why not join them where they are? There’s no need to overcomplicate: go where they would like to see you, and don’t be where they aren’t.

A special shout out to the Women’s Convention for inspiring and informing pieces of this blog.

Sometimes, social media feels like a horror show. Can we defeat the monster and save the day?

Escaping our Social Media Spirals

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