If you’ve ever read an argument for limiting social media usage, I can almost guarantee that the phrase “comparison is the thief of joy” was used at least once. But personally, that sentiment has never really resonated with me, at least not in the context of social media.
We all know that “Penn Face” is just a facade. We all know that an Instagram feed is just a highlight reel of someone’s life. We all know that when we sort through 200 photos just to find one that’s up to the highest standard, someone else is doing the same.
In the inevitably busy life of a Penn student, a little nightly scrolling often feels like a much-needed escape. For me, TikTok became a way to switch my brain off for a while and decompress.
Yet, somehow, what was meant to be a source of relief was instead leaving me with a sense of emptiness each night as I put my phone down to fall asleep. For many months, I never even considered attributing this feeling to my social media usage. I didn’t have a phone addiction, and I wasn’t comparing myself to people online, so my For You page couldn’t possibly be the problem, right? Wrong.
I wasn’t being fed videos of extravagant vacations, perfect bodies, or NYC internships. Instead, my feed was composed entirely of people living similar lives to me, with similar perspectives, interests, and even humor.
To me, this composition of content had just seemed “relatable,” and that had led me to continue liking, saving, and scrolling. Like most of us, I was entirely aware that the algorithm is designed precisely to hook us in this way, but since the videos made me laugh, I didn’t really care. What I’d failed to realize is that every single piece of content on my feed had been subtly catered to indulge exactly what was troubling me at any given moment, presented in lighthearted wrapping paper and a humorous ribbon. I’d never really considered that this source of personalized validation and comfort could be exactly what was dragging me down.
I decided to try resetting my suggested content, and was met with a brand new feed full of cute dogs, cooking tutorials, and sports highlights. Perfect! I’d be back to normal in no time.
But as I — and, unfortunately, also my algorithm — quickly discovered, this sort of standard content didn’t really interest me that much. As much as I tried to fool the algorithm by forcing myself to watch a plethora of painfully boring GRWM videos, TikTok and Instagram were just too smart for me. Within a matter of days, my feed had caught on.
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At that moment, something clicked for me. I wrote down all my login details, saved my TikTok drafts to my camera roll, and deleted the apps. As Penn students, we generally aren’t accustomed to the feeling of being bored. Of genuinely having nothing to do. Of cognitive silence. Was I meant to just stare at the wall in my free time now? How was I meant to stay connected with the rest of the world?
I’d always rejected the idea that TikTok and Instagram are “useless.” Despite the popular critiques of social media as “brain rot,” I’d maintained that I learned a lot through my time online. Whilst that was somewhat true, more accurately, I’d been using it as a way to dull my thoughts and ensure I was never left alone with too much time to think.
As I began searching for alternative ways to stay up to date on current affairs, I found myself compulsively reaching for a comments section that didn’t exist — not because I couldn’t formulate my own opinions on what I was reading, but because I craved the validation that they were the right ones.
The “What do other people think of this?” epidemic is something that I never thought I would fall victim to, but it is exactly what was leaving me feeling so empty after my nightly social media scroll. When we’re constantly being fed video after video of tailored, relatable content, our algorithms are satisfying this desire we have for communal validation. It might not be telling us what to think, but it convinces us that we aren’t unique.
All of a sudden, your interests become everyone’s interests. Your jokes become everyone’s jokes. Your experiences become everyone’s experiences. It starts to feel like everyone is living the same life, and although this can be superficially comforting, it ultimately leaves us feeling empty, dull, and small.
I don’t think deleting social media entirely is the answer. As college students, this would be almost impossible. In fact, the true problem is not the apps themselves — it’s the algorithms. Instead of passively allowing your feed to present a queue of meticulously tailored videos, limiting social media as a tool to search for specific content on your own, or keep in touch with friends, is enough to allow our brains space to be bored, creative, and spontaneous.
Ultimately, seeing people doing “better” than us — skiing in Switzerland, being in a healthy relationship, or sipping cocktails on the beach in Greece — isn’t the aspect of social media that affects us the most. Instead, it’s the infinite feedback loops of our own anxieties that we unintentionally create under the facade of relatability, comfort, and community.
As much as I hate to admit it, maybe our moms were right: Sometimes it is simply “because of that damn phone” — just not quite in the way that was often explained to us as kids.
GRETA LYNCH is a College sophomore from Australia studying computer science, cognitive science, and political science. Her email is glynch13@sas.upenn.edu.
