Reclaiming My Mind: Life Beyond the Algorithm

computer chip art by Elias Sime

It has been over a year since I stepped away from the shimmering, pixelated worlds of social media. What I know now, is that this choice was one of the most nourishing I have ever made. For my mind, unspooling like a fern in the absence of constant noise. For my attention, which no longer fractures under the weight of ceaseless pings and demands. For my ability to connect—not with fragments or curated performances—but with the messy, luminous aliveness of this crumbling, beautiful world. This wasn’t a casual retreat, a closing of the door behind me to escape technology or the sway of others’ voices. It was a deliberate severance, an untangling from the wires of surveillance and manipulation, from systems designed to fracture the self into marketable parts. Leaving felt like stepping backstage, past the blinding light of spectacle, to see the small and trembling man behind the curtain who conjures illusions of power. Once you see the strings, the wires, the machinery of control—how could you go back? I didn’t simply uninstall apps; I reclaimed my ability to think, to feel, to wonder in a world warped by the whims of code.

This isn’t about purity or moral ascension. To pretend otherwise would be to deny the ableism that pulses through the way we speak of “unplugging.” For some—those who are housebound or bedbound—these digital spaces are lifelines, weaving connection where isolation once lived. I know this truth intimately, for years on platforms like Instagram and Facebook brought me joy, sustenance, a kind of communion. They introduced me to people whose ideas and lives shaped my own. And yet, there was a shift, a quiet but insistent unraveling. What had once been a space of connection became an assembly line, churning out content, trapping attention, and selling distraction. Algorithms, sharp and precise, carved pathways that turned me into a consumer, stripped of agency. The cost was not abstract—it was my time, my energy, my capacity to think whole thoughts. My mind became a battlefield, drenched in misinformation and outrage, a wasteland of disconnection. So, I chose to walk away. I turned my time and attention to that which creates life, connects in real time, supports creativity, slows things down, and re-enchants the world.

When I tell people I’ve left, they often nod, confessing how heavy their own phones feel in their hands. I hear stories of how toxic others find the hungry ghosts of the algorithm, and how difficult they find it to set their phone down, to not be lit up by notifications that send a rush of dopamine, to take back their own attention when it is being fought for with every swipe. And so I tell them what I will tell you now: it is possible to leave. It is possible to step away and never look back. The transition may feel disjointed at first. But there’s a healing in it, subtle and profound. The threads of your own nervous system begin to knit themselves back together. You may find that without the constant hum of notifications, the world softens, the edges blur, and you are able to settle into something real. This isn’t about being better, purer, or superior—it’s about choosing what nourishes your particular life. And perhaps, if you choose to leave, you will find that the parts of yourself once scattered and silenced return, steady and whole, asking you to listen.

If you’re standing on the edge of this decision, looking down at the vast and unfamiliar terrain, let me offer you my story. A map, of sorts. These are the reasons I left, the fragments I reclaimed, and the quiet gifts I found waiting in the absence.

1. The Return of My Own Mind
   Perhaps the most profound reason I left social media was to think for myself. In the cacophony of voices online, it’s easy to lose your own. The opinions I formed often felt less like revelations or critical thoughts and more like the influence of the masses all being influenced by that which profits off of conflict, outrage, and manufactured urgency.

   
   By disconnecting, I’ve rediscovered the joy of unmediated thought—of wrestling with ideas in solitude, free from the pressure to immediately share or justify them. This space has become , a refuge for genuine introspection. It’s like wandering through a forest without a map, allowing the twists and turns of my own curiosity to guide me, rather than the well-trodden paths that algorithms lay out. The ideas I nurture now feel rooted in something deeper, untainted by the compulsions of digital validation.
   

2. Surveillance Capitalism: Living as a Product, Not a Person
   As Shoshana Zuboff so incisively argues in The Age of Surveillance Capitalism, social media platforms aren’t tools for communication—they are mechanisms for profit through surveillance. “We are the objects of a new kind of marketplace where our lives are the raw material for prediction products,” Zuboff writes. Social media platforms are not free; they are marketplaces trading in human behavior. Every like, scroll, and comment feeds a machine that predicts and manipulates my future actions. These companies don’t simply observe us; they actively shape us into predictable, profitable users.
   
   I no longer wanted to be a cog in a system that sees my life as raw data to mine. The realization that my digital presence wasn’t mine but a commodity unsettled me. By staying on these platforms, I was complicit in my own exploitation. Leaving was a way to reject this dehumanizing economy. The day I deleted my accounts felt like taking back stolen ground, reclaiming a sliver of autonomy in a world increasingly dominated by digital colonization. There’s a visceral relief in knowing my life isn’t being cataloged and sold for someone else’s profit anymore.
   

3. Algorithms as Invisible Architects of My Reality
   Algorithms are invisible hands, curating what we see, think, and feel. They cater to extremes, amplifying outrage, sensationalism, and polarization. As James Bridle notes in New Dark Age, “The algorithm does not care for truth. It cares for engagement, and outrage is the most engaging emotion of all.” The algorithm dictates not just what trends but how I interpret the world.
   
   I began noticing how my thoughts mirrored what was trending. Was I even thinking for myself, or was I parroting what algorithms selected for me? Leaving social media allowed me to step back and cultivate my own intellectual garden, free from the monoculture of virality. I found myself exploring topics and ideas that would never have appeared on my feed—the obscure, the quiet, the unprofitable. It’s like walking away from a carnival of flashing lights to sit by a fire and read a book that was passed down through generations.
   

4. Too Much Content, Never ending Consuming
   Social media operates on the logic of abundance: infinite posts, infinite videos, infinite notifications. Yet this excess doesn’t lead to magic, or connection, or even inspiration. It overwhelms. This deluge of information fatigues us, leaving no room for deep reflection or creativity.
   
   I realized that I wasn’t consuming content—I was being consumed by it. The constant stream of updates fragmented my attention, robbing me of the quiet needed for true insight. In disconnecting, I made space for slowness and depth, for my own body’s language, for spontaneous conversation and connection. Without the ceaseless flow of content, I began to hear myself again. The empty spaces that once felt terrifying began to fill with meaning.
   

5. Creativity Stifled by Metrics
   As a writer and artist, I found myself increasingly writing for the algorithm—crafting captions that would perform well, posting at optimal times, and worrying about engagement. The metrics became a measure of my worth, stifling creativity in favor of conformity.
   
   By leaving social media, I freed myself to create without the oppressive gaze of performance analytics. My work became less about what would go viral and more about what felt true. Now, I write without a timer ticking in the background, without wondering if this sentence will be good enough for likes. I’ve learned to follow my creative instincts instead and the pleasure has returned.
   

6. The Erosion of Privacy
   Social media platforms thrive on eroding the boundaries of privacy. Every photo, location tag, and status update feeds a system that profits from surveillance. Edward Snowden, in Permanent Record, warns, “Arguing that you don't care about the right to privacy because you have nothing to hide is no different than saying you don't care about free speech because you have nothing to say.”
   
   I decided that my life didn’t need to be public to be meaningful. Logging off was a step toward reclaiming the sanctity of my personal space. There is a quiet power in keeping parts of your life just for yourself and the people you physically share it with—an intimacy that cannot be replicated through all of life becoming public and then owned.
   

7. The Cult of Constant Visibility
   Social media promotes the idea that if something isn’t shared, it didn’t happen. This cultivates a performative way of living, where even the most private moments are shaped with an audience in mind. I wanted to experience life for its own sake, not for the likes or validation it might generate. Leaving social media was a way to embrace invisibility, to live without the pressure of being seen. I’ve found that a spell has been broken; the beauty of life isn’t diminished by its lack of an audience; it is, in fact, amplified.
   

8. Rebuilding Attention as a Magical Resource
   “Attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity,” Simone Weil once wrote. Social media’s algorithms are designed to hijack this sacred resource, turning our attention into profit. When I left, I noticed how much more of my energy I could direct toward what truly matters: books, relationships, creativity, enchantment, service, and the slow unfolding of my days. My attention became a gift I could give with intention, rather than a currency spent on endless scrolling.

   
   In reclaiming my attention, I found myself lingering in moments I would have previously rushed through. Watching the play of sunlight on the wall became an act of worship. Listening to a friend’s story felt like planting seeds in fertile soil, the kind of connection that grows into something enduring.
   

9. Listening More Deeply
   When you’re no longer bombarded by the noise of endless updates, you can begin to hear the quieter voices: the rustle of leaves, the wisdom of your own intuition, the stories shared in the stillness of a friend’s eyes. Listening became an anchor, a way to ground myself in the world. It reminded me that life is not something to be broadcast but something to be witnessed, tended, and loved.

   
   Without the constant clamor of notifications, I began to notice the rhythm of my own breath, the conversations that unfold in silence. It’s a different kind of dialogue—one that doesn’t demand immediate responses but grows deeper with time.
   

10. Addiction by Design
    The pull of social media is no accident; it’s meticulously engineered to exploit our psychology. Platforms use intermittent rewards—likes, notifications, new followers—to keep us hooked. Recognizing the addictive nature of these platforms was key to my decision. I didn’t want my attention—a precious, finite resource—captured and commodified by companies that cared little for my well-being. Walking away felt like reclaiming a part of myself I hadn’t realized I’d lost.
    

11. The Myth of Multitasking
    Social media fragments attention. Each notification, each scroll, interrupts focus, creating the illusion that we can do it all at once. Neuroscientist Daniel Levitin, in The Organized Mind, explains that multitasking doesn’t make us more efficient; it makes us less present and more exhausted.

    
    I found myself skimming through life, my mind divided between online interactions and real-world moments. By leaving social media, I could fully inhabit the present, whether reading a book, eating good food, giving my time in service, caring in tangible and tactile ways. There is a richness to single-minded focus, a kind of deep nourishment that multitasking cannot provide.
    

12. The Echo Chamber of Disinformation
    Misinformation and disinformation thrive on platforms designed for virality, not truth. The result is a toxic stew of half-truths, conspiracy theories, and manipulative content, not to mention the pressure to post or comment on everything happening everywhere all the time. Social media companies profit from the chaos; the more we engage, the more they earn. A 2018 study published in Science revealed that false news spreads faster and further on Twitter than truthful content, driven by its novelty and emotional appeal. As writer Evgeny Morozov critiques in The Net Delusion, “Technology is never neutral. It is shaped by those who design it and the agendas they pursue.”

    
    I grew tired of navigating this minefield. Instead of endlessly fact-checking posts or trying to discern sincerity from spin, I chose to exit the echo chamber altogether. My mental clarity is worth more than the dopamine hit of a well-timed reshare. And what I have found is that there are many ways to obtain information, to be connected to what is happening right where I live and all over the world, to take direct action. Leaving behind the worlds of social was not the same as burying my head in the sand and pretending all is well so long as I am protected. Rather, I discovered how possible and enriching it is to learn and connect and be impacted, to be a part of community care and mutual aid, away from what had become chattering noise designed not to illuminate but to create a need for more and more and more.

13. The Tyranny of Urgency

    Social media thrives on immediacy. The pressure to respond to messages, comment on posts, or react to news creates a constant state of urgency. But as writer Jenny Odell argues in How to Do Nothing, “We were not meant to live in this state of perpetual responsiveness.” By stepping away, I freed myself from the tyranny of the now. I could engage with life on my terms, savoring slowness and deliberation. The simple act of pausing became revolutionary, a rebellion against the constant pressure to react. In doing so, I became less reactive and reaquanited myself with the ability to truly respond.
    

14. The Joy of Unmediated Experience
    In his book The Attention Merchants, Tim Wu describes how every moment we spend on social media is a moment we give to advertisers and tech companies. The simplest pleasures—laughing at my pour pound yorkie snoring loudly, coming upon a stack of old magazines at the used book store, listening to music—become mediated through the lens of a potential post.

    
    I wanted my life back—not as content but as experience. Without social media, I’ve rediscovered the joy of being fully present, of living without needing to document or share every moment. Now, a walk through the woods feels like communion, not a photo op. I remembered how much I love this world, and what I am willing to fight for because of this love, and where my place is in the family of things.

Leaving social media wasn’t just about stepping away from something toxic; it was about stepping toward something nourishing. In its absence, I’ve found time, clarity, and connection—not the kind mediated by pixels, but the kind grounded in presence and the pace my body actually moves at, to honor the rhythms and cycles of the natural world.

This choice is about curiosity, about asking what kind of life I want to create and what practices support that vision. It’s not always easy—there are moments when I feel out of the loop, when I’m not in on the up to date viral meme joke. But the trade-offs have been worth it. What I’ve gained is a deeper connection to myself, to others, and to the world around me. What I found was that I could listen again.

And so I listen. To the wind, to the rhythms of my days, to the suffering in the world, to the need and questions and heart pumping blood through my body. To the quiet but insistent voice within that says: This is enough. You are enough. The world, in all its collapsing and magic, is enough.

Don’t think of any of this as a perscription, decreeing what one must do.
It’s really an invitation to ask: What do you gain by staying? And what might you find in leaving?