There was once a time when I blamed all the world’s problems on social media.
Consumerism? Blame social media.
Growing intolerance? Blame social media.
Religious and ideological extremism? Blame social media.
Lower attention span? Blame social media.
I was the one at the dinner party talking about how I’d logged off. I was the one writing essays on how being offline had deeply healed me. (The irony, of course, being that I was doing this on Substack of all places, to my 23,000 subscribers.)
And in many ways, it had. Up to a point.
Logging off healed the deep wound of constantly watching other people’s lives instead of tending to my own. It quieted that reflexive pull of my attention outward—toward whose career was taking off, who bought a house, who was getting the next big thing—rather than toward my own work, my own world, my own very real gifts. It also interrupted that old loop of seeking validation in quick likes and dopamine hits, the subtle addiction to being seen.
But living in this offline bubble was its own kind of fantasy. I tried to construct a life untouched by social media, an almost analog existence that felt pure and protective. But I was becoming increasingly disconnected from the world I actually lived in. And pretty soon, I felt isolated in my indignation towards social media.
Everywhere I turned, I was still surrounded by its power. I knew the Stanley Cup was trending because it was on Target’s “As Seen On TikTok!” shelf. Anytime it was brought up in conversation, I would feel a slight trigger. If I was with a friend, I’d ask them not to talk about TikTok in front of me. I didn’t want to know what was happening on social media, I wanted to be focused on what was happening in the present.
I live in New York City and am a writer; I knew in order to make a living I couldn’t cut off from the world, completely, forever. I wanted (and needed) to stay attuned to what was happening. I didn’t want to lose my friends, my career, my network, and give up my biggest passion: my writing. None of my work happens in a vacuum; I needed to be in communion with my audience, which I’d spent years building. But I felt such anger, because my wound hadn’t healed.
Tilghman in 2018, at the height of her social media fame.
Courtesy of Lee Tilghman
Tilghman today.
Courtesy of Lee Tilghman
From 2014 to 2019, I was a wellness influencer, some might say one of the first. I got on Instagram early and recognized its ability to be a life-changing, world-altering tool to connect, inspire, and grow from. And I was right! I shared my daily wellness tips and healing journey and got to work with some of my dream brands that I still love and use to this day: Dyson, Nordstrom, Vital Proteins, and Subaru. I got to travel the world: Japan, Hawaii, Nicaragua, Italy, France, and all across the United States. I made a great salary and started out-earning my friends who had specialty degrees.
But just as fast as I rose to Instagram fame, I burnt out.
My pace was unrealistic. I was online seven days a week, for years on end, only allowing myself five or so days off around the holidays. I was always on. Looking back, I realize with ruthless honesty that this is what it takes to build a successful career. I built a team around me, but I still couldn’t relinquish control of the actual posting, editing, and content creation. Many influencers reading this would agree: It’s important to be “plugged in” and in near-constant communication with your audience; it’s an odd job where you are in a symbiotic relationship with your fans and vice versa. You’ve got to know what performs well, and what they want to see.
So at the height of my career, in 2019, I said goodbye and logged off @leefromamerica.
I didn’t know how long I’d be off, just that it was time for me to take a break. My first morning away from Instagram was euphoric. I went through my routine—matcha latte-making, meditation, journaling, and dog-walking—all offline, without documenting it, and I was instantly aware that I needed to continue on this path. So within a year, I largely left social media completely, shutting down my blog and even going back to work a 9-to-5 job in corporate America.
For a while, this worked. I found my nervous system calmer, myself more able to connect with those around me, and I was more present in my day-to-day life. But again, any time social media came up in conversation, I would go numb.
Because the very feelings I was trying to escape by shutting down Instagram—overwhelm, inadequacy, competition—were still there.
I’d still get wind when someone got engaged. (I was single at the time and worried I’d never meet my man—but I did meet Jack, the most amazing man I’ve ever met, through Hinge, and I get to marry him in May.) I’d still find out when someone got a promotion. I’d still know what was happening—because I was still a participant in the world. And another peculiar thing happened: I started to feel the itch to create content again—of sharing and pushing myself the way social media forces us creators to show up.
By logging off, I was playing it safe. I was pulling myself off the team. I was quitting before I could be fired. By forsaking social media, I was trying to get ahead of the hurt. But really, I was giving so much power over to an app.
Eventually, I asked myself: What if I logged back on and tried to do it…balanced?
So that’s where I’m at now. As of 2024, I use social media, but I don’t let it use me. What’s this mean? Well, I have a robust offline support system: my fiancé, friends, family, and mentors. I have hobbies that don’t include scrolling: reading, taking baths, arts and crafts, writing, and decorating.
And I also have boundaries. I use social media to share my ideas, connect with my audience, and it’s the main way I make a living. But as soon as it feels like the balance is off—and I have spent years cultivating enough self-awareness to know when that’s happening—I shut it down for a bit. No grand sweeping “I’m logging off” posts, just a quiet silencing of notifications for as long as I need. (I love the Brick.)
I used to view social media as an extension of myself. Now I view it as a job—a marketing platform to share my work and monetize where I can. I think the way we have used Instagram has largely changed, and it will continue to change. It’s a place for people to gain inspiration and share ideas, yes—but also buy their next purchase. This understanding has helped me navigate my expectations: I realize social media is bigger than me, and it’s important for me to protect myself. Waking up to the fact that I am in charge of my own happiness, my actions, and the way I spend my time was a jolt—the kind that rearranges your inner furniture. No one is coming to save me, soothe me, manage me, or make my life feel the way I want it to feel. That’s my job. And honestly? There’s a deep freedom in that.
Once I stopped outsourcing my dissatisfaction to social media, to culture, to “the industry,” to whatever, I started taking real accountability. Not the punishing kind. The adult kind. The kind that says: This is the reality. You can participate or you can step back, but either way, you have to accept it.
That shift is where I finally found agency and peace. It has allowed me to completely accept social media as it is—with its good, bad, and everything in between—so I could partake in the conversation again. I push and challenge myself. And honestly, I missed it.
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