Lately, I’ve been more intentional about what I let into my world—especially online. I mute people. I take long breaks in my social media. I don’t scroll mindlessly. And still… five minutes on Instagram stories, and suddenly I’m drained like I just ran a marathon in emotional quicksand. It’s not even about jealousy or judgment. It’s deeper than that. It’s this subtle, persistent feeling of “I don’t have the energy to validate everyone’s life right now.”
Sure, it’s nice to see old friends alive and thriving. Glad you’re doing well. Glad your kid had a birthday. That weekend gateaway, awesome. Love that for you. But somewhere between story #7 and #17, there’s always this tiny, sticky residue—unprocessed emotion hanging in the air, floating from post to post like emotional glitter. And I never really notice it… until I’m physically tired and emotionally fried. Until I’m so senewen and snapping at my husband because someone else’s flood rant leaked into my nervous system.
Especially the angry stories. The political rants. The never-ending guilt-bomb content about stray cats, bad government, bad neighbors, and worse opinions. And hey—I get it. Those things are infuriating. But somehow, their rage becomes mine by osmosis. I scroll past, but I don’t move on.
Call it weakness, but I’m not immune to that kind of noise.And honestly? I don’t want to be. I just want a mute button for the whole planet, if I could.
From Available to Absorbed (and Finally, Awake)
I used to think being online just meant being reachable—present, available, polite. You react to stories, reply with emojis, throw in a “so happy for you!” here and there. But somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like connection and started feeling like erosion.
Because honestly? Being online is more like being energetically corrosive. Every scroll, every rant, every vague passive-aggressive post… it doesn’t just enter you—it eats away at you. Even when you're "just watching," you're not just consuming. You're being consumed.
So I started asking myself—am I engaging, or am I absorbing? Turns out, I thought... wah, ga bener nih and I wasn’t connecting at all. I was collecting. Little spikes of anxiety from someone’s panic rant. A pinch of guilt from someone’s humblebrag. A splash of outrage from a stranger’s repost. Bits and pieces, stacking like emotional Uno Stacko. None of it mine. But somehow, all of it leaking into me like emotional spam I never subscribed to—only harder to block.
Boundaries Aren’t Walls. They’re Filters.
Muting someone doesn’t mean I hate them. It doesn’t mean I’m petty or passive-aggressive or socially fragile (or maybe yes to some extend, lol). It just means I’ve reached a point where I value my own clarity more than I value performative closeness. I no longer feel obligated to stay emotionally updated on people whose energy I wouldn't even want in my physical space. Boundaries used to feel like rejection—like I was being cold, mean, or distant. But now they feel more like WiFi passwords: private, intentional, limited-access, and updated regularly depending on who drains the signal. I don’t need to announce who I mute or why I stopped replying. That’s the beauty of boundaries: they don’t require permission, explanation, or applause.
And yes, maybe I’ll miss a few updates. Maybe someone will think I’m fake or flaky or emotionally unavailable. Maybe they’ll interpret my silence as attitude, or disconnection, or ego. That’s fine. If distance is the cost of peace, I’ll pay in full—monthly, yearly, lifetime membership if I have to. I’d rather lose access to someone else’s chaos than lose access to myself. I’ve spent enough time being overly available in places that didn’t feed me. This version of me? She’s done romanticizing constant access. She’s done explaining self-respect like it’s a character flaw.
In This Digital Economy, Attention Is Currency
Let’s not pretend this is just about feelings. In today’s digital economy, everyone is trying to sell something. Content. Ads. Opinions. Trauma. Rage. Identity. Clickbait. Whatever gets clicks. The algorithm doesn’t care what you feel—it only cares that you stay. The longer you watch, the more valuable you become. Not as a person, but as a data point.
I hate how my curiosity gets converted into someone else's KPI.
Even advocacy content—yes, the “important” ones—have started to feel like social activism sponsored by desperation. It’s not about the cause anymore. It’s about reach. Loudness. Performative urgency. FOMO on steroids. Honestly? Being on social media now feels like scrolling through iklan baris koran Kompas—but with every post yelling, “LOOK AT ME. SHARE ME. BELIEVE ME. LOVE ME.”
I'm exhausted by how desperate everything sounds. I didn’t sign up for a marketplace of emotional capitalism. I just wanted to see cat memes.
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I’m no longer interested in being constantly reachable. Not because I don’t care—but because I finally do. I care about my energy. I care about the version of me that wants peace, not proof. Stillness, not strategy. I care about not being spiritually pickpocketed by people I barely talk to.
So if I don’t show up online, if I miss your post, or forget to double tap your big moment—it’s not because I’m heartless. It’s just that I’ve stopped proving I’m present.
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