Who Were We Before the Algorithm Told Us Who to Be?

A Millennial’s Lament on Social Media’s Grip.

As a millennial, it feels like I’ve been at the forefront of everything—especially when it comes to social media. We were there at the beginning, at the cusp of it all. We had Hi5, MySpace, MSN Messenger, and BBM before Facebook arrived and swept us into a new digital era. Then came Instagram, Twitter, Snapchat—platforms that have since evolved into something far bigger and more invasive than we ever imagined. What started as a space for self-expression became something else entirely.

I remember those early days vividly. We posted whatever we wanted, whenever we wanted. No filters, no second thoughts. We left the most ridiculous, unhinged comments on our friends’ posts. We uploaded pictures that weren’t edited or curated—just snapshots of our lives, raw and real. We were our most unfiltered, carefree selves because there was no external force whispering in our ears, telling us what was acceptable, what was aesthetic, what was worthy of attention.

Back then, before social media became the beast it is today, we lived fully in our own skin.

We had real conversations. We disagreed without fear of being called out. We laughed at things that would now be considered offensive. We weren’t preoccupied with engagement metrics or personal branding. We just existed. And yet, even then, struggles like eating disorders, depression, and anxiety weren’t absent. They existed, but they weren’t constantly projected, dissected, or commodified the way they are now. Maybe we were blissfully unaware. Or maybe the omnipresence of social media has magnified these issues in ways we never could have anticipated.

Somewhere along the way, that freedom eroded.

Slowly but surely, we became spectators of other people’s curated realities, subtly moulding ourselves to fit the unspoken standards they set. It wasn’t obvious at first. The change was insidious, creeping in quietly. A little tweak here, a little refinement there. And before we knew it, our online selves weren’t truly us anymore—they were polished, edited, and distilled versions designed for mass consumption.

We started filtering our words, our thoughts, our beliefs. We hesitated before posting. We analysed, edited, reconsidered. We became hyper-aware of perception, of approval, of digital applause.

We stopped being. We started performing.

And now, here we are, so conditioned by the rules of this space that we’ve lost the ability to just exist without overthinking it. How many of our so-called “friends” are really friends anymore? How many are just silent spectators, hovering in the background, watching but never engaging? How many of us have become those very spectators ourselves?

It’s like we’re all birds perched on a windowsill, peering into each other’s lives but never fully stepping inside.

The irony is, I hear people say all the time, “Oh, I’m not on social media anymore,” yet they’re still there, lurking, watching, absorbing without contributing. Others say, “I don’t really post anymore,” as if sharing parts of yourself is something to be ashamed of. Then there are those who now feel they’ve outgrown the frivolous nature of sharing, as if it’s something juvenile, something beneath them. They post sporadically, if at all, treating social media like an outdated relic of their youth rather than the living, breathing space it once was for self-expression.

But why? Why should we suppress the urge to share? In the beginning, we never hesitated. We weren’t performing then. We were just being.

And now? Now, we hesitate because we’ve been conditioned to believe that everything must be curated. Everything must serve a purpose. Everything must align with an aesthetic, a brand, a narrative. It’s exhausting. It’s hollow. It’s sad.

I think millennials feel this shift more deeply than any other generation. Because we remember. We remember who we were before the algorithms dictated our interactions. We remember what it was like to not give a damn, to just exist. And seeing what we’ve become—what we’ve allowed ourselves to become—is unsettling.

And so, as I step fully into this era of zero fucks to give, I invite you to do the same. Post without overanalysing. Share without obsessing over validation. Exist online the way we once did—freely, fully, unapologetically.

Because we only get one ride on this earth, and I refuse to spend mine living for the approval of strangers on a screen. I refuse to dilute myself, to mould myself into something palatable, to seek validation at the expense of my own authenticity.

I refuse to be anything other than who I am.

And honestly? You should too.