Building While the World Burns
Why I traded Instagram outrage for offline conversations
I made a conscious decision at the beginning of 2025 not to use social media to simply regurgitate the news. I’ve been guilty of doing that in the past. Sharing headlines and outrage to my stories. Demanding action and collective attention for a particular cause. I’ve wanted to show that I’m someone who cares about harm and injustice.
But over the past few years, the social media landscape has changed considerably. There was a time where we had a window of opportunity to engage with others and perhaps offer them an alternative angle that might make them reevaluate their beliefs, and vice versa. It felt as though true communication and connection were possible.
Since then, I’ve seen little evidence to support that the vast majority are open to considering different points of view. Comments sections regularly turn into a cesspit of insults and abuse.
This isn’t a clear-cut left/right divide - at least not anymore. People who might usually agree on 8 out of 10 topics are now canceling one another because they’re not 100% in agreement on the entire list.
Witnessing it all can be exhausting. It’s tempting to look away, to scroll a little less, to numb ourselves with distraction. But the truth remains that the world is burning, and turning away doesn’t make it go away.
I’ve been called out this year for not “posting about things that matter.” The implication being that I no longer care about important issues. The irony is that I’ve arguably been doing more offline than ever before. Or, perhaps more accurately, off of Instagram.
Here’s the part where I don’t particularly want to produce receipts for all my “good citizen contributions”. Mostly because it makes me feel nauseous. And honestly, it’s what I intentionally wanted to get away from - the idea that unless we’re showing full transparency to the masses at all times, we’re disgusting humans who lack empathy.
It’s simply not true, nor is it sustainable. In what world does it make sense to constantly post evidence of our efforts? Awareness is amazing, yes. But it feels as though we’ve gone beyond that. We’re demanding that people lay themselves bare to mass scrutiny so we can deem them either caring (enough for now) or callous.
I’ve stopped wanting to participate in the theatrics of it all. Especially because I noticed that I was judging others who I felt were being too quiet or not appropriately concerned. That’s a pretty dicey road to go down.
From Posting to Presence
What caused me to reconsider how I used social media was my impact, or lack thereof. When it comes to pro-aging and midlife content, it’s very easy for me to trace my influence. I’ve had tons of messages over the years from women who share with me that they feel or act differently after reading my posts or practicing my meditations. I can point to tangible change.
However, when I share about political issues or global tragedy, it’s a wildly different story. I either get silence, a handful of replies in agreement, or—overwhelmingly—abuse and unfollows.
Vanity metrics aren’t my thing. I care more about going deeper with the community I have, not scrambling to go wider simply so I can make up the numbers. People unfollowing me doesn’t bruise my ego, but it does make me question the point of screaming into the void.
I’ve been involved in activism since I was 11 years old. I held my first activist meeting in my bedroom. It was for Choose Cruelty-Free, a campaign for make-up and beauty products that weren’t tested on animals. Two people came to the meeting - my mum and my sister. Introvert me panicked and didn’t know what to say. Instead, I had them sign my petition and the meeting wrapped up pretty quickly.
My comfort zone has always been writing, not speaking. But after deciding to write less about pressing political issues on social media, I realized I had to find my voice offline. Because contrary to what the Instagram critics DMs said, I did still care. Deeply.
And so it is that I’ve had a number of conversations this year with people who have different beliefs than me, or different opinions on current world events. Believe me when I tell you these conversations have been hard! Much more challenging than a few words exchanged in an online comment section. I haven't always been articulate. I've floundered and felt flustered often. As though I’m 11 years old again, not knowing how to present my animal-friendly argument to my family.
Still, I’m committed to doing this, because it feels real and important and not a performative post I can pat myself on the back for while knowing deep inside that I probably haven’t created any real change. I don’t post about these interactions online. I conserve my energy for doing, not for telling.
I've lost friends through some of these conversations. Clients and income too. It's the opposite of easy. And I still think it's worth it.
Neighboring Differently
A little over 18 months ago, my husband and I left our vibrant and diverse neighborhood of Jackson Heights in New York City to move to the woods in Upstate New York. Perimenopause had exacerbated feelings of anxiety in me, and I was desperate to be out of the city and immersed in nature.
But I was also concerned about our new environment. Being in an inter-racial relationship means I’m always conscious of safety. Together as a couple, and for my husband as a Black man in a predominantly white neighborhood. When we’d scouted the area, we’d seen a few signs and flags that opposed our political beliefs and I’d made a mental note to actively avoid those neighbors. My philosophy has always been not to cultivate community with those who seek to strip other people of their humanity.
It’s somewhat of a surprise to me that I now know those neighbors’ names. We even have a few of their phone numbers. While we may not be breaking bread with them in the literal sense, we’ve had a number of conversations with them and will continue to do so. Not because we’re glossing over anything, but because from this starting point, chances open up - and chances can change everything.
I’m less interested in setting out to pressure people to agree with my point of view, and more invested in showing others that humanity exists everywhere. This, too, is resistance. It’s less showy and shouty, more subtle and quiet. It’s a refusal to reduce others to a label or a headline.
Did I mention that it’s hard?
I frequently want to judge and point fingers. And sometimes, with our front door closed firmly behind us, I do. But when my default setting of wanting to separate myself from those who don’t meet all my meticulous requirements threatens to kick in, I come back to one thing: the circle of one.
About The Circle of One
I used to only engage with people who thought like me, creating a small but solid circle of perceived safety. The circle was comforting and it fit my world view neatly and nicely. But the more conditions you impose on who gets to access the circle, the smaller it becomes, until eventually you’re alone.
Refusing to make allowances for anything less than perfect alignment can isolate you completely. That doesn’t mean compromising on non-negotiables, but it does mean seeking that starting point. It means being open to possibility, being willing to listen and to see, even in disagreement, the sparks of shared humanity.
I never imagined I’d be this person. At my core I’m Do no harm but take no shit. I’m not especially in favor of Let’s all just get along type vibes when it costs people their safety or sanity. I’m spiritual and sensitive, but I’m not afraid of confrontation.
But that circle of one simply isn’t a solution. And experience has taught me that the further we retreat into our righteousness, the more our collective connection breaks down. Many of us claim to believe in the importance of intersectionality, but when someone else’s beliefs and lived experience intersect in a way that doesn’t perfectly slot with our own, we cast them out.
Regrettably, I’ve been on both ends of this casting out. None of it leads anywhere valuable.
The Work That Doesn't Make Headlines
If we look closely, we’ll find people who care deeply, steadily finding ways to organize and build community. I’ve been active in my local community in ways that feel tangible and grounded. From becoming an ambassador at our local library, to giving regularly to the village resource center, to creating a salon-style group for women to come together to share poetry, art, and ideas that challenge how we see the world, I’m committed to real, deliberate acts of care, rooted in the world around me.
It’s also true that despair can dominate our attention if we let it. Doom and despondency are everywhere. A few minutes of scrolling can leave you wondering if anything we do will ever make a difference. But hope, beauty, resilience, and resistance are also present. They’re real. They’re here. They exist in moments like a neighbor helping to shovel your iced-over driveway, conversations in the library about fascism and freedom of speech, a family in need receiving basic toiletries or household supplies. These moments may seem small, but they ripple outward in ways that are impossible to fully measure.
I’m not ignoring the harm in the world. I’m simply trying to be present with it while shaping another reality. I’m finding ways to hold truth and hope at the same time. To witness what’s burning without being consumed by the fire. To act with intention and without despair. To stay connected and keep showing up, even when it’s hard and humbling. And as I recently heard someone say: “If you're sad and exhausted all the time, you're useless in a fight.”
I think there’s space for all of it. Online and offline, outrage and outreach. It just depends where we are on our own journey and what our capacity looks like on the day.
The world is heavy. But the world is also full of possibility. And possibility often lives in the places we overlook, in the moments we don’t document, in the hands and hearts that carry on.
When I tune out of all the relentless noise, I sense that something worth building is quietly, persistently happening all around us. I want to believe in that goodness, and I’ll continue to contribute to it.
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