intentionality is extinct

how losing my instagram forced me to see what connection really is (and isn’t)

A couple of months ago, I lost my personal Instagram account and didn’t expect it to hit me so hard. At first, I told myself it was fine, just social media, nothing serious, nothing real. But the truth is, I panicked. Overnight, it felt like my entire professional and social existence had disappeared. That page wasn’t just a feed; it was proof that I existed in the “industry,” that I had a network, that I was doing things that mattered. In a world where visibility is treated as value, losing it felt like losing legitimacy. My memories, my relationships, my memes, my trip highlights, basically my whole digital self, were all there. I ended up living the very thing I’ve been warning people about for years: own, don’t rent.

It is strange how quickly that panic turns into clarity. How you start to see the scaffolding of your identity for what it is: a performance. My account wasn’t just social, it was structural. It was my résumé, my memory bank, my safety net, my mirror. Without it, I had to face how fragile connection really is. And what I found was uncomfortable. Most of what I had mistaken for community was choreography. Most of what I thought were friendships were alliances.

Today, people collaborate for reach, not resonance. They align for optics, not ideas. Proximity is currency and relationships are temporary contracts that expire once the photo is posted. I have built projects with people who loved the access more than the work. I have been included to legitimize things and excluded when it no longer served anyone’s image. I have watched people I trusted repackage what we built as if it appeared out of thin air. And I am not bitter, but I am aware. Because once you see how performative it all is, you can’t go back.

What breaks my heart most is realizing that empathy no longer has a place in business. Caring has become inconvenient. People throw you away easily because they can. The rhythm of the industry rewards detachment. Those who feel too deeply get labeled unprofessional. Those who protect themselves or try to stay decent get called difficult. So we adapt. We learn to care on schedule, to stay half-present, to show just enough of ourselves to stay likeable.

And in that adaptation, something human leaves. We become careful, polished, predictable. We go to the same dinners, repost the same events, and congratulate each other in the comments. Never privately, of course, because then no one would see it. It’s all polite choreography, a simulation of closeness. You learn how to act to stay in orbit, to be invited to the birthday, the wedding, the cool Halloween party. But somewhere along the way, you stop showing up as yourself.

Intentionality cannot survive in that kind of ecosystem. It needs friction, curiosity, honesty. It needs people who still do things because they care, not because they want to be seen caring. But care is too heavy to carry alone, so we start to mimic it instead. We perform depth, we package authenticity, we talk about purpose until it loses meaning.

I am not exempt from any of this. I have played along. I have smiled when I wanted to disappear. I have accepted collaborations that felt hollow because it was easier than saying no. I have posted gratitude that I did not feel, trying to convince myself it was normal. But losing my Instagram forced me to confront how much of my identity was built for display. It felt like losing the mirror I’d been unknowingly performing for all along.

And once that mirror was gone, I could finally see myself again. Without the validation, without the noise, without the pressure to prove anything. That silence made room for something I hadn’t felt in a long time: intention.

Maybe intentionality begins there. When you stop needing proof of your worth. When you build because it matters to you, not because it performs well. When you stop chasing inclusion and start choosing alignment.

I don’t want to become a version of myself that only exists for others to perceive. I don’t want my relevance to depend on how visible I am. I want to build things that feel real, even if no one sees them. I want to be intentional again. I’m trying to be more honest lately, more blunt, less careful. It’s strange how good it feels to just call things what they are, even when it lands wrong. I don’t need to be liked for it to be true. Maybe the question is whether anyone else is ready to be that honest too.

Header picture by Serifa.