Weaning Myself Off Social Media: Why I Deleted Facebook, and Why I Keep Coming Back

I deleted the Facebook app from my phone in 2017, after the annus mirabilis of populism made it impossible to ignore my discomfort with social media. I was outraged that Facebook in particular had helped elect a patently incompetent demagogue in the USA and, in the words of artist Sir Antony Gormley, driven Britain to commit “the biggest act of self‑harm [the] country has ever played on itself.”

That’s not to say that social media was the sole cause of these events, but it certainly exacerbated the existing political dynamics and, in my opinion, amplified (and continues to amplify) the most extreme voices in society, leading to polarisation with real-world consequences — including in my own personal relationships.

Facebook’s algorithm is designed to prioritise content that gets strong reactions, because people tend to share things that make them angry, scared, or shocked, which keeps them (and others) online for longer, thereby generating more revenue for Facebook. That creates an incentive for bad actors to post manipulative or misleading content. Facebook has known about this for a long time; it knew about the harm it causes but chose not to act. This is not just my pet theory — internal Facebook research leaked by a former employee confirms it.

Now, nine years on from the Brexit referendum, artificial intelligence (AI) has made it easier to generate content that engages users in a different way. On the rare occasions I go on Facebook via my web browser, to read a message someone has sent me, I invariably see amazing videos of animals behaving in strange ways. Is Facebook destined to evolve from a hotbed of political misinformation to a digital sewer of brainless but addictive cute cat videos? Maybe both things are possible? Either way, it doesn’t make me want to come back.

Addictive Instagram

I first deleted the Instagram app from my phone in 2023. I have occasionally reinstalled and deleted it since, most recently in August 2025. This time I wasn’t taking a moral stance though — it was an act of self-preservation.

I think Instagram’s addictiveness is what finally led me to delete it. I can’t remember exactly when I first noticed the “For you” tab — not that long ago — but this feature perfectly encapsulates my current concern with all these platforms. When social media emerged, it was just a new way to see what our friends were up to; now it has become a shop window for influencers and “content creators.”   

At some point I was no longer seeing my friends, I was seeing an algorithmically curated set of videos produced by people (I assume, although nowadays you can’t be sure) who make a living from putting more or less interesting or useful videos in front of your eyeballs. This means that the app, much like TikTok, initially proposes random or popular videos, then gradually learns what you are interested in and offers you more of the same.

Much has already written about algorithmic radicalisation — the idea that social media apps propose more and more extreme videos to keep you coming back — but addiction is the engine behind so much of what’s wrong with social media. Not just the content, but the way it keeps us coming back, often against our better judgment.

The greatest minds of the 21^st century spend their days thinking about how to get you to spend five more minutes staring at your phone, and it shows. Just because you have not been radicalised, it doesn’t mean you are not being manipulated. I didn’t delete Instagram because I thought it was evil, or because I wanted to make a statement. I deleted it because I hated how often I opened it without thinking and then scrolled aimlessly though idiotic videos.

American author and computer scientist Cal Newport coined the term “ultra-processed content” to describe how certain types of digital media affect our minds in similar ways to how ultra-processed food affects our bodies. Just as ultra-processed food is stripped of any nutritional value, ultra-processed content is stripped of context and depth; instead of a two-hour film, you get 30-second clip. Ultra-processed food games our biology to artificially hit reward centres, and ultra-processed content does the same to reach our emotional and cognitive reward centres. The former is linked to diabetes and obesity; the latter is linked to anxiety and the erosion of attention.

Toxic Twitter

I used to have a pseudonymous Twitter account, but I deleted it years ago. It was hard to do, but Twitter really messed with my head. Even pre-Musk, Twitter was already a mental minefield.

I used Twitter as a way to think out loud, explore ideas, maybe to be a little braver about what I said; I didn’t use pseudonymity as an excuse to be a troll, I was always polite to a fault — it was about learning and freedom of expression. As a result I was never personally attacked, but the environment itself was still toxic. I just didn’t like what I was exposed to: the certainty, the fake outrage, the pile-ons. Even if you're trying to stay calm and nuanced, you're still swimming in a sea of snark and conflict. I miss the relationships, but the cost was too high. I walked away from those connections because my mental well-being mattered more.

I still have a "professional" Twitter account that I use, very occasionally, to publish blogs. I don't have the app on my phone, and I never go on the website because the experience is so unpleasant.

Cutting the cord

Returning to Facebook and Instagram, I deleted the apps but contrary to Twitter, I can’t bring myself to delete the accounts. Deleting the apps was a practical step; it allowed me to simply remove the temptation to constantly refresh my feed.

Deleting my accounts, on the other hand, is a much bigger step. It is permanent, and it implies cutting social ties with people I only keep in touch with through those platforms and deleting a digital legacy.

I don’t know if I will ever delete my Facebook or Instagram accounts. Instagram in particular feels like a personal archive. Even if it started as a way to share with others, over time it has become a timeline of my life — snapshots of places I have been, reminders of good times. I often scroll through my old photos to remember (“did we go to Chantilly in 2021 or 2022?”) or reminisce. Deleting that wouldn’t just be closing an account — it would be erasing part of my memory that I have outsourced to Instagram, one that seems all the more precious given that I hardly ever print photos any more.

I don’t rule out posting more photos either, because I like sharing things I find aesthetic and because I enjoy being able to go back to them; I just dislike the superficiality and toxicity of the platform. I’m quite ambivalent about Instagram — I enjoy it as a “photo archive,” but there is a lot of disturbing research that shows clear links between Instagram use and increased rates of anxiety, depression, and body dissatisfaction, especially among teenage girls.

Overdue Regulation

Maybe I’m hedging, but why is the onus on me to cut the cord? The main reason I keep Facebook is because people continue to contact me via the Messenger app. But when I do open up the website, I feel the familiar, icky tug of algorithmically boosted content. If the messages and contacts from Facebook were routed to WhatsApp, for example, I wouldn’t need to worry about that.

If I could maintain access to my social media contacts after deleting my account, I wouldn’t lose these connections just because I left a particular platform. Meta is already working on this for WhatsApp and Messenger under the EU's Digital Markets Act (DMA). The idea is that if someone messages you on Messenger, it could be routed to WhatsApp, without requiring you to log in to Facebook at all.

However, while the DMA mandates interoperability for messaging services, the legislation does not yet explicitly require it for social networking services. There is ongoing debate about extending these provisions. It’s still early days — especially for social networking contacts — but messaging is the first frontier for this kind of change. Once that’s in place, people who mostly stay on Facebook for the inbox could finally delete their account without losing touch, and without feeling compelled to keep coming back against their better judgement.

The Inevitability of the Attention Economy

Even as I write these words, I am aware of the incongruity of decrying the mechanics of social media in a blog, then posting it on LinkedIn or Twitter and hoping it will be noticed, read, and shared. It feels inescapable — even if the performative professionalism of LinkedIn is not the same as the superficiality of Instagram, the toxic swamp of Twitter, or… whatever Facebook is these days. 

It’s the paradox of the age: even our critiques of the attention economy need the attention economy to be heard. To denounce social media on LinkedIn or Twitter is to admit that, in some sense, we have no choice but to participate in it. Perhaps the most we can do is to remain aware of it, to cut as many cords as we can, while acknowledging that it’s hard to truly be unmoored from the system when your career prospects and financial security depend on remaining tethered.