Social Media Fatigue & How to Cure it

Recently, I’ve been experiencing severe social media fatigue. I know you have, too. I’ve seen it. In you. In me. Many people. There’s a slow creeping shift you barely noticed, but it’s here. It’s the same scenario that happened with Facebook: we laughed about it at the beginning, then it became really important and we cared so much what people would say on there and what comment we’d get. Then, all of a sudden, Facebook just stopped mattering.

When did that happen? Do you even remember? I sometimes remember Facebook exists, like the dirty socks I forgot, in the corner of the room. My mother is on there, and she responds to my messages 17 days later. Not even she cares.

The shift is creeping in again. If you are an aware, present, sensible human being, you’ve had enough. You’re tired of the triviality. What are we doing here? Why does Instagram feel like a job nowadays? It was so much fun before; it was leisure, unimportant fun.

But now? We’re expected to be models, inspirational gurus, philosophers. Produce content all the time. For who? For what purpose? What are we contributing to this world with our content?

I watched two brilliant TV-shows this weekend that tackle the triviality Instagram became; first one in a fun, sarcastic way, and the second one in a bit of a tragic way.

First is a German show on Netflix called - How to Sell Drugs Online (Fast), and it tells a true story of a teenager from Germany who sold 5,9 Million Euros worth of drugs from his mother’s home. He’s a programmer, highly intelligent, tired of triviality, social media bullshit, and when he calls out a fellow class member who spends his days posting shirtless selfies on Instagram with:

"What would we do without him? Daniel Riffert. With his protein shakes and his stupid Capoeira, and his constant shirtless photos and 1,764 Instagram followers, half of which are bought! Yeah, what are you looking at? Namaste to all the Riffert fans at the click farm in India!"

… it showcases the exact fatigue I mentioned at the beginning of this post. Why are we doing this? This desperate race of trying to matter? Simply, not everyone can matter. You can not matter if you don’t have quality material, something not seen on every corner, something not common, something significant. My friend just posted this while I was writing this article:

“How does mediocre know it’s mediocre?”

Mediocre is usually loud. Quality is silent. So many people that actually have something to give to this world are backing up, pulling back more and more, while triviality gets louder. Mediocre are those folks whose mothers keep telling them all their childhoods they are great at things, while they sucked at things.

They grow up, they can't make it in the real world where, au contraire from your mother, people tell you you suck at things even when you don't suck at things; but lucky for you, someone called Mark Zuckerberg couldn't get laid in college, so now you clog our feeds with irrelevant shit.

If social media is used by celebrities to give their fans an inside scoop on their lives, I’m all for it. If it’s used by creatives showcasing their projects to the public or buyers, I’m all for it. If it’s used by people with serious quality content they want to share for helping people, I’m all for it. Or you’re just using it to have fun with your friends, I’m all for it.

Last few months I saw, as I’m sure you did too, the dumbest, most trivial content being put out, like people are running out of fuel, but are desperate to matter, desperate to influence. Why? Why are you doing this? Writing platitudes like - “Try hard, follow your dreams, live your life, work hard”, I mean are you kidding me with this?

Taping videos on how to wash your makeup brushes ("First, you let the water run" - please shot me), how to cut melon, how to overline your lips, how to fold your drawers, how to do crunches, how to cut bread, walk, breathe, sit, shit, how to do everything we know how to do, JUST - please stop. Buying half a million followers, buying likes and comments to appear like an influencer, while you shelling the most idiotic products known to man that mean nothing to no one, except your ego - why do we have to endure this?

You know who is the actual influencer? Greta Thunberg. A child who is trying to advocate climate change at age 15, instead of trying on make-up looks on Youtube. No one else is a real influencer.

I spend most of my days googling and researching my contemporaries. People who do the same work I do. Every day I try to be aware and realistic about what I can do and why something I do would matter to anyone. Does anyone do it better than me? Does everyone do it better than me? What do I offer? I question myself every other day.

And in the fast-paced world we live in, it’s not easy to perform at top quality. But you have to stay realistic about where you stand. I often wonder, why don’t people do this? How can you write actor in your bio if you never had a role in your life or you just walked through a short movie once?

How can you be 5’4 and claim you’re a model while you never had an actual modeling job, outside of shady photographers snapping you for Instagram? How can you tape videos of working out and giving people advice on what exercises to do when you puff after 3 push-ups in a row? What are we actually learning from your video?

This insanity where everyone thinks they have something of value to give to people online, blows my mind. Honestly, if I see another video on Instagram that starts with - “Hiiiiii Guys!”, before shelling out some irrelevant product, or shocked face for 3 minutes standing still, stunned at the angle and level of beam your highlighter just projected, I will hurt myself.

You are aware of the world, and all that goes on, right? And your contribution to it is the level of the beam your highlighter projects? You truly arrived.

The second show you absolutely must see is always brilliant Black Mirror and the episode called - Smithereens, a TV version of Twitter. This episode will absolutely twist you apart. And it will, maybe, open a new horizon for you, and make you realize we should use social media, and not let it use us. We should re-adjust the misguided measure of talent or substance by the numbers next to our names; the number of likes that doesn't equal worth.

And how does mediocre know it’s mediocre? We tell it 2 million times until it knows.

Even if it’s our own.

Especially if it’s our own.

--

Lately, I’ve felt a growing sense of social media fatigue. You probably have too. It’s a slow, creeping shift that has somehow gone unnoticed, yet here it is. Remember what happened with Facebook? At first, it was a novelty—a fun distraction. Then, suddenly, we all cared deeply about what people thought, about every like and comment. But, just as suddenly, Facebook stopped mattering.

When did that happen? Do you even remember? Now, when I think of Facebook, it’s like noticing a pair of forgotten, mismatched socks in the corner. My mom still uses it occasionally; she replies to messages with a delay that makes even her seem disinterested.

The shift is happening again. If you’re aware, present, and a bit jaded, you’ve had enough. Social media is tiring. What are we even doing here? Instagram used to be fun, a place for a little unimportant sharing. But now? It feels like a job. We’re supposed to be models, philosophers, motivational speakers. Always “creating content.” But for whom? And for what purpose?

Recently, I watched two shows that brilliantly tackled this exhausting shift in Instagram culture—one with humor, the other with tragedy. How to Sell Drugs Online (Fast), a German Netflix series, takes a hilarious swipe at social media’s triviality. In one scene, the main character mocks a peer’s superficial posts:

“What would we do without him? Daniel Riffert, with his protein shakes, his shirtless selfies, and his 1,764 Instagram followers, half of them bought! Yeah, what are you looking at? Namaste to all the Riffert fans at the click farm in India!”

The satire in this moment captures exactly the fatigue I’m talking about. Why this desperate race for relevance? Not everyone can “matter,” and if you don’t have something genuine to contribute, what’s the point? The world doesn’t need more platitudes: “Follow your dreams,” “Live your best life.” Really? Are we kidding?

Take a look at the rise of trivial content. Tutorials on washing makeup brushes, cutting melons, folding drawers, overlining lips... Why? Half a million followers for offering the most basic tips on life. Then there’s the culture of “influencing” based purely on volume, not value. Just because you have 500K followers doesn’t mean you’re saying anything worth hearing.

Real influencers? Think Greta Thunberg. A young girl challenging climate change at 15—not just posting about her latest makeup haul. People like her move the needle, not the people explaining how to fold clothes.

And while I’m no stranger to scrutinizing my own output—researching peers, questioning what I’m bringing to the table—I wonder why so few seem to do the same. In today’s world, standing out takes work, realism, and an honest evaluation of what we offer. Yet I see bios with “actor” from those who haven’t landed a role, “model” from those without an actual portfolio, or fitness “influencers” who tire after three push-ups. This culture of “contributing” content is overwhelming us with noise.

Black Mirror’s episode Smithereens drives home the toxic relationship we have with social media. It twists us up, forces us to confront our dependence on online validation, and leaves us questioning our own worth. The episode isn’t just a critique—it’s a wake-up call. We have to start using social media, instead of letting it use us. Quality isn’t measured by likes.

And if mediocrity doesn’t realize it’s mediocre? Well, it’s on us to tell it—over and over until it sinks in.

Even if it’s our own mediocrity. Especially if it’s our own.

--

Recently, I’ve been experiencing severe social media fatigue. I know you have, too. I’ve seen it—in you, in me, in so many people. There’s a slow, creeping shift you barely noticed, but it’s here. It’s the same scenario that happened with Facebook: we laughed about it at the beginning, then it became really important, and we cared so much about what people would say on there, what comments we’d get. Then, all of a sudden, Facebook just stopped mattering.

When did that happen? Do you even remember? I sometimes remember Facebook exists, like a forgotten pair of dirty socks in the corner of the room. My mother is still on there, and she responds to my messages 17 days later. Not even she cares anymore.

The shift is creeping in again. If you’re an aware, present, sensible human being, you’ve had enough. You’re tired of the triviality. What are we doing here? Why does Instagram feel like a job these days? It used to be so much fun; it was leisure, unimportant fun.

But now? We’re expected to be models, inspirational gurus, philosophers—producing content all the time. For who? For what purpose? What are we contributing to this world with our content?

I watched two brilliant TV shows this weekend that tackle the triviality Instagram has become; the first one in a fun, sarcastic way, and the second in a bit of a tragic way.

The first is a German show on Netflix called How to Sell Drugs Online (Fast), and it tells the true story of a teenager from Germany who sold €5.9 million worth of drugs from his mother’s home. He’s a programmer, highly intelligent, tired of triviality, tired of social media bullshit. When he calls out a fellow classmate who spends his days posting shirtless selfies on Instagram with:

"What would we do without him? Daniel Riffert. With his protein shakes and his stupid Capoeira, and his constant shirtless photos and 1,764 Instagram followers, half of which are bought! Yeah, what are you looking at? Namaste to all the Riffert fans at the click farm in India!"

…it captures the exact fatigue I mentioned at the beginning of this post. Why are we doing this? This desperate race to matter? Simply, not everyone can matter. You can’t matter if you don’t have quality material, something unique, something not found on every corner, something significant. My friend just posted this while I was writing this article:

“How does mediocre know it’s mediocre?”

Mediocrity is often loud. Quality is silent. So many people who actually have something to give to this world are retreating, pulling back more and more, while triviality gets louder. Mediocre are those folks whose mothers kept telling them throughout childhood they were great at things, even when they weren’t.

They grow up, unable to make it in the real world where, unlike with your mother, people tell you that you’re bad at things—even when you’re not. But lucky for them, someone named Mark Zuckerberg couldn’t get laid in college, so now they clog our feeds with irrelevant nonsense.

If social media is used by celebrities to give fans an inside scoop on their lives, I’m all for it. If it’s used by creatives showcasing their projects to the public or potential buyers, I’m all for it. If it’s used by people with quality content they want to share to help others, I’m all for it. Or if you’re just using it to have fun with your friends, I’m all for it.

But lately, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, I’ve seen the dumbest, most trivial content being put out. People are running out of fuel but are desperate to matter, desperate to influence. Why? Why are you doing this? Writing platitudes like, “Try hard, follow your dreams, live your life, work hard.” I mean, are you kidding me?

Posting videos on how to wash makeup brushes ("First, let the water run"—please, shoot me), how to cut a melon, how to overline your lips, how to fold your drawers, how to do crunches, how to cut bread, walk, breathe, sit, even shit. How to do everything we already know how to do. Just—please, stop. Buying half a million followers, buying likes and comments to appear as an “influencer,” while shilling the most idiotic products known to man that mean nothing to anyone, except maybe your ego—why do we have to endure this?

Do you know who an actual influencer is? Greta Thunberg. A child trying to advocate for climate change at age 15, instead of trying on makeup looks on YouTube. No one else is a real influencer.

I spend most of my days Googling and researching my contemporaries, people who do the same work I do. Every day, I try to be aware and realistic about what I can offer and why something I do would matter to anyone. Does anyone do it better than me? Does everyone do it better than me? What do I offer? I question myself constantly.

And in the fast-paced world we live in, it’s not easy to perform at top quality. But you have to stay realistic about where you stand. I often wonder, why don’t people do this? How can you label yourself as an “actor” if you’ve never had a role in your life or just walked through a short movie once?

How can you claim to be a “model” at 5’4” if you’ve never had an actual modeling job outside of shady photographers snapping you for Instagram? How can you record workout videos and give advice on exercises when you puff after three push-ups in a row? What are we actually learning from your video?

This insanity where everyone thinks they have something of value to give online blows my mind. Honestly, if I see another Instagram video that starts with, “Hiiiiii Guys!” before plugging some irrelevant product or pausing for three minutes to marvel at the level of beam on their highlighter, I might just lose it.

Are you aware of the world and all that goes on in it? And your contribution is showing us the glow of your highlighter? You’ve truly arrived.

The second show you absolutely must see is the always brilliant Black Mirror, specifically the episode called “Smithereens,” a TV version of Twitter. This episode will absolutely twist you apart. And it might, just maybe, open a new perspective for you, making you realize we should use social media, not let it use us. We should recalibrate the misguided measure of talent or substance by the numbers next to our names; likes do not equal worth.

And how does mediocre know it’s mediocre? We tell it, 2 million times until it knows.

Even if it’s our own.

Especially if it’s our own.