I used to think online spaces were just a kind of secondary extension of our real lives – places to check-in, stay connected, maybe scroll for a while, but nothing foundational.
Over time, though, I started noticing some platforms felt good, and some didn’t.
Facebook became a hotbed of unhealthy dynamics that I didn’t want to engage in anymore, and Instagram eventually started to feel the same way. Twitter was different, for a while. There, I had a small, solid scientific community, but then the platform changed, and so did the people.
Slowly, every social media space I’d known began to feel more like a place where I was being scrutinized than a place where I belonged.
So, I left.
Facebook and Instagram, gone.
Twitter, gone.
And by November 2024, I’d completely pulled the plug on most of my social media.
What did I keep?
Well, TikTok has been my home for quite some time, but I knew that stability wasn’t guaranteed when rumors of a ban began to swirl years ago. And so, last year, I did something I’d never done before – I joined a community where most, if not all, of the relationships were solely online.
No family. No acquaintances. No childhood friends. Just people I met on the internets through shared experiences, humor, and grief.
In a time when I’d lost so much, those spaces somehow helped hold me together.
People I’d never met, showed up for me in very real ways. It made me realize that maybe my instincts had been right all along.
Online spaces aren’t just distractions.
They aren’t any less real than face-to-face interactions.
The weight of them is real. The impact is real. And yet, so often we dismiss them as trivial. As if the connections we make online are somehow less valuable because they exist behind a screen.
I don’t let others talk me out of believing that anymore.
Because what happens when your real-life community isn’t there? What happens when the people that used to hold you no longer exist?
For a long time I bought into the idea that online friendships weren’t possible, but the reality is we don’t just exist in physical spaces anymore. We exist in the spaces where we feel seen, and for many of us, those spaces are digital.
And it turns out, science backs this up.
Researchers found that when emotional connections and shared experiences coexist, online friendships can activate the same psychological and neurological mechanisms as in-person relationships, meaning the brain doesn’t distinguish between online and in-person friendships when it comes to emotional impact.
What matters isn’t the medium, it’s the connection itself.
That’s the part people don’t always understand.
It’s not the screen that makes a community real.
It’s the way we show up for each other. And for some of us, the most meaningful, consistent forms of connection don’t happen at the coffee shop. They happen in Discord at 2 a.m and in the comment sections of TikTok.
They happen in spaces where we don’t have to explain ourselves, because the people there already get it.
And yet, these spaces are still treated as less than.
Why?
For years, I was mostly a spectator… scrolling, consuming, and posting just enough so people knew I wasn’t a bot. It was comforting, in some ways, like sitting in a café alone, yet surrounded by conversation. That kind of social proximity feels safe.
But it also felt hollow.
The thing about community is it doesn’t really exist unless we participate in it. And those of us who engage, comment and contribute find a stronger sense of belonging than those who just lurk.
The moment you start showing up, something shifts and suddenly you’re not just observing a conversation, you’re part of it. And I only understood this once I became more active in my respective communities.
Community is reciprocal.
It only thrives when people contribute, and the truth is, a lot of us have been conditioned by social media to be passive participants.
We watch, but never engage. We consume, but never create.
We have to unlearn that.
We need to start valuing ourselves and our experiences more, and be brave enough to share them with others.
Earlier this month, I began hosting a women’s group in my community and it felt really unnatural {well, it still does}. Public speaking has never been one of my strengths, and centering myself as someone with knowledge to share on top of that?
Yeah. That’s even harder.
Yet, these women keep showing up.
Not just for the conversations, seemingly, but in support of me.
They let me be awkward, stumble over my words and fantastically fumble my way through the whole process. It humbled me to my core.
That kind of support is why those of us who use these spaces are deeply unsettled when talk of our spaces disappearing stirs because it’s been happening for years, piece by piece, platform by platform.
And now, TikTok will most likely be next. The push to ban TikTok has been louder than ever, and yet the conversation rarely acknowledges what’s actually at stake.
At the heart of it all, this is about the systemic dismantling of spaces that allow us to connect, to learn, and to exist without surveillance or authoritarian oversight.
Books are being banned.
Programs are being cut.
Community spaces are vanishing.
Online and offline, our communities are shrinking under censorship, surveillance and commercialization, making it harder for all of us to connect, share, and speak freely.
We also know that each time one of these spaces disappears, the same people lose the most because history has made one thing very clear; When power structures shut down spaces, censorship intensifies, dissent is criminalized, and surveillance escalates.
The first to go? Spaces that serve marginalized communities.
And what happens when there’s nowhere left for any of us to go? The weight of that question was heavy the night TikTok was first banned.
My little community hopped online, went live and we stayed until they turned the lights out. Afterwards, we gathered on Discord, not only to keep the conversation going, but also to process what had just happened.
It felt like a death.
And in a lot of ways, it was.
The platform that brought some great humans into my life was suddenly fractured, scattered and uncertain. We were all grieving, albeit in different ways, and had we not had another space to retreat to, many of us would have been cut off from those relationships, for a period of time.
There aren’t many places left where we can speak freely, without harsh community guidelines or outright censorship. And the ones that remain are getting smaller, day by day.
That’s why protecting online spaces isn’t just about convenience.
It’s about survival.
Truthfully, I never expected social media to be such a prevalent part of my daily life, but listening to livestreams, podcasts and co-working sessions provide me with the intellectual stimulation I need to keep my mind engaged, all of which helps me feel less alone.
But digital spaces are a double-edged sword.
One of the risks of being online for long periods is the weariness that accompanies it. We spend hours hyper-focused on a screen, bombarded by a constant stream of notifications and competing inputs, and honestly, it’s exhausting.
And the algorithm? It’s not looking out for us, either.
It’s not designed to show us what’s good for us, it’s designed to keep us there.
More often than not, that means we’re feeding ourselves a steady stream of absolutely unhealthy content, just because it knows we’ll look.
Then there’s the harassment.
For those in marginalized communities, harassment isn’t just a possibility, it’s a guarantee, often taken too far, and a sizable portion of that behavior comes from within our own communities.
Connection shouldn’t come with hidden costs like judgment, criticism, harassment, doxxing, swatting – or worse. So, where’s the balance? How do we hold onto the good while protecting ourselves from the harm?
I think we need to understand that the internet has never been a safe place, and it never will be, but lately, it feels more dangerous than ever.
And I’m not referring to the usual risks of data leaks, account hacks or privacy breaches. I’m speaking to the larger, systemic uncertainty of not knowing which platforms will still exist a few months from now or who will be targeted next.
It’s a reminder that nothing online is ever truly ours.
But I don’t think that means we’re powerless; It just means we have to be intentional about how and where we choose to express ourselves.
For me, that means establishing boundaries and not oversharing, even in ‘trusted’ spaces. I’ve learned the hard way that digital intimacy doesn’t always mean digital security.
I’ve also stopped joining platforms just because everyone else does.
Instead, I limit myself to spaces where I not only retain ownership of my words and images, but I feel secure speaking about the things that matter to me.
And when a space I’m in starts to feel unsteady, I pay attention.
Who’s being silenced? Who’s being pushed out?
These things don’t happen all at once, they happen in pieces, and by the time most people notice, it’s already too late.
If I’ve learned anything in all of this, it’s that putting everything in one place is a great way to lose it, all at once. None of it is guaranteed.
This whole conversation has weighed on me for some time.
My world had gotten so small, for so long. Having people who check-in when they don’t have to or take the time to meet me with compassion when I’m unraveling a little, has been crucial.
Community is something we have to protect, especially now, when the places that hold us and let us be seen are being erased.
And maybe that’s the bigger conversation we need to have.
Digital spaces are real and online relationships count, because of course they do, but how do we show up for each other when online spaces are completely gone?
What happens when electronic communication, local community gatherings, or even the postal service, aren’t an option anymore?
I don’t know.
But it certainly keeps me awake at night.