When Connection Becomes Currency: Why I'm Walking Away

Let’s get this out of the way: yes, it’s ironic that my last act on social media is… posting about why I’m done with social media. But if you’re reading this, you’re one of the genuine people I’ve been lucky enough to meet along the way—and I wanted you to hear this from me, not an empty profile page.

A New Kind of Inheritance

Being part of the first generation to grow up online means carrying a strange kind of inheritance—one we helped build but never fully understood. We were the early adopters, the beta testers, the ones who pressed Join before anyone had a clue what that might eventually cost us. In those early years, social media felt like discovery. Like possibility. Like connection in its purest form. But somewhere along the way, the platforms grew up—and the purpose changed. And looking back, I realize…I changed with them.

The Early Days: Discovery and Community

In the early days of online communities, everything felt electric. There was this sense of curiosity and creativity that was completely unfiltered. Developers shared projects because they were excited—not because they were building a brand. Designers posted experiments not to impress anyone, but simply because they loved making things. Those spaces pushed me. They challenged me. They helped me grow in ways I didn’t even realize at the time.

What mattered wasn’t reach, or visibility, or strategy. What mattered was the joy of building something new—and the people who made you want to be better at it. I didn’t know it then, but those communities were shaping the foundation of my career and my identity long before I ever thought about speaking on a stage.

From Curiosity to Intentional Growth

Around 2015, I started taking social media more seriously—not for clout, but for a challenge: Could I get accepted as a conference speaker? So I posted more. I engaged more. I made myself visible on the platforms where I thought visibility mattered. And surprisingly… it worked.

I got my first acceptance in 2019. It took four years, but I hit my goal. One talk turned into two, then three. Opportunities started stacking up—conferences, podcasts, even job offers. But slowly, quietly, the experience began to change. It didn’t feel like mine anymore.

The Ascent: Wins, Recognition, Momentum

There’s a rush that comes with achievement—especially when you’ve worked for it. Each talk felt like leveling up. Each opportunity felt earned. I was saying “yes” to everything because it all felt like growth. But momentum has a way of blurring the line between purpose and pressure, and without noticing, I stopped asking myself why I was doing any of it.

The Slow Distortion

At some point, my online presence started feeling less like “me” and more like a performance. I curated my feed. I watched what I said. I followed the “right” people. I shaped myself into something palatable, professional, optimized. Not intentionally. Not maliciously. Just… gradually. I told myself I was still being authentic, but it was becoming harder to believe that.

When the Platform Became the Product

There was a moment—somewhere between the rise of influencers and the death of chronological timelines—when social media shifted entirely. Connection stopped being the point. Attention became the commodity. Having worked in advertising for 15 years, I recognized the signs. I saw the shift from conversation to conversion, the subtle nudges, the shaping of behavior, the way content became indistinguishable from advertising—because content was the advertising.

It wasn’t just brands. It was creators, influencers, even everyday people “growing their personal brand.” Every post carried the faint scent of motive. You can even see it in modern politics—not the policies, but the performance. Outrage packaged for virality. Soundbites crafted for algorithms. Every message engineered for attention, emotion, or division. I’m not going down that rabbit hole. You already know what I mean. You feel it every time you open your feed.

When the Purpose Shifted

The places that once felt creative and communal quietly rewrote their purpose. LinkedIn used to be a place where you could get a job. Now it’s a parade of fake thought leaders selling “transformational” courses on topics you could learn in an afternoon with a search bar and a little common sense.

Twitter used to be where ideas spread. Now it’s an echo chamber where outrage outperforms truth, and everyone is rewarded for having the hottest take rather than the healthiest perspective.

Facebook used to be about finding friends and sharing your life. Now it’s a full-scale advertising machine that auctions your attention—and your data—to the highest bidder while pretending it's still about birthdays and baby photos.

YouTube used to be a place to learn something new. Now it’s a factory farm for influencers who stretch ten minutes of wisdom into forty minutes of filler so they can sell you supplements, side hustles, and whatever else their sponsor-of-the-week shipped to their PO box.

And beneath all of that—beneath every platform, every feed, every notification—is the same quiet machinery: psychological manipulation disguised as connection. Your attention is measured. Your behavior is nudged. Your emotions are harvested. Your identity is shaped slowly, methodically, invisibly. None of these platforms are “free.” You pay with your time, your focus, your habits, and your sense of self—one swipe at a time.

The Moment Everything Changed

After giving a successful presentation, I like to celebrate—a good meal, a drink or two, hanging out with like-minded people. So at the conference after-party, I was chatting with speakers and attendees. But most of the conversations felt like networking disguised as friendship. Buzzwords. Namedropping. Positioning. All surface. No substance.

Then someone I had just met called me a “great friend.” And something in me snapped—not loudly, but sharply. I turned cold and asked, with more bite than I intended: “If we’re such good friends, what does J.D. stand for?” They had no answer. In that moment, everything crystallized. I wasn’t chasing goals anymore—I was chasing recognition.

The Fallout: Burnout and Disillusionment

I didn’t quit right then. I internalized it. But something cracked. I started questioning everything: my motives, my relationships, even the purpose of my talks. I felt like nobody cared about the message—only the visibility. The leverage. I was pouring time, energy, and money into something that no longer felt real. And for the first time, I couldn’t remember why I started any of it.

Focusing on the Positives

Despite everything, I don’t regret the journey. Social media made me a better developer, communicator, and creative thinker. It introduced me to people who shaped my career. It pushed me to articulate ideas I didn’t know I had. It helped me learn, build, teach, and share. I met founders and core team members who were genuinely pushing boundaries. I organized events. I mentored. I showed up.

Sometimes just being present makes a difference. And I like to believe I made an impact simply by being myself. That’s all I ever wanted.

Quitting While I’m Ahead

I did the thing. The conferences. The posts. The podcasts. The growth. But eventually, it wasn’t growth anymore—it was ego. I kept going because I wanted to see how far it could go. And that’s not ambition. That’s addiction to momentum.

Drawing the Circle Closer

So I’m choosing something different. I’m choosing my family, my close friends, and the few people who actually know me—not the version of me shaped by algorithms or expectations. I’m still driven. I’m still social. But I’m done with the act. I don’t need validation from strangers when I have everything I need sitting across from me at the dinner table.

What I Hope You Take From This

This isn’t a bitter farewell, and it’s not a call for you to follow my lead. It’s simply the truth I finally had to face: The system is designed to turn connection into currency—and I’m done participating in it.

I’ve spent years shaping myself for algorithms, negotiating authenticity for visibility, and mistaking networking for friendship. I don’t want to lose myself to that cycle anymore.

And so this—these words right here—will be my final act on social media. No more feeds. No more metrics. No more performance.

If we stay connected after this, it won’t be because we happen to share a platform. It’ll be because we chose to stay in each other’s lives in a way that’s human, intentional, and real.

So if you’re still here—reading, scrolling, posting—ask yourself: Why? And is it still serving you?

As for me… I’m stepping out of the algorithm. And for the first time in a long time, I feel like myself again.