SOME YEARS ago, I removed almost all kinds of social media from my life. This decision came with checking my online activity, deleting all my posts, and compressing my online presence into mere profiles. While there is truly an allure to going analog, the constant information versus peace trade-off comes at the cost of disconnection in many forms.
Of course, the silence was liberating. Without the constant slew of information, I found myself moving through days with more clarity. With lesser notification pings, digital consumption became more intentional, and personal conversations turned less interrupted. This was the version of digital minimalism I had hoped for: a life where I was no longer tethered to an endless scroll.
Beneath that newfound quiet, however, was a creeping sense of isolation. From something trivial like friends referencing jokes from online spaces that I was no longer a part of, events came and went without my awareness. Even the smallest moments, like not knowing updates from friends until months later, carried a subtle sting. What I had imagined as freedom slowly revealed itself as something much like fading away. I wasn’t just cutting off distractions. I was cutting myself out.
Digital minimalism, as it’s often preached, treats disconnection as a cure-all: log off, unplug, and you will reclaim your life. But this overlooks a simple truth: so much of life is digital now. Social bonds, political discourse, and even the ways we grieve or celebrate are mediated by online platforms. Choosing to step away is not just choosing quiet; it is also choosing absence, sometimes invisibility.
This tension matters because while it is easy to romanticize a return to analog living, not everyone has the privilege to disappear. For many people, online spaces are lifelines: queer youth who find community in digital forums, migrant families who rely on social media to stay in touch, or people who simply try to make a living out of digital spaces. To erase one’s online presence is not only a personal experiment in focus—it can also mean forfeiting connection, opportunity, or voice.
Needless to say, I decided to cut short my digital minimalism stint and opted for a compromise instead. All my social media are here to stay, with the absence of notifications save for those from essential communication channels. The aim was no longer silence, but enough presence to stay meaningfully connected while retaining the friction to prevent the addictive, aimless scroll.
The lesson, then, is not that we must reject digital minimalism entirely, but that we must approach it with intentionality. It is not a neutral practice. It does not simply “simplify” life—it reshapes how we are seen, heard, and remembered. The question is not whether we should log off, but what version of ourselves we are willing to lose when we do.
Digital peace may be priceless, but we should not pretend it comes without cost.
Shami is a third-year Computer Science student at the Ateneo de Manila University. With her special interests in design and technology, she hopes to promote social justice and awareness in digital spaces.
Editor’s Note: The views and opinions expressed by the opinion writer do not necessarily state or reflect those of the publication.
