On Leaving Facebook (and Why It Feels So Damn Good)
Why creative types with products and services to sell get little to nothing from maintaining a presence on the platform
I didn’t realize how much space Facebook was taking up in my head until I shut the door on it.
It’s wild how liberating it is - like finally stepping outside after years in a noisy, crowded room where you’re always half-performing and half-apologizing.
You think you need it because everyone tells you that you do. Especially if you’re a creative type and have products or services to sell.
“You have to have a presence.”
“You have to build your brand.”
“You need to connect with your audience.”
But let’s be honest about what Facebook actually is:
A mess of vague acquaintances you don’t really want to offend.
People you haven’t seen in years popping up to argue over shit you don’t even care about.
That lurking fear of saying the wrong thing to the wrong crowd.
Endless scrolling for dopamine hits that leave you feeling worse instead of better.
And all of it, so you can post your work and hope for a few likes, “hell yes”, or “that’s awesome.”
But you can’t take likes to the fucking bank.
You can’t pay rent in “you’re so talented.”
Facebook wasn’t built to help you promote your work. It was built to keep you on Facebook. It’s a casino for your attention. Every time you share your best thinking, you’re feeding the machine that makes it harder to reach your own people without paying.
It’s different from Instagram.
On Instagram, at least you show your work. It’s your gallery, your moodboard, your face and voice and style. Sure, they want you scrolling too, but it’s visual, curated, more personal. You can lean into storytelling. You can build a look, a tone.
But Facebook? Facebook is endless chatter. Low-effort, low-stakes feedback that feels like connection but rarely is. It’s the lowest-common-denominator version of “engagement.”
Worse, you spend so much time maintaining the presence.
Being polite.
Not alienating.
Making sure old high school friends don’t get the wrong idea.
Watering yourself down until you’re just... pleasant.
Fuck that.
I want to write for the people who actually want to read me.
I want to talk to the folks who chose to be here.
Who want something that’s not smoothed out and generic.
Leaving Facebook is liberating because it means you stop performing for people who don’t really care.
You get to make your own space. Your own table.
But if you read this, then you already obviously know the deal. We’re here together.
