Instagram used to be fun

On how it stopped being a social media app and became a capitalist showroom

I was spending the night with a friend and, in true friend fashion, we were yapping. Somehow the conversation drifted to social media. She’s an Instagram girly and I’m more of a TikTok girlie (with intention) so we were comparing the two. We started talking about how Instagram feels… off. Like something about the whole experience doesn’t sit right anymore. And that night, she helped me put my finger on it.

Instagram isn’t about sharing your life with your friends anymore.

It’s not about posting your dog, your breakfast, or that weird blurry photo you love for no reason. It’s not even about interacting. Instagram, these days, feels more like LinkedIn with better filters. It’s about selling ourselves.

Your profile is your CV. Your bio is a pitch. Every post is a portfolio piece. Every emoji is a marketing tool. Every caption is A/B tested in your head.

Everyone’s a “marketeer,” a “forex trader,” a “#1 nutritionist in [insert city here].” Since when did Instagram become this capitalism-infused, algorithm-polished showroom? Since when did we stop being people and start being personal brands?

I’m not saying we were ever that deep on the app, I’m not romanticizing Valencia filters and duck lips, but there was a time when Instagram felt like a scrapbook. Messy. Fun. Kinda cringe. Real. You’d post a selfie with five different filters just because you liked the way your hair looked. Your crush would like it three hours later and you’d spiral. Simpler times.

Now? Posting feels like a branding decision. People post like they’re on a press tour. Carefully curated captions, carousels edited within an inch of their lives, stories that feel more like ads than moments. It’s not here’s what I’m doing, it’s here’s what I want you to think I’m doing, here’s how well I’m doing it, and please engage accordingly.

It’s exhausting. It’s calculated. And weirdly enough, it’s kind of… lonely.

Because for all the stories and lives and reels and «DM for collabs,» the actual social part, the friend part, the connection part, feels like it left the building a long time ago. You follow people but haven’t spoken to them in years. You don’t see your close friends’ posts unless they tag you, but you’ll see three reels in a row from someone selling chakra tea with the caption “✨DM for collabs✨.” You comment on a story and it feels like shouting into a sponsored void.

In contrast, yeah TikTok is also selling something. It’s beauty influencers pushing products you’ll forget to add to cart. It’s lifestyle bloggers convincing you that if you just start waking up at 5 a.m. and run 12km while drinking electrolytes, your life will magically come together. (Running is having a moment right now and I fucking hate it.)

But TikTok still has people who have no idea they could be making money off it. There’s still the teen girl sobbing in her car about something vague but deeply felt. The “who the fuck did I marry” saga. The DIY jean skirt made from literal scraps and delusion. There’s vulnerability. Humor. Originality. Mess. Honesty.

It’s refreshing.

Because even when it’s unhinged or chaotic or deeply unserious, it’s still people being people. Not products.

Meanwhile on Instagram, we’re all focused on being the baddest bitch in our town, the most mysterious, or the most hyper-niche and brandable version of ourselves. It’s like a competition to see who can aestheticize their personality into a press kit. And maybe the most depressing part? When I’m looking for a professional—a hairstylist, a therapist, a dentist—I don’t open Google anymore. I open Instagram.

Because that’s what it’s for now: Not connection, not creativity, not even clout. Just curation. Just branding.

And it’s not just the influencers and entrepreneurs doing this. We’re all in it now. Even the people who “don’t care about Instagram” have to play the game in some way. You can’t post too much or you look desperate. You can’t post too little or you disappear. You can’t be too honest because that’s “oversharing,” but you also can’t be too polished or you’re “inauthentic.” It’s a trap.

We’re constantly negotiating how to appear without ever really being seen.

And somehow, even when we’re not selling anything, no product, no service, no side hustle, we’re still marketing ourselves. Our looks. Our lifestyle. Our values. Our vibe.
The illusion of effortless effort.

Instagram is our résumé now. And let’s be honest, we all lie on our résumés.

So where does that leave us?

Honestly, I don’t know. Maybe the social part of social media was a fleeting phase. Maybe this is what these platforms were always going to become: glossy, transactional, curated to death. Maybe Instagram isn’t broken, maybe it’s doing exactly what it was redesigned to do.

But still, I miss when it felt a little more like life and a little less like a pitch deck.

So if you’re still posting your dog, your breakfast, your weird thoughts at 3am, I see you. You’re the real MVP. You’re holding onto the last bits of the social internet. And I hope you never stop.

I’m also going back to using Instagram the way it was meant to be used. I’ll post my breakfast, my dog, my blurry selfies, and whatever else feels like me. I don’t care if it’s cringe. Cringe is human. And I’d rather be cringe than curated to death.

So yeah, I’m going back. Back to blurry. Back to breakfast. Back to embarrassing.
Because that night with my friend I came to the conclusion that maybe cringe is the last honest thing we’ve got.