It happened on a random Tuesday. My Wi-Fi went down. No reels, no stories, no notifications — just silence. At first, panic. I paced the room, checked my phone like it owed me answers, and realized how dependent I’d become on a signal to feel seen.
Being an Instagram influencer often means living in pixels. You start measuring your day in likes and engagement rates instead of laughs or sunlight. I used to think I was documenting life — until that day, I realized I’d been performing it.
So, I did something radical. I walked outside — no camera, no plan. Just me. The city felt different. The smell of coffee wasn’t a prop, the sky wasn’t a backdrop. For once, I wasn’t thinking about captions or angles. I was just… there.
It’s strange how freeing it felt to not curate anything. I spoke to a street musician for ten minutes about broken guitar strings, helped an old woman with her groceries, and ended up sitting by a fountain eating ice cream — not for content, just for joy.
When the Wi-Fi finally returned that evening, I didn’t rush to post. Instead, I wrote in my journal — something I hadn’t done in years. I realized influence isn’t about reach; it’s about connection. The best version of me isn’t the one my followers see — it’s the one that remembers to live before posting about it.
I’m back online now, but different. Sometimes, I still go off-grid for a few hours — not because I need a break from followers, but because I need to remember who I am when no one’s watching.