When I’m not feeling well and I want to feel better, the first thing I do is uninstall the Instagram app—a very simple gesture whose effectiveness I can already notice within the next hour. I may feel a sense of disappointment when I remember there’s nothing to check, those three times my hand reaches for my phone out of habit, but once I get past that step there is a great silence, a sense of peace.
I’ve dedicated a large part of my life to studying social networks and their “bright side”: their most creative aspects, their ability to connect people in unprecedented ways. And yet the feeling that something isn’t right has grown stronger and stronger. What kind of game is it, if I’m forced to play? When I “go offline” to take my “social media break,” I always ask myself: how long can this serenity last? And above all, why can’t it last?
On March 25, a historic verdict was issued: the jury ruled that Meta and Google were negligent in the design or management of Instagram and YouTube, and that both companies also failed to adequately warn users about the risks associated with minors using these platforms. The trial that brought Meta and Google before a Los Angeles jury stems from a lawsuit filed by a young Californian, identified in court documents as K.G.M. or “Kaley,” who claims she was hooked on these platforms from childhood and that her depression, anxiety, body dysmorphia, and suicidal thoughts worsened over time. The case has become the first true bellwether trial in the vast wave of U.S. litigation against social media: originally, TikTok and Snapchat were also defendants, but both chose to settle before trial, leaving Meta and Google in the courtroom.
The lawsuit was not built as a generic accusation against “toxic content” online, but as an attack on the very design of the platforms—the set of structural elements, autoplay, notifications, likes, aesthetic filters that, according to the prosecution, were designed to keep very young users engaged for as long as possible.
Over the course of a trial lasting about seven weeks, the jury heard from therapists, consultants, lawyers, and company executives; among the most significant moments were the testimonies of Mark Zuckerberg. Reuters reports that in court “Zuck” was pressed about internal documents stating, for example, that to “win with teenagers” it was necessary to reach them already as preteens, and about past communications concerning the goal of increasing time spent on the app. The prosecution also relied on the testimony of the plaintiff’s therapist, who described adolescent use of social media as a “contributing factor” in the deterioration of her psychological condition.
The total compensation of six million dollars is perhaps the least interesting aspect of the trial: what now opens is a phase aimed at determining how far legal responsibility for the “attention architecture” can go in the United States, and structural changes to apps are expected.
An important first step, but one that considers only part of a broader problem: not only teenagers are addicted, but adults as well, who suffer not only from psychological dependence but also from a more structural kind. An aspect that has been less problematized, but will likely become increasingly central in the debate, is dependence on platforms from a professional standpoint.
The Treccani dictionary defines a content creator as a “person who, as a profession or passion, creates and publishes original and innovative content, mainly videos, intended for digital platforms.” The term has also appeared in Italian legislation: Italian Law No. 118 of August 5, 2022, in Article 27, refers to the need to “identify specific categories of digital content creators” based on their economic activity and to provide protective tools in conflicts with platforms. The chosen formula, “specific categories,” shows that, for the law, the creator is not a single unified figure but a constellation of different economic activities. Rather than establishing a clear-cut definition, both the dictionary and the law acknowledge the existence of a field with shifting boundaries: that of the content creator as a real professional figure with porous edges, because it coincides with an increasingly widespread mode of exposure, promotion, and monetization of work online. In other words, those who bring their profession onto platforms are increasingly pushed to also become content creators; and those who begin doing so out of passion may find themselves, if that activity succeeds, turning it into a profession.
At first, this push to constantly post one’s work mainly affected creative professions, ultimately reshaping their timing and forms from within: practice gradually adapted to the rhythms of social media and the logic of the algorithm, eventually becoming itself a continuous production of content. Today, however, this mechanism no longer concerns only artistic professions: shops, restaurants, freelancers, commercial activities, and services of all kinds have entered the circuit, all increasingly called upon to make their work perform online.
For many, social media has become a space to advertise themselves for free; for others, it represented the promise of a direct channel through which to showcase their work without having to go through agencies, record labels, galleries, or magazines. It soon became clear, however, that the fact that these spaces are free does not make them any less binding. The result is that, on the one hand, those who do not maintain a presence on platforms end up feeling excluded; on the other, for those who already use them to promote their work, managing social media has turned into an additional job, one that adds to the main one without being truly paid—except indirectly.
This is why people have begun to say that going offline has become a luxury not everyone can afford: in recent years many well-known creators and influencers have publicly announced breaks from social media, speaking about their burnout. The same applies to several artists, who have described the constant pressure to remain visible, to post, not to disappear from the feed. If these figures—who enjoy a level of recognition that allows them to temporarily disappear without losing their following—feel compelled to stay online, it is easy to imagine how much stronger the pressure is for those still building a career.
But the issue is not only about the need to post for work. Many more people are affected by the need to be constantly reachable. For this reason as well, associations and unions have long been advancing proposals and demands related to the right to disconnect.
In a recent podcast appearance, for example, the actor Aziz Ansari said he uses a flip phone and has given up email—just before clarifying that he has an assistant. The choice to switch to a phone without internet seems comparable to that category of people we would call “radical chic” in Italy: an almost aesthetic choice, hardly feasible for those who have to pay their own bills, respond to a boss, look for job opportunities, and remain reachable.
Within this scenario, there is also a new trend toward digital minimalism: after a decade spent sharing every detail of daily life, more and more people are posting less and protecting their privacy, especially Gen Z, which may have grasped the consequences of exposure earlier. There are also a whole range of apps and initiatives aimed at organizing group activities strictly “offline”: it would not be unreasonable to say that real life today is often sold and promoted as a special product, an experience to be had.
In a recent article, Forbes writes: “in 2026, being offline is trendy, carefully constructed, and never truly real.” The author is not entirely wrong, but we should not linger on the idea that being offline is merely a passing trend. We cannot afford to think of it as a luxury for a few. I would like to invite everyone to uninstall social media en masse, but I know we won’t, so I limit myself to thinking that the difficulty of disentangling ourselves from platforms should not stop us from trying to spend less time on them. We should not be ashamed of announcing a break from social media only to return three days later, because those three days can make a difference for our mental health.
Social media operates at these rhythms because we follow them—but it doesn’t have to be this way. There are many practical methods to make social media less impactful: you can set reminders to take a break after a certain time limit, mute notifications, or delete apps and access them only via the web. You can also temporarily deactivate your account, an option that Instagram has hidden behind five steps: top-right menu, account center, personal details, account ownership and control, and deactivation or deletion. Real change, however, happens at the level of thought.
The impact social media has on our lives is directly proportional to the value we assign to it, which is why we should regularly question and reassess that value: if, for us, it is a source of income or a professional space, we could evaluate costs and benefits, calculate our time online as we would working hours, and think about alternative spaces that could host our work. If, for us, it is entertainment, we should try to free ourselves from the pressure to perform and post as if it were a job. If social media is our source of information, we should remember that a post title is not enough to understand what is happening in the world—the article is more informative. If it makes us feel bad, we should remember that verdict, which is official proof, for anyone who still has doubts, that social media is not built for our well-being, but above all to make a lot of money.
Greystones, a seaside town in Ireland, launched a grassroots initiative in 2023 led by parents, school principals, and community members to loosen technology’s grip on children by adopting a voluntary “no smartphones” policy and supporting it with workshops and social gatherings. Jennifer Whitmore, an Irish parliamentarian and mother of four from Greystones, told the New York Times: “With social media, it’s a collective issue. Tackling it in a coordinated way is the only path.” The movement is called “It Takes a Village,” and since then it has grown well beyond the elementary school, gaining traction among both local adults and national politicians.
“Do you also spend the morning scrolling on Instagram? It makes me feel bad, I’d like to know I’m not the only one” is just one of the many thread titles on Reddit where people share advice on how to disconnect and recount their experiences with digital detox. As with any addiction, talking about it with others is the first step; if our experience resonates with those who listen, if others also hide the app for a bit of peace, we might consider taking a break together—we might do as that village did.
Viola Giacalone