I get JOMO (joy of missing out) more than I get FOMO (fear of missing out).

For a long time, I was convinced that stepping away from social media would come at a cost. I feared being forgotten, disconnected, and isolated from the world around me. But none of those fears materialised. If anything, the opposite happened. In the absence of constant digital noise, I found myself feeling more connected—particularly to my family. Our interactions became more intentional, more present, and more meaningful. Without the distraction of endless updates and passive engagement, I began to value depth over frequency. When I eventually returned to social media, I was met with an unexpected realisation: people had not forgotten about me—but I had forgotten about them. As I scrolled through recommended stories and familiar profiles, I encountered individuals who no longer held any real place in my life. People I had grown apart from. Individuals who had once caused harm, or who remained quietly present only to observe and judge. When I was actively engaged online, these people were always within reach—appearing on my feed, in my story suggestions, or lingering in my thoughts. I was constantly aware of what everyone else was doing: the events I wasn’t invited to, the plans I wasn’t part of, the new relationships my exes had entered, and the subtle ways people chose when to engage with me and when to ignore me. It was a constant stream of information—most of it unnecessary, and much of it quietly draining. Then, quite abruptly, it stopped. My account was hacked.

At first, the silence felt unsettling. The absence of constant updates created a sense of unease. But over time, that silence transformed into something far more valuable: freedom. There is a particular kind of liberation that comes from no longer trying to fit yourself into spaces, relationships, and narratives that no longer serve you. When you release the need to carry other people’s energy, you create space to reconnect with your own. I still believe in the importance of community. I do not subscribe to the overly individualistic version of self-care that is often promoted online. However, I have learned that stepping back—intentionally and temporarily—can be necessary. It allows you to return to yourself without external influence shaping your emotions, your decisions, or your sense of self. For much of my life, I was driven by the fear of missing out. I felt compelled to be everywhere, to be included in everything. Seeing others gather without me would leave me unsettled, even anxious. Rarely did I pause to ask whether I genuinely wanted to be there, or whether those connections were even meaningful to me. Instead, I accepted superficial relationships simply to avoid being alone. In doing so, I lost sight of myself. I became increasingly dependent on external validation and constant activity—an approach that ultimately left me feeling disconnected rather than fulfilled.

Now, I understand what it means to experience the joy of missing out. Where there was once anxiety, there is now contentment. I no longer interpret other people’s experiences as evidence that I am lacking something. I no longer force myself into spaces that feel misaligned. Instead, I can be present—fully engaged in my own life, rather than distracted by the perception of others. This shift has redefined what I value. Social experiences still hold meaning, but so does rest. So does stillness. So do the quiet, unremarkable moments—lying in bed, listening to music, allowing myself to exist without the need to document or perform. There was a time when I chased stimulation relentlessly, afraid of boredom. Now, my pace has softened, and in that stillness, I have discovered a different kind of fulfilment—one rooted in simplicity. Life does not need to be displayed to be meaningful. And missing out is not truly missing out. It is a conscious decision. It is choosing alignment over obligation, clarity over noise. Perhaps the moments we fear missing are not the ones that matter most. Perhaps the most meaningful moments are the ones we create for ourselves—quietly, intentionally, and without the need for validation.