Dr. Rizwan Rumi
Not long ago, I experienced something that millions of social media users around the world have either gone through or fear may happen someday. My Facebook account was suddenly disabled. There was no meaningful explanation, no warning that allowed me to prepare, and no genuine opportunity to present my side before losing access. Within moments, years of memories, professional networking, conversations, photographs, writings, and a community of more than 12,000 followers disappeared behind a notification that offered little comfort and even less clarity. For many people, such an incident may appear insignificant. After all, it is “just a social media account.” But for writers, educators, journalists, researchers, entrepreneurs, and countless professionals, these platforms have become much more than places to share photographs or personal updates. They have evolved into spaces where ideas are exchanged, careers are built, audiences are cultivated, and identities are shaped. Yet the sudden loss of my account forced me to confront an uncomfortable truth: we are building important parts of our lives on platforms that we do not own and over which we exercise very little control. The experience was undoubtedly painful, but it also became an opportunity for reflection. It reminded me that while technology has transformed the way we connect, it has also quietly changed the way we define relationships, success, and even ourselves.
We live in an age where numbers have become symbols of personal worth. Followers, likes, shares, comments, and views often determine how influential or relevant someone appears to be. A person with thousands of followers is frequently perceived as more successful than someone whose circle consists of genuine friends and family. This obsession with digital validation has gradually altered our priorities. Many people spend hours perfecting online profiles while neglecting conversations with those sitting beside them. We celebrate birthdays with social media posts but forget to make a simple phone call. We know what strangers ate for breakfast but rarely ask our neighbours how they are coping with life’s challenges. Ironically, never before have human beings been so digitally connected and yet so emotionally distant.
Social media has undoubtedly brought remarkable benefits. It has connected families separated by continents, enabled students to learn beyond classrooms, allowed writers to reach readers across the globe, empowered small businesses, amplified marginalized voices, and provided immediate access to information during crises. These achievements cannot and should not be dismissed. However, every technological revolution carries unintended consequences. As our dependence on digital platforms has grown, we have become increasingly vulnerable to their uncertainties. A technical error, an automated moderation system, coordinated false reporting, hacking, policy changes, or algorithmic decisions can erase years of effort within seconds. The user is often left searching for answers that never arrive.
Perhaps the most unsettling realization is that our digital identity is not entirely our own. We invest years in building online communities, yet those communities exist on platforms governed by private corporations. We create content, nurture audiences, and preserve memories, but the infrastructure remains someone else’s property. We are, in many ways, tenants rather than owners. This is a reality that many users overlook until they experience an unexpected suspension or permanent account loss. Beyond the technical issues lies a deeper psychological concern. Over the past decade, psychologists have increasingly warned about the emotional effects of excessive social media dependence. The pursuit of likes and online approval can foster anxiety, insecurity, comparison, and fear of missing out. People begin measuring their value through engagement statistics rather than through character, competence, or meaningful relationships. When online recognition becomes a primary source of self-esteem, losing access to a digital account can feel surprisingly similar to losing a part of one’s identity.
The emotional impact is genuine because our minds often confuse digital communities with enduring human relationships. Yet crises have a unique way of revealing what truly matters. When my account disappeared, it was not the number of followers that comforted me. It was the messages from people who had my phone number, colleagues who reached out personally, friends who offered assistance, readers who searched for alternative ways to reconnect, and family members who reminded me that life continues beyond social media.
That distinction is profoundly important.
“Losing a social media account reveals an unexpected gift: it teaches us that platforms and algorithms are fleeting, whereas kindness, family, and genuine human connection are the true investments that endure beyond digital reach.”
Followers can disappear overnight. Real friends rarely do. The experience also highlighted another unfortunate aspect of the digital world: envy, anonymous hostility, coordinated reporting, misinformation, and online harassment have become increasingly common. Social media provides extraordinary opportunities for communication, but it also enables individuals to misuse anonymity and collective reporting mechanisms to silence others. Whether an account is disabled because of technical errors, automated systems, malicious reporting, or genuine policy concerns, the broader lesson remains unchanged: no one’s digital existence should become the sole foundation of their personal or professional life.
Diversification Is No Longer Optional, It Is Essential: Professionals should maintain independent websites whenever possible. Writers should preserve copies of their published work outside social media. Important contacts should be saved through email, phone numbers, or professional networks. Photographs and documents deserve secure backups. Communities should not depend exclusively upon a single platform whose policies may change without notice.
More importantly, we must consciously rebuild the culture of physical relationships. Technology should complement human interaction, not replace it.
There remains unmatched beauty in visiting an old friend without scheduling an online meeting. There is warmth in sharing tea with neighbours instead of merely reacting to their photographs. There is emotional depth in handwritten letters, meaningful conversations, shared laughter, and silent companionship that no emoji can ever replicate.
The pandemic demonstrated how desperately human beings crave genuine presence. Video calls helped us survive isolation, but they never fully replaced human touch, shared spaces, or face-to-face conversations. Perhaps we should not wait for another crisis before remembering that truth. Parents, too, have an important responsibility. Children growing up today are often introduced to screens before they learn the value of community. They collect followers before they understand friendship. They document experiences instead of fully living them. Schools and families must teach digital literacy alongside emotional literacy. Young people need to understand not only how to use technology but also how to maintain healthy boundaries with it. They should know that popularity is temporary, but integrity lasts.
Viral moments fade quickly, while trust earned over years remains invaluable. For professionals, the lesson is equally significant. Reputation should never depend entirely upon one application or platform. Genuine credibility comes from consistent work, ethical conduct, and meaningful contributions to society—not merely from engagement metrics. Looking back today, I do not see the loss of my Facebook account merely as a personal inconvenience. I see it as a reminder that modern life demands balance. We should embrace technology without surrendering ourselves to it. We should welcome digital innovation while protecting our emotional independence. Social media is an extraordinary invention, but it was never designed to replace human relationships. It is a bridge, not a destination. A tool, not an identity. A means of communication, not the measure of a meaningful life. If losing one account teaches us to strengthen our relationships with family, reconnect with old friends, preserve our work independently, and value people more than platforms, then perhaps the loss itself carries an unexpected gift. In the end, algorithms may change. Platforms may rise and fall. Accounts may disappear without explanation. But kindness, trust, friendship, and genuine human connection remain beyond the reach of any algorithm. And those are the relationships that deserve our greatest investment.
(The author is a Research Scholar and a freelancer. The views, opinions and conclusions expressed in this article are those of the author and aren’t necessarily in accord with the views of “Kashmir Horizon”)
