Increasingly often, a person will split herself into two accounts: the edgy, obsessive self (how she is with friends) and the polished, measured self (her public persona, designed to attract and promote). The private finsta (I hate that word, probably because I’m 34) gains its user a type of attention that is harder won, entering a challenge of niche discourse. I’ll miss seeing those. Other than that, though, I had little to lose when I left – some encouraging DMs, a group chat that won’t translate well to texts, an easy way to stay in touch with the cool librarian from my high school – and more to gain, like time in the work-from-home day.

NATASHA STAGG’S fourth column sifts through the aftermath of her deleted Instagram account, and all of the things she misses – and doesn't miss – about the social media giant.

I have not left social media altogether, but I fantasise about it, if only for the feeling of leaving. Deleting Instagram, for example, felt like diving off a cliff into a deep, calm lake. There wasn’t really a reason to do it – no one I was failing to hide from or compete with, no pressures that were causing deep depressions – other than the temptation to jump, or to sever. Of course I’m addicted to social media, and to many things. I’m also a defender of its artistic merits. Some people have really come into their own in these spaces. In fact, they might be my biggest sources of inspiration for writing.

Its a good post