It’s 2 a.m., and I’ve scrolled through 8,000 TikToks, liked a couple dozen Instagram posts and replied to all of my Snapchats. My dorm is quiet, except for the faint noise of my roommate’s YouTube video playing. We have both spent hours online and connected to hundreds of people, yet somehow I still feel completely alone.
This isn’t just a me problem; it’s a Gen Z problem. We’ve grown up online, fluent in emojis, subtweets and viral trends. Social media burnout is real, and it’s quietly becoming one of the most widespread mental health challenges of our time.
What makes it worse is how invisible the burnout is. From the outside, we’re just “on our phones,” but behind the screen, we’re juggling dozens of interactions: group project updates on WhatsApp, news on X and notifications on Canvas.
Every selfie is put through a subtle filter and FaceTune. Each post is thought out and captioned with more intent than a Jane Austen novel. Each scroll appears to be stress relief, but replying to DMs, reacting to stories and commenting on posts can begin to feel like work. It is as though socializing has become a performance — a spectacle for which every friendship needs to be validated repeatedly online. Memes. TikToks. Posts about loving someone forever because telling them directly would be too real for most of us.
Eventually, social media catches up with us. Honest conversations start to feel foreign — too slow and unfiltered. Silence makes us restless and anxious. When did you last wait in line at Tatte or Dunkin’ without reaching for your phone to fill the awkwardness? Even small talk begins to feel oddly scripted, like a podcast no one wants to host.
We laugh about it often, tossing around terms like “chronically online,” “touch grass,” and “brain rot” as if admitting the problem is enough for us to avoid facing its repercussions. But laughing doesn’t change the reality: We are burnt out. Websites that are meant to promote authentic interaction and connectivity have morphed into unending cycles of shallow affirmation and stress.
This is perhaps what is most frustrating aspect of it all: We know exactly what’s happening. We watch documentaries like “The Social Dilemma,” repost mental health infographics and listen to neuroscientist Andrew Huberman critique digital addiction. Yet, despite our awareness, we find ourselves trapped, unable to resist notifications because doing so feels isolating, even risky.
There’s another layer of complexity: College life is deeply intertwined with social media. Northeastern’s events, internships and student clubs all happen digitally first. SpringFest, hosted by Northeastern’s Council for University Programs, or CUP, brings a popular artist to Matthews Arena for an incredibly low price. Last Semester, it was Kehlani. The concert was first announced and popularised on Instagram. Tickets sold out very fast, and only the most online students — those refreshing stories, checking the CUP Instagram, staying plugged in — got a spot. Logging off doesn’t just feel like stepping away from your phone; rather, it feels like stepping away from opportunities and experiences.
Perhaps we’ve hit a tipping point. When constant accessibility starts to strain our relationships, mental health and ambitions, something has to give. We should ask ourselves how often we are online, why we reach for the phone and who it really serves.
Common advice still places responsibility on the individual: Set screen time limits, turn off notifications or try a detox.
But the solution to the problem is bigger than self-discipline. Social platforms are built to ensure that we keep scrolling, liking and commenting. They prey on our attention and profit from our burnout. Recognizing digital burnout as an environmental hazard rather than a personal failure is crucial.
Once we acknowledge this, what can we realistically do?
The goal is simple: You shouldn’t have to be online to belong. We can start small, making deliberate, modest changes. Use the power of our roles to shift norms. Professors can work to limit expectations of around-the-clock digital responsiveness. Northeastern’s administration can proactively provide resources and workshops on digital wellness. Platforms should be pressured to design experiences built around genuine user well-being rather than constant engagement.
While the systems around us change, we can try to have some responsibility for our personal choices. We must normalize logging off — deliberately. Make it ordinary: Have dinner without Instagramming it. Go to the gym without taking a Snapchat. Instead of posting on BeReal, be real.
Just once in a while, exist offline. You might be surprised how refreshing and strangely novel it feels. Sometimes the grass genuinely is greener. Constant connectivity isn’t making us happier or closer. It’s making us numb. If we truly want to reconnect with ourselves and each other, we need to start by disconnecting, even for a little bit.
Maybe the realest thing we can do is stop posting our lives long enough to actually live them.
Sana Gandhi is a second-year business administration major. She can be reached at [email protected].
If you would like to submit a letter to the editor in response to this piece, email [email protected] with your idea.
