I’m an introvert, so I love being alone, when it is on my terms. There’s nothing better than sitting in a cafe with a matcha and a book, or curling up under a blanket with my dog. But sometimes I wish I had someone to share a pizza or argue about Netflix choices with.

I’ve tried a few methods of making new friends. I’ve joined those awful ‘Ladies Social’ Facebook groups. I’ve joined a gym. I’ve been on countless Bumble BFF dates. I have made some friends. But I think the digital world has broken our ability to maintain friendships, and most see friendship as a lower tier to partner.

We’re more connected than ever online, but we’re also the loneliest we have ever been. According to research by Bond University, one in three Australians are lonely. Research by Harvard University found that 30 - 44 year olds are the loneliest group. In this period of our lives, there are a lot of changes peoples lives are diverging in a way that can make old friends incompatible.

Social media can skew our sense of reality, and make us compare our social lives to what people post on the internet. If we feel like everyone else is socialising more than us, it is harder to feel satisfied with the social life we have. Dating apps expose us to a higher level of rejection than we would face in real life, while also preventing people from approaching each other in real life. While texts and messaging are a convenient way to keep in touch, this type of communication lacks emotional cues that fuel connection. Loneliness is not just about physical isolation, but emotional distance. You can feel alone in a packed room or with hundreds of online connections.

While my friends are cosying up to their partners and I’m spending another night alone on my couch, I open up Amazon. Contrary to popular belief, feelings can be purchased. But it’s more than a monetary cost. Another package arrives at the door, and sometimes I can’t even remember what’s in it. The shame hits me like a tsunami as I take a knife to the tape.

The problem with Amazon is that it promises comfort wrapped in cardboard within 1-2 days. Imagine if therapists were that efficient at healing emotional wounds. In theory, I know that buying something won’t make me feel more fulfilled, emotionally regulated or a better person. But as I’m sitting alone with a bag of Uber Eats and an algorithm to scroll, I feel like it deserves another try. Each product is a false promise of a better life. I can’t find a partner, but I can find a pair of headphones for a good deal.

Amazon has turned taking advantage of shopping addiction into a science. The site is perfectly optimised to make sure you think as little as possible about making a purchase. They’ve thought about everything from the wording of the buttons to the colours of text in listings. Even the ability to cancel is a scam. I’m much more likely to make a purchase if I know it’s reversible. Amazon have whole teams dedicated to making the experience more addictive and more successful in short circuiting our ability to stop ourselves from making impulsive purchases. I know it’s a machine, but the beast pulls me back.

We’re also consuming more advertisements than ever before. Before social media, advertisements were reserved for commercial breaks on television, and pages of magazines. It seemed like advertisements had their place in the world, which was easy to avoid. The more I see people pose with products, the more I feel like I’ll reach the same level of happiness if I just buy, buy, buy.

Now it’s not just advertisements we need to be aware of. It’s user created content. There’s influencers promoting ereaders and workout tights. But there’s also a photo of someone you barely remember from university standing in front of a new car with a big bow. It’s your cousin’s friend posting photos of her wedding, while tagging every vendor. It seems that every life achievement comes with a product placement.

A couple of years ago the algorithm got me with Stanley cups. I felt like a Stanley cup would make me healthier, brighter and more hydrated. I couldn’t start my new healthy life until I had one. But I didn’t just buy the cup. I purchased straw covers, charms, and even a silver insert with my name. I was sucked into the algorithm and spat out with a bunch of extra plastic. Worst of all, I was still lonely and in debt, even if a bit more hydrated.

I don’t remember when I became addicted to Amazon. Maybe it was the pandemic. The combination of being stuck inside with only housemates and a daily walk is enough to drive anyone to Bezos. My shopping addiction started before then, but at some point it shifted from walking around shopping centres to Amazon Prime. At least I was getting some exercise! Now, when I’m bored and alone, I doomscrolling through Amazon, Depop and Etsy as if a purchase would answer my prayers.

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In my 30s, most of my friendships don’t resemble what I had at university and school. Friendships are based around on shared experiences, like the lecturer you hate or studying for an exam together. It’s harder to recreate that when our lives as so fractured, even though we seem so connected on social media. I think some of us are trying to create that shared experience on social media. When you open TikTok to fifty videos of Chappell Roan’s minor faux pas, you can feel like you’re in on something that only the chronically online know about. This extends to products. When I had a Stanley, I was part of a secret club of people changing their lives with an insulated water carrier.

Another thing that’s missing from modern friendship is the experience of spending time together without an aim or scheduling restriction. My best friend and I like to have ‘do nothing hangs’ where we sit in my lounge room and parallel play with books or gaming consoles. There’s a bit of chat, but mostly just appreciating being together. ‘Do nothing hangs’ are a hard sell to most people in their 30s, splitting their time between friends, children, work and meal prep.

We’ve become victims to catch up culture, where we occasionally sit together over a hot beverage and spit out life updates that aren’t already on social media. Every time this happens, I just remember the friendship we used to have. I think about the long gossip sessions after a night out, complaining about an exam and sitting in silence together in the library. More yearly coffee catchups would just fuel the fire to loneliness.

I’m fighting the pull of Amazon by leaning into connection and creation, even if it’s small. I’ve joined a great gym that’s full of wonderful women moving for their minds. I’ve got a loving family and group of friends, even if they’re small. I’m writing about my addiction and reading about consumerism, loneliness and lost connection. I don’t think anyone is reading it, but writing is cheaper than sending more money to Jeff Bezos.

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I really enjoy sitting at a cafe with my Kindle and a soy matcha. Sometimes I even take a little picture of my set up for my Instagram. Sue me if that’s ‘performative’. It’s a damn good time, and I would do it even if no one could see me. However, social media has made the private activity of reading a lot more public. I don’t just read books in cafes. I post about books on Instagram, rate books on Storygraph, and write Substacks about reading.

What does it even mean to be performative? Reading in cafes, posting about causes on social media, and recording gym workouts can all be lumped together in the ‘performative’ category. But what if those activities are actually meaningful to the person doing it? I love reading, and I love it even more when I get to read and go out somewhere. That person posting about social justice on Instagram might care for those causes deeply, or doesn’t know what else these can do to help. The gym goer posting clips from their workouts might just want to share their passion or record their progress.

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What’s really performative is not the action itself, but wanting to be seen as being a better person for doing something. If you’re posting about getting up at 5am everyday, are you really doing it for you? Or are you posting to make yourself feel better than other people, or cover up the fact that you’re struggling at your job and can’t sleep at night?

The worst offender for performative posting is LinkedIn. Every life experience seems to be a lesson in business-to-business sales or online marketing. You can’t just attend the conference or breakfast talk — there has to be photographic evidence of your networking adventure. Sure, some people might be sharing their passions. But the whole purpose of LinkedIn is to make an impression on your corporate network. LinkedIn breeds performativity. But does this apply to other social networks where people are just documenting their lives?

The risk of a performative allegation can stop ordinary people from doing things they love (or could learn to love) for the sake of it or sharing their passions online. If you’re not doing something for social approval, go ahead and do the thing. As Dostoevsky once wrote: *“almost all capable people are terribly afraid of being ridiculous, and are miserable because of it.” Public failure is a requirement for many art forms. Stand up comedy is a humiliation ritual. To learn how to sing, you usually need to sing in front of other people before you’re any good. You can write without an audience, but it’s more fun if your writing is published somewhere.

Some art forms even depend on garnering social approval. For a long time, I was doing stand up comedy. The whole point of a stand up set is to write jokes which are accepted by the crowd as being funny and illicit an immediate response. It’s impossible to just do stand up for yourself. I tried practicing in a mirror, but without the laughter it was just a monologue to my dog. The whole stand up performance depends on how you’re perceived, from your writing to your delivery and onstage persona. When I bombed, it was a failure. Sure, failure is necessary for improvement and and all that jazz. But the lack of social approval and reaction meant that my work had missed the mark. Most art forms don’t involve instantaneous feedback and humiliation. But the quick reaction to jokes drives the performance, like people trying to go viral on social media.

The problem is that social media bleeds together real life with approval and reaction. While my need for approval could be contained to a comedy set, social media pushes people to live the more private aspects of our lives in a way that’s curated for Instagram likes and TikTok videos. A new purchase could be an unboxing video. Wedding planning can be influenced by online trends and Pinterest boards. Posting reviews of books means you need beautiful shelves of colour coordinated books.

Once private activities like reading have become mediums for us to express ourselves through social media. While this can allow us to indulge in our passions and be part of a community, it can also push us to avoid things that wouldn’t give us the buzz of reaction. Maybe you don’t read a book because you’d be embarrassed to post about it online. Maybe you spend too much time at your birthday party filming for a TikTok trend, instead of connecting with your loved ones. Maybe you don’t even know what you like anymore, because you’re so attuned to the reactions of other people. You don’t need to do something just so you can post about it later.

The word performative has become an allegation that’s thrown around by the chronically online to discourage personal expression online. We are more than what we consume and what we post. But it’s okay to want to post about things that bring you joy. I like sharing a picture of my matcha and ereader not only to signal ‘hey I’m having a nice time’, but to celebrate a much loved activity.

While thinking about performativity highlights a real problem in how social media shapes our lives, it takes the focus off how the powerful are using their platforms to profit without authenticity. We should be criticising powerful people for virtue signalling without taking action. We could be talking more about Taylor Swift not speaking about Gaza and printing another vinyl variant, but instead we’re scrutinising photos someone you went to university with posted of their kid’s school lunches. Some say reading in public is performative, but let’s talk about how Amazon, the main profiteer of the book industry, is screwing its workers every day of the week. The whole idea of ‘performativity’ shouldn’t be making ordinary people fight amongst themselves. Making us worry about what normal people post online is a capitalistic strategy employed to make us point fingers at the wrong people.

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The computer was a destination

To use the internet, you had to wait for the computer to start, sit through the dial up tone wailing, and plonk yourself in front of what was usually a shared computer. Once you walked away from the computer, no one could reach you unless they had your phone number. And that phone didn’t have apps or social media. Bliss. If you spent too long at the computer, chances are that your parents or siblings would put an end to your surfing session so they could have a turn or use the phone.

The best thing about this set up was that the computer was a place you go rather than something you hold in your hand. Once the internet disconnected and you stepped away from the computer, they would have to reach you by landline or dumb phone. There was also pressure from other family members to get away from the screen at some point.

Not receiving 50 emails a day about shit I don’t care about

Today I received emails from my gym, Amazon, Preply, a vegan meal delivery service I used once, Etsy, PayPal (which I never use), a university I haven’t been to and a crossword website. And that’s a slow day in my inbox. Some of these senders gave me the gift of several emails in a day. Delightful. Every sender wants us to confirm this, notify us of that, and try to convince us to send them more money.

I miss keeping hard copy tickets as souvenirs. I miss hitting ‘send/receive’ and hoping for a fun, new email. I miss not having my attention drained by subject lines and being expected to have access to my inbox at any given moment.

Uploading whole albums of bad photos from a digital camera

When I was at university, social media was really taking off. Facebook was everywhere, but Instagram was in its infancy. I took a tough, waterproof digital camera to house parties and nightclubs, and took mostly unflattering photos of friends and strangers. The next day, I uploaded every photo to albums called things like ‘Mary’s 21st, ‘Town’ and ‘Claudia’s Party’. I exposed my Facebook friends to some truely awful feats of photography which should not have been part of anyone’s digital footprint. I accidentally uploaded a photo of a friend holding a bong. It took years for him to find it and ask me to delete it. 

It was anything but the curated instagram feed of 2026. There were no filters. I didn’t have Photoshop and couldn’t be fucked to edit anyway. Playing photographer helped me meet new people, and gave me an excuse to add new friends to my Facebook. My friends would often pester me to upload the evidence of our debauchery as soon as possible. I really feel that this era of digital photograph really brought people together. It was more about documenting a good time than constructing the perfect image of having your shit together.

What do you miss about the old internet?

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