pp

01–06–25

“The dead internet theory is an online conspiracy theory that asserts, due to a coordinated and intentional effort, the Internet since 2016 or 2017 has consisted mainly of bot activity and automatically generated content manipulated by algorithmic curation to control the population and minimize organic human activity.”

Growing up, social media represented an impossible paradox: a desperate desire for recognition colliding with paralyzing fear of judgment. Posting a single photo of myself for my other friends to see felt like a gargantuan task, so the idea of posting my art for my not friends was basically out of the question. Worst of all was the possibility that my friends would also see this content, and tease me for trying to get famous.

But c’mon, we all wanted to be YouTubers didn’t we? The platform dangled a seductive promise: creative freedom and recognition packaged into the perfect career. Sure, there was a ‘cringe’ connotation, but if you could overcome it, you'd achieve the impossible – turning authentic self-expression into sustainable success. The ultimate dream job for my generation.

Yet I remained paralyzed, consumed by a different kind of performance: being "intellectual" Looking back, this respectability posturing was its own form of cringe, but my desire to be a perfect, straight-A student effectively squashed creative ambitions outside the classroom. I assumed the role of digital bystander and watched as the internet evolved from an eclectic conglomerate of ideas into a highly industrialized machine - capable of plucking personalities out of the masses and shooting them into the stratosphere of influence.

I bitterly watched other kids my age started their channels and grew a cult following around their ideas. “Cringeeeeeeeeee” I said. But the stink of jealousy clung tightly to my words, and remained a resonant regret for my entire childhood. 

But everything in my life shifted when I turned 18 and found myself on the precipice of a mundane, adult life that I surely did not want in my core.

I started a secret YouTube channel, making short, rough video essays that were terrible, but I still loved anyways. I told only my roommates about it and deigned at the idea that anyone else (god forbid high school friends) would find it. The goal? Somehow reach millions of anonymous subscribers before telling my friends. But here's the brutal truth I hadn't yet grasped: if you don't want people to find your work... they won't.

Despite my deep yearning to express myself freely… there was a shamefully restrained part of me that still wished to pass through life insignificantly; no one look at me, laugh at me, talk about, or judge me please. I hadn’t realized it before, but this approach to life was sneakily developing a fear and hatred for “other people.” I didn’t trust anyone to appreciate or encourage my creativity - to understand my true self.

But even though I was still too afraid to engage in my own digital echolocation, I took the initiative to seek out others online who were well on their way to building audiences for their work. I attended Creator Camp, made an album with two friends I’d met there, and even took a gap semester to complete a program in San Fransisco at buildspace to continue exploring a creative-forward lifestyle.

SF was where I finally took the plunge and tried to consistently make content online, but the reality was harsh: my short form content about music and essays barely registered in the digital void. Post after post, I watched my nascent attempts at artistry fade into obscurity. The shame I felt in childhood after posting apicture for my friends came rushing back, and in desperation for some kind of virality badge of validation, I turned to formulaic content that others had succeeded with. These videos gained a bit more traction, but it still wasn’t enough to meaningfully improve my online presence. Plus, compromising my originality for algorithms left me feeling even more hollow.

Feeling silly and stupid, I retreated back to Arizona, re-enrolled in school and accepted a hard truth: I wasn't yet good enough to stand out. But this creative isolation, amplified by the suffocating 110-degree heat, pushed me back for a visit to San Francisco where a conversation with my friend Kat transformed everything.

When she mentioned getting seven likes on her first song post, I laughed knowingly. "Were you hella embarrassed?"

But she tilted her head and looked back at me with a confused smile

“nah I was just excited that 7 people cared about my music”

…

damn.

In that moment, I realized I'd been chasing the wrong thing entirely. I thought I was trying to prioritize craft over clout, but my obsession with going viral was controlling me. I had truly begun to believe that an idea only had value if 100,000+ people validated it: everything else felt like a pathetic attempt to defy insignificance.

Kat helped me realized that only thing that was actually pathetic about me was my mindset. Through her own artisanship, she gave me a deep appreciation for committing a creative act just for the sake of it: to revel in the rebellion of making something out of nothing regardless of the results. This revelation wasn't just about art; it was about living authentically in a world that constantly demands performance metrics. I moved back to SF to make art that felt true to me - to say things that felt important to me.

That's why I now write these essays under my real name instead of hiding behind burner accounts. Each piece is an exercise in honest self-expression, a step toward that rare intersection of skill and courage that defines true artistry. But I know deep down that I haven’t reached my final form; I’m still learning to produce music and one day dream of releasing a great project in that medium. But I now recognize that it will take years of:

Of course, there will inevitably be instances where people harshly judge or laugh at you when you try things - that’s why sharing a piece of art is a courageous act. But there are also many people in the world who have developed agency in their own lives, and will encourage attempts from others to do the same. The more consistently you produce genuine efforts of vulnerability, the more you will attract and discover these people, like I found Kat and the rest of the buildspace community.

At the beginning of this essay I mentioned the dead internet theory. While parts of the internet may indeed be overrun by bots and algorithms – I believe the real tragedy is self-censorship. Social media's evolution into an industrial machine has created a crushing pressure to conform along with the new level of economic viability. But we don't have to accept this. The internet should remain a playground for independent voices and authentic expression, not a factory of singular, formulaic content.

I’ve taken a big step back from short-form content and am trying to dive deeper into writing longer-form stories. Ideas that need 10+ minutes to be communicated, instead of trying to distill the feeling of a piece into a surface level concept that captures attention. And for the first time in a long time, I feel like the intention behind my effort is creating a body of work that I can look back on and be proud of. That I would feel confident showing a stranger I meet irl because I know that it’s an honest reflection of myself and my values.

For the first time, I'm not afraid to be found.