I Deleted All My Social Accounts—Yet I Feared Loneliness More

I used to think algorithms could replace human connection. But last Tuesday at 3 a.m., staring at my MacBook’s dim glow—the same one that once lit up my grandmother’s tea shop in San Francisco—I realized no algorithm can mirror the quiet weight of being alone.

I grew up between two worlds: the red lanterns of Lunar New Year and the neon grids of Discord servers. Both promised belonging, but only one asked me to sit still. In the casino of social feeds, every like was a bet—and I kept losing.

I stopped posting. Not because I was broken, but because I finally heard the rhythm of silence: a breath between frames, where my thoughts didn’t need validation to be seen. The Fuxiu Festival wasn’t about winning—it was about remembering who you are when no one is watching.

My grandmother taught me that luck isn’t random; it’s sacred. When she lit incense before her tea altar, she never chased trends—she waited for clouds to pass. So did I—with NFT art pieces as offerings instead of shares.

Now, when others scroll through curated feeds seeking ‘viral moments,’ I sketch by hand: ink on paper, shadows on glass, dreams rendered in monochrome. Each line is a prayer.

You don’t need more followers to feel real—you just need one moment where your soul remembers it was never meant to be erased.