Boundaries on Social Media

Boundaries on Social Media

A photographer disappointed me recently. Not in a dramatic, cinematic way, no slow motion betrayal or rain soaked monologue. Just a small, sharp moment on Threads. They posted something. I responded thoughtfully. They did not enjoy my response and promptly suggested, with all the grace of a slammed kitchen door, that I go fuck off.

I won’t name them. I won’t subtweet them. Truth be told, they are talented, genuinely so, and they have contributed a great deal to the photography community on Threads. But I unfollowed them. Quietly. Intentionally. And to understand why, we have to step backward a few chapters.

I did not grow up in a particularly safe environment. Many of the people I spent the most time with were deeply toxic, professionally defensive, emotionally volatile. Their favorite move was aggression masquerading as confidence. Disagree with them and they would lunge, forcing you into a courtroom you never asked to enter. Suddenly you were on trial, required to present exhibits, footnotes, sworn testimony, all to justify the audacity of having a different perspective.

It made me feel unhinged. Truly. I spent years trying to prove myself, trying to explain, trying to be understood by people who had no interest in understanding. Looking back now, that part breaks my heart a little. Not because I failed, but because it was never about truth or growth or dialogue. It was about control. About making their discomfort my responsibility.

So when I replied to this photographer on Threads and they responded by going straight for the throat, something in me just went quiet. I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t even shocked. I was sad. Sad because I’ve done too much work, read too many books, sat through too many therapy sessions to make space for that energy anymore.

If you want to attack me for having a different opinion, that’s your prerogative. Truly. The internet is a gladiator arena dressed up as a community bulletin board. But I am no longer interested in proving my point of view, nor dismantling yours piece by piece like an undergraduate philosophy assignment at two in the morning. I don’t need to win. I don’t need to be right. I just need peace.

So I hit unfollow. Softly. Regretfully. And I wished them well, genuinely.

What this whole experience reminded me of, though, is something worth writing down in the margins of our digital lives: the people we follow online are not our friends. Even if we’ve followed them since day one. Even if we’ve exchanged comments, encouragement, inside jokes. One disagreement was all it took for the mask to slip, for familiarity to dissolve into hostility.

And that’s okay. It’s just information.

The real lesson here isn’t about photographers or Threads or disagreements. It’s about attention. About choosing where your energy goes. Spend more time with your actual friendships. The ones where disagreement doesn’t feel like a threat. The ones where conversation isn’t a combat sport. There is no moral obligation to argue with strangers on the internet, no prize for endurance, no diploma for suffering fools.

Sometimes the most radical thing you can do is close the app, unfollow gently, and go back to the people who know your voice without a comment box.