Tiny Rebellions: What Grew When I Deleted TikTok
At its peak, my TikTok app had 14 hours and 34 minutes of screen time per week.
Instead of living the life I dreamed of, I watched others live it through a phone.
Curled in bed, blankets pulled over my head like a fortress—trying to shut the world out, when the noise was coming from inside the castle.
I felt it: that itchy, electric restlessness. I wanted to create. To live.
But every minute I scrolled reminded me of what I wasn’t.
Arrows of self-doubt flying at me with precision: They’re doing it better. Saying it better. There’s no space for you.
I realized… the walls weren’t protecting me anymore. They were keeping me from the sun.
So I left the castle.
I deleted the apps.
And I stepped out—slowly, quietly—back into my own garden.
The Choice: A Tiny Rebellion
I had a sick sense of satisfaction, watching the tiny app shake before it disappeared from my screen.
I thought it would be difficult to be in my own garden again—to listen to the buzz of the bees, to watch the wind rustle through the wildflowers.
But it wasn’t.
I thought I’d feel restless. Instead, I felt still.
I made my tea slower. I looked up more.
I needed to listen inward. And I couldn’t do that while I was under siege.
I spent so much time consuming.
That consuming led to self-doubt.
Which led to inaction.
Which led to resentment.
Which led me to chase a quick dopamine hit.
Which, ironically, came from that stupid clock app.
I wasn’t scrolling to be inspired. I was scrolling to be distracted from myself.
But now I had a bit of the power back.
I didn’t need to be constantly plugged in to feel connected to something meaningful.
I didn’t realize how heavy the noise was until I let myself put it down.
In that quietness, something softened.
Clarity returned—I wasn’t caught in that endless loop.
My creative energy began to hum again.
Tending What’s Mine
The quiet didn’t immediately make me more productive. But it made me more honest.
I didn’t find answers in the silence—but I found access.
To my thoughts.
To my own voice.
To what I needed.
The noise of self-doubt became a dull hum. And I realized: it was always my choice to tune in—to amplify that frequency or not.
I started paying attention to what I consumed on other platforms.
Noticing when it was genuine curiosity—and when it was just fear in a clever disguise.
I used to tell myself I was “researching.” “Learning.” “Staying inspired.”
But really, I was just avoiding the quiet.
I scrolled to fill a void.
To keep myself from feeling the ache of wanting more.
To make it look like I was preparing—when I was actually postponing.
I’d save things and call it inspiration.
But nothing ever moved from saved folder.
It just sat there.
Unused. Unfelt. Unlived.
Deleting the apps didn’t magically clear my mind.
But it gave me enough space to start noticing what was blooming underneath the noise.
And that’s when the real tending began.
And now, when self-doubt creeps in, I remind myself:
No one walks into a garden and complains there are too many flowers.
We don’t tell tulips they’re redundant just because the daffodils bloomed first.
One flower doesn’t speak for all.
One color tulip isn’t the only way to bloom.
We don’t just love variety. We need it.
The same is true for creativity, for self-expression, for stories, for ways of being.
Just because someone else is doing it doesn’t mean you can’t.
It means there’s space.
And someone out there is waiting for your bloom
When You Make Room, Something Grows
TikTok had become a toxic weed—competing for my resources, stealing my light, choking out the space I needed to grow.
When I deleted the app, it felt like pulling up a tangle of roots wrapped around my flowers.
It wasn’t a sudden fix. It won’t be the last weed I uproot.
But in that moment, I made space.
There was room for sunlight to reach the soil again.
The air could move through my garden.
The life beneath could finally breathe.
My garden isn’t pristine (and I never want it to be).
There are still dreams I’m holding gently—like the YouTube channel I’ve started and stopped more times than I can count.
But this right here—writing to you—this is me showing up. For myself. And for you.
These words are seeds. Planted with intention. Trusted to bloom in their own time.
I’m learning how to rebuild creative trust—slowly, softly, boldly.
I’m learning that listening to my voice matters more than chasing virality or worse, mimicking someone else’s.
When I make room, something always grows.
Even if it takes time. Even if it’s crooked. Even if it’s not what I expected.
If you’ve been feeling creatively stuck, or like your garden is overgrown with other people’s voices—maybe this is your invitation to clear a little space. Not to be productive. Just to remember what your voice sounds like.
You don’t have to quit the internet. You don’t have to burn it all down.
Maybe you just need to carve out a small patch of sunlight.
A corner of your garden where only your voice gets to grow.
What’s one tiny thing you could remove to make space for something more you?
I’d love to hear what you’re tending.
