What happened to the internet we once loved?

There was a time-nostalgic, sepia-toned, and almost mythical-when social media feeds overflowed with sunset photos, cheerful selfies, and the occasional unsolicited monologue on politics, gluten, or the meaning of existence. Today, the digital amphitheatre feels strangely quiet. Timelines that once brimmed with performative enthusiasm now resemble deserted railway platforms. And before we congratulate ourselves for having collectively achieved spiritual detachment, it is necessary to diagnose the real ailment: enshittification.

Coined by digital critic Cory Doctorow, this colourful term captures the slow, almost biological decay of online platforms. It describes the predictable cycle in which platforms move from serving users, to serving advertisers, and finally to serving shareholders with unwavering devotion. The trajectory rarely changes. First, users enjoy features, updates, and a sense of community. Then the platform quietly pivots. Advertisers become the new aristocracy, users are demoted to serfs, and shareholders ascend the throne.

This cycle is now unfolding everywhere. Instagram’s beloved chronological feed has been replaced by an algorithm that behaves like a mischievous deity-blessing some posts while banishing others into obscurity. Facebook, once a powerhouse of organic reach, has tumbled from 12 per cent visibility in 2013 to a nearly invisible 2 per cent in 2023. TikTok creators routinely complain that their videos disappear from public view unless they pay for algorithmic favour. And as the global social media advertising market ballooned to USD 226 billion in 2024, platforms responded with relentless ad-stuffing.

The authenticity that once made social media addictive has been replaced by a parade of curated façades and commercial theatrics. According to Pew Research, 64 per cent of users hesitate before posting publicly, fearing judgement, trolling, or unintentionally stepping on political landmines. Posting-once as effortless as breathing-now requires the caution of a diplomat. Meanwhile, social feeds have become glossy runways dominated by influencers equipped with ring lights, editing tools, and aesthetic precision. Algorithms worsen the fatigue by prioritising whatever is viral, extreme, or emotionally explosive. Birthday updates, dinner photos, and life milestones are sidelined in favour of sensational, engagement-hungry content. Even Meta admits that one in four users feel they “no longer see anything meaningful” on their timelines. If the emperor has no clothes, today’s social feed has no soul.

Yet users have not disappeared; they have simply migrated-from public squares to private parlours. Encrypted messaging apps have become new social sanctuaries where people can rant, gossip, laugh, and overshare without fear of algorithmic punishment. WhatsApp alone handled over 100 billion messages a day in 2024. The quiet on social media is not cultural decline; it is subtle rebellion. Users are sending a message: we’re tired of being the product. If platforms want relevance again, they must rediscover user-centricity. Until then, public posting will continue to fade-not the death of social media, but its long-overdue evolution. People are not going silent; they are choosing spaces that feel human again. And in a world engineered for noise, that silence speaks the loudest.

The writer is an educator; views are personal