Starting Over (Online)

Losing everything didn’t break me, but damn, it gave it a hell of a shot. The first time I logged into my Twitter account and found it gone, it wasn’t just some social media inconvenience—it was years of my life erased. The connections, the conversations, the community I’d built from nothing (no ads, no purchasing likes or follows, just hard work and a little shitposting) was gone in an instant. 

People love to say social media isn’t “real life.” That it’s just noise, just entertainment, just fluff. But when it’s ripped away, you realize how much of yourself lived in that space. It wasn’t just posts—it was memories, ideas, friendships, and proof that I was here, that I existed in a way that mattered.

What people don’t always understand is that we all use social media differently. The value we get from it, the way we interact—it’s a reflection of us. If someone only uses it to argue, cut people down, and stir up drama, of course, it’s going to feel toxic and pointless. But for some of us, it’s a tool—a place to learn, build, connect. It’s a way to grow, to share, to create something real. That’s why losing it hit so hard. It wasn’t about clout or likes. It was about losing a resource I had spent years shaping into something meaningful.

Starting over sucked. I tried. I made new accounts and posted in new places, but the silence was suffocating. No followers. No engagement. No support. Just me, yelling into the void, hoping someone—anyone—would hear. And the worst part? People treated me like I was never there to begin with. Like I hadn’t spent years calling out scammers, sharing what I’d learned, and building something real.

And yet, there were the few. The ones who fought for me. Who didn’t just shrug and move on, who didn’t hit me with the dismissive “it’s just social media.” They reached out. They checked in. They let me know I wasn’t as invisible as I felt. It didn’t bring my accounts back, but it reminded me that some people actually give a damn. And you can’t put a price on that.

Maybe, in a way, what made it so hard is that Twitter—X, even though I’ll never call it that—isn’t the same anymore. I’ve been there since 2009, and what it was back then? That’s gone. Building a community will never be the same again. Most of the people who made it what it was have left, not because they wanted to, but because they saw the writing on the wall. The ones who stayed either adapted or got buried. There’s no personal algorithm anymore, no way to cultivate a real space the way we used to. And the ones cheering for its demise? I don’t think they understand what was actually dismantled. Or they’re part of the parasites that came and reshaped it into what it has become. Because it’s not just one political party—it’s all of them.

But those are whole other conversations, and I’ll be diving into them in other posts because, in my eyes, they are huge. There’s a lot to say about how people flooded in and changed the platform forever and how many others abandoned the fight for what made Twitter worth anything in the first place.

Losing my platform didn’t just hit my ego—it hit my business. Hard. Twitter wasn’t just a place I vented; it was where I promoted my work, connected with clients, and shared what I was building. It was social proof. And when that was wiped out, so was my ability to reach people. It left me questioning everything. Did I even matter without that platform? Did anything I’d built have value if I couldn’t prove it with numbers and engagement?

And yeah, there are still days I think about walking away. Just saying, “Screw it,” and disappearing. But I haven’t. Not yet. Because deep down, even if no one is watching, even if it feels like no one cares, I still have a story to tell. And it’s mine to tell.

Starting over? This isn’t my first time. I’ve done it in real life, too. After escaping domestic violence, I had to rebuild from the ground up—just like I’m doing now. That kind of starting over doesn’t just shake you, it guts you. And just like with my account, there were people who thought I deserved it. People who judged me instead of helping. People who pretended they didn’t see the damage because it was easier to look away.

That experience changed how I see everything—especially relationships, especially loyalty. Because some people will walk away. Some will throw salt in the wound. Some will act like you never existed. But then there are the ones who stay. The ones who see you even when you feel invisible. And it’s those people, those moments of kindness, that keep me going.

So yeah. I’m starting over. Again. But this time, I’m doing it on my terms. And I’m not giving up. Not yet.

These days, I spend most of my time on Instagram. It’s not the same, but at least it’s a space I can shape, where I can share what I find beautiful without fighting an algorithm designed to drown me in political propaganda. Maybe that’s where I rebuild. Maybe not. Either way, I’m still here. And I’m not done yet.

And that’s why I’ve started this little blog—a place that’s a bit more insulated from the greed-driven censorship of social media. A space where I can write without worrying about whether some faceless algorithm or a mob with a report button decides I don’t get to exist. Here, I control the narrative. Here, I get to speak. And if you’re here reading this, maybe, just maybe, we’re building something real again.