by Naomi Foster

        

Instagram began in 2010, as a space to share candid snapshots of daily life, but in 2024, it’s closer to a stage and users are expected to perform. Instagram often functions more as a curator of selfhood, a platform where image is everything and silence can be as political as a post. After spending a day engaging with Instagram’s most “socially interactive” features (dms, story likes, comments, and the infamous “close friends” list), I was struck by how much the app demands from users emotionally and mentally. The very architecture of Instagram is set up to keep us performing, watching, and worrying, making it less a tool for expression and more a mechanism of quiet governance.

Instagram’s design is minimalist and deeply addictive. You click the pink camera to reveal a quiet, sleek interface, but beneath the surface theres so much more. The core features off the app are paraded as connectors while serving a dual purpose. Story views, likes, comments, and dms are all tracked and displayed, quietly encouraging us to monitor each other. There’s a pressure to post just to remind others that you still exist, to like someone’s story so they don’t feel ignored, to reply to a dm within a reasonable time to avoid seeming cold. The “story-like” feature is a perfect example. It seems harmless, even sweet, but in practice, it’s become a low-effort way to maintain presence in someone’s life without saying anything at all. Being seen has replaced being spoken to. That dynamic is emotionally tiring. We’re constantly performing, but receiving very little actual connection in return.

Then there’s the “Close Friends” should make the platform more intimate, but it really just raises the stakes. Who’s on the list? Who isn’t? What does it mean if someone posts something personal and you weren’t included? What does it mean if they post something meant for only a handful of people, and you’re suddenly implicated? These features turn relationships into calculations. Posts are no longer about expressing something in the moment. Instead posts are about sending messages, staking claims, or managing perception. A funny reaction image can be a sub, a mirror selfie, a test for attention from a potential love interest,  and a lack of posting serves as a radical vow of silence. Being on Instagram means constantly interpreting others while performing yourself. It’s surveillance masquerading as intimacy.

We’re also expected to maintain digital relationships through likes, comments, replies, and dms. Missing someone’s birthday post or not responding to a story can feel like a violation of an unspoken rule. These little acts of digital labor are cumulative and draining. Even dms, which used to be a space for genuine conversation, now often function like a social chore. You’re expected to react, to respond, to keep the thread alive. But rarely do you get the emotional satisfaction that comes from a real connection. You’re talking, but not always communicating. You’re laughing at the same video, but the distance remains. 

Perhaps the most exhausting element of Instagram is how deeply self-worth gets entangled with visibility. Likes, views, shares, and reposts are all tracked, noticed, and internalized. It’s impossible not to equate engagement with value. And if your story “flops” (not enough people saw it or barely anyone liked it)? If your post doesn’t hit? That can genuinely affect your mood for the day. We don’t just share parts of our lives on Instagram at random, not anymore. We curate joy, heartbreak, and even rest. Nothing is ever simply posted, it is always presented. And in that constant performance, we lose something real. We lose the space to exist offline without guilt, to feel something privately without turning it into content, to process without an audience.

Instagram doesn’t just facilitate connection, rather it governs how we show up in the world. It decides who gets seen, who feels included, and who’s relevant. It dictates how we express ourselves, how we manage friendships, and how we perform care. And when it all gets to be too much we say“just log off,” but for many users, logging off isn’t that simple. Instagram is where community happens. It’s where opportunities emerge. It’s how you stay visible. But being visible is also being vulnerable. Instagram is a platform that promises connection but demands performance. Its features encourage a never-ending form of social labor that blurs the boundaries between private life and public image. Instead of freedom, it offers a new kind of captivity. To truly support users, Instagram would need to redesign not just its features, but its values. Even then theres at least two generations that have already suffered the consequences. We need tools that encourage authentic connection rather than performance.