The Ghosts in Our Followers List
You will never speak to most of the people who follow you on social media again.
One of the first things you notice when viewing your own or someone else’s profile is the number of people you’re connected with. For years, we heard rumours this statistic would be relegated to a less obvious position—and yet it persists. Like a byline for the story of our digital lives. For businesses and thought leaders, that number signals reach, relevance, or credibility. But for the rest of us, it isn’t indicative of a network, it’s just a number.
If you took a minute (or more) right now to scroll through your list of followers, you might be surprised to see how many are virtually strangers. Others might spark some recognition—names that once held meaning but now feel like echoes in time. Reaching the bottom of the list, you may feel a strange limbo—hundreds, or even thousands of connections—but barely any interaction. On balance, you’re left with a feeling that isn’t quite loss, or nostalgia, but a vague sense of digital clutter. Who are we keeping all these followers for? What role do modern social networks have in our lives today when they once promised connection but have now only delivered an archive?
The early days of social media were like a fever dream. For my generation, the rise of Facebook, Instagram and Twitter reconnected us with childhood friends, distant relatives and our inner circle in a way that didn’t require us to be physically present. It was like all the past rules and conventions of meeting and engaging with people were rewritten, seemingly overnight. Over time, we amassed followers and admirers in a digital arms race that would put our ancestors to shame. We pontificated about mundane topics and shared images of our day-to-day lives and our lunches, often glamorized with filters that blurred the lines between photography and modern art.
Over the years, for me—and perhaps for you—the appeal (or perhaps the appearance) of documenting your life online has waned. And yet, we still have an audience, most watching silently, while only a much smaller number remain actively engaged. What changed that made us stop posting photos of a park bench framed by an oversaturated sunset or a post remarking on something inane we witnessed while on the train to work? Did we simply get it out of our system? Age out of the desire to share our lives so openly, or is it something deeper? Is it possible that the rewards built into these social networks for sharing and engaging with others—the likes, retweets, and followers—no longer provide a surge in dopamine?
As I reflect on this, I am aware that what used to be a dozen or more posts each year has trickled down to only one or two. Like a beacon or gentle reminder that I am not only alive and well but potentially thriving—offline. But the truth is I am still online—and so are you. Social media noticed our reduced engagement and pivoted towards ‘Close Friends’ lists, where the expectation isn’t exposure or growth but genuine interaction. And yet, despite our declining interest in participating in this ongoing social experiment, we’ve retained much of our audience—a choice that seems intentional.
What stops us from unfollowing the dozens or potentially hundreds of people whose lives we no longer hold an active interest in? Is it nostalgia? A reluctance to disconnect with people we shared a formative experience with like university, a previous career, or even just a fleeting moment on a trip years ago? In part, it may be social obligation—a reluctance to digitally remove people for fear of causing hurt feelings or ill will. It may be that unfollowing people can feel like erasing the evidence of past versions of ourselves. Maybe this collection of names and faces we’ve curated over the years is like a photo album kept in the basement or buried in our camera roll. Evidence of a life, experiences, and relationships we’ve outlived and moved past—or perhaps haven’t fully let go of.
One thing, however, is clear. Despite these digital ties, people are lonelier than ever. In 2023, the Surgeon General issued a report declaring an Epidemic of Loneliness, warning that a lack of social connection is harming both our physical and mental health. What an interesting paradox, given how connected we appear to be. It’s like we’re dying of thirst drifting on a raft in a vast body of water. But what if, instead of saltwater leeching the life from us, it was an inland lake—capable of restoring us?
In a previous career, much of my focus revolved around the concept of capacity utilization. Terms like surplus and excess capacity were often used interchangeably, but their meanings are very distinct. In this context, surplus capacity suggests there is an unutilized potential in our digital connections, while excess capacity implies that we’re holding onto something unnecessary—or that bears a cost. The optimist in me wants to believe we can leverage these connections, only a few taps away on our smartphones, to improve and enrich our digital and mental well-being. Some online communities, like Reddit and Snapchat have done a better job fostering a sense of community or connection among their users. The future might also bring a widely adopted social network that isn’t profit-oriented—designed with intention to foster real connection and positive interaction.
It’s also possible that the solution to this epidemic of loneliness has been in our hands all along. Perhaps it lies in deliberately moving away from passively scrolling, fleeting validation and occasional bursts of interaction. To move toward actively and intentionally reaching out—to encourage, inspire and check in on people—without expecting anything in return. And in doing so, we could spark a shift—a new social experiment—that encourages us to leverage these audiences we’ve built for our own well-being, not just for advertisers or shareholders.
Maybe reading this will inspire you to reconnect with someone you’ve lost touch with. Or maybe it will encourage you to hit unfollow on connections that no longer add value or meaning to your life (and I might be one of them). And maybe we’ve been looking at this all wrong.
Perhaps social media was never meant to connect us—just to remind us that we could be connected if we wanted to be.
The author bravely shares a vulnerable post circa 2013 when filters were strong and captions were weak. Any idea what 5 likes is adjusted for inflation?
If you send this to a friend, I promise not to track engagement metrics like a maniac.
