Log Off

---

---

An ordinary London high street, vibrating with the usual rhythm of city life. Amidst the corner shops, cafés, and endless streams of red buses, a terraced house caught my eye. Perched above its front door was a neon yellow sign that screamed Be Kind. It wasn’t tucked away or trying to be profound. It was loud, unmissable, and unapologetic.

That sign lingered in my mind long after I’d walked past, tugging at something deep within me. I had recently stepped back from social media, a deliberate pause after realising how profoundly it was reshaping my personality. Somewhere along the line, between viral posts and algorithm-fed content, I found myself slipping into a version of me that was less kind, less empathetic, and alarmingly quick to judge.

Social media thrives on polarisation, and I had been complicit in it. The endless stream of discourse often framed as “banter” or “hot takes” slowly shaped how I perceived entire groups of people. Take, for instance, the surge of anti-men rhetoric under the guise of empowering women. Or the equally toxic counter-narrative: men’s spaces that belittled women under the banner of reclaiming masculinity. It wasn’t that I agreed with everything I consumed, but when the content is so perfectly tailored to validate your experiences, it’s hard not to absorb some of it.

I began to notice how these narratives affected my interactions. I’d hear a story about someone’s relationship woes and feel an immediate, almost instinctive disdain for one side or the other, based not on their situation but on the caricatures social media had painted for me. I caught myself rolling my eyes at the mention of certain buzzwords or dismissing entire groups of people without a second thought. In trying to align myself with the “right” opinions online, I was losing the ability to see people as individuals, each carrying their own complexities.

The toxicity wasn’t just about the big, headline-worthy debates. It was in the micro-moments: the snide comments on TikToks, the pile-ons in Twitter threads, the endless posts mocking people who didn’t fit a certain aesthetic or worldview. Participating in this culture of critique became second nature, a reflexive response to anything or anyone who didn’t align with the ever-shifting standards of my chosen echo chambers.

But seeing that neon sign made me pause. Be Kind. Such a simple statement, yet it felt radical in its insistence. It reminded me that kindness isn’t about constant agreement or the absence of accountability. It’s about recognising humanity in others, even when you don’t understand or relate to their experiences. And I had lost sight of that.

Stepping away from social media wasn’t about cutting myself off from the world—it was about recalibrating. I needed to rediscover who I was without the constant hum of curated outrage and performative empathy. I wanted to remember how to listen without waiting for my turn to argue, to approach disagreements with curiosity rather than contempt.

The online world has a way of making cruelty feel justified, even virtuous. It teaches you to pick sides, to sharpen your tongue, to bask in the collective euphoria of tearing someone down. But real life doesn’t work that way. People are messy, imperfect, and often contradictory. And that’s okay.

Now, when I pass by that house on the high street, the Be Kind sign feels like a quiet nudge to hold onto what matters. To remain open, even when it’s easier to close off. It reminds me that while social media can amplify our worst instincts, it’s ultimately up to us to decide who we want to be. And for me, I want to be someone who chooses kindness, even when it’s not trending.