Do I Miss Twitter? Yes and No. But Mostly No.

It sounds silly to even ask the question. As the infamous Dave Chapelle said, “Twitter is not a real place,” but, for many of us, it is. For me, it was. 

I have lived most of my life in small towns and prefer it that way. I want to be able to walk to the local coffee shop and know the baristas by name. I like no-traffic and sharing tomatoes from my garden with my neighbors. I love wide open spaces and spotting rabbits in the backyard. But it can be socially isolating at times, especially when your interests are a bit niche. 

At its best, social media has been a way to cast a larger net for connection, friendship, and community. It has been a place to research, discuss, and exchange meaningful ideas; a space where I could step back and listen to people who are different than me. You can mock the hashtag all you want, but hashtags have been a catalyst for sweeping social movements with real-life rewards (and real-life consequences). 

I even met my husband on Twitter. I also met my editor there, the one who helped me make Talking Back to Purity Culture a reality. And I made some “internet friends” who became real-life friends, eventually sitting around my dining room table sharing steaks and sodas and our dreams for the future of the Church. 

Whenever I would put out a call for someone in need (a single mom, a student in debt, or someone escaping abuse) I was always blown away by the immediate response. Their Amazon Wish List was bought up in hours. Or, they were given all they needed to cover their medical bills within days. I miss a lot of you. I’ll never forget the bouquet of white roses that Amy Mantravadi sent us after we lost our Winnie Mae at nine weeks. It accidentally got delivered to our neighbor’s house, and when they gave it back to me Dennis said: “Someone really cares about you” and “I was going to lie and tell my wife I got them for her.” 

There were times when I could only express myself by silently typing out a thing, pressing “publish,” and then taking a deep breath. Writers often struggle to say their grief out loud. We have to write it first. 

Twitter is, indeed, a real place. But I can honestly say it’s not a place I want to be anymore. I am glad to be gone. I’m even happy to be forgotten. Because the cost was too great. The exchange wasn’t worth it anymore.

At its worst, it has been a source of anxiety and depression for me, and a distraction from what matters in life. Over the years, I developed this tug and pull sensation that would keep me agitated and never fully present in the moment I was in. If it had been a little while, my hand would automatically reach for my phone. I wouldn’t even call it a joy or desire - more like a compulsion - to check my notifications, scroll a little, and see what DMs and PMs I needed to respond to. I filled any space and every silence with something. I wonder how many hours - how many days - I have lost? It is a question that grieves me.

Instead of editing a picture to share on Instagram, or thinking about how to respond to the latest Twitter outrage, I am watering my basil seeds. I am helping Evan lay down sod in the backyard so that Hildegaard has space to run. I am having a couple from church over for burgers. I am making friends with the cashier at our local Walmart, Rio, who smiles only when she sees Hilde. It’s not that I didn’t do these things before. It’s just that, now I am actually experiencing singular events. Simple, uncluttered moments. 

And I am reading again. Writing again. Praying again. And my heart doesn’t race as fast for no reason. 

I am watching my daughter play outside and she is magic. I don’t feel the compulsion to multi-task. To send an email while she learns to peel an orange. I don’t know what people are angry about today and I don’t care. It’s wonderful.

I was talking with a friend recently about compartmentalization and therapy. We talked about how, in our twenties, we were able to set aside dealing with certain traumas and issues because there was so much to accomplish. Now, in our thirties and forties, many of us are finding that grief will have its due. You can only compartmentalize for so long before the things you need to process start popping up at inconvenient times, like when you’re trying to sleep, have a conversation, or work. Many of us have finally acknowledged our need for silence, stillness, and the mental and emotional space to process. We know that it can’t involve sitting anywhere near our phones. 

You can scroll and scroll and scroll and you will still need to sit with what happened. You will still need to learn how to forgive, how to pray, or how to apologize. Maybe you need to give yourself enough stillness to watch birds fly in a troubled line across the sky. Some Canadian geese were forming a “V” above my house the other day, and I noticed that they were making all sorts of noise, calling out, I imagine, to the other birds, saying: “It’s time to go. Don’t be late.”

I will always remember that iconic scene in the very first Jurassic Park movie where the T-Rex is stomping after the Jeep and there is this incredible shot where you can see the monster right behind them in the rearview mirror, and then you notice the little sticker that says: Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear.

Twitter (and Facebook and Instagram) are in my rearview. They are only a few months behind me though, so what do I know? Only that they are still out there, looming, and having their due. All I know is that I don’t want to be stalked anymore, or torn in two.

Cover image by Yohann LIBOT