By skyforbes 
You know that moment when you open TikTok “for five minutes,” and suddenly it’s three hours later, your dignity is gone, and you’re somehow emotionally invested in a stranger’s hamster funeral? Yeah. That’s when I realized I had a problem.
TikTok used to feel fun — creative even. But somewhere between “Day In My Life” videos and people pretending to cry for sympathy likes, it turned into the world’s biggest talent show where everyone’s auditioning for an audience that couldn’t care less.
Everyone on TikTok looks a little desperate. Myself included. You can post a thoughtful video, but if it doesn’t hit 1,000 views in an hour, you start spiraling. “Was it the lighting? The sound? My entire personality?”
TikTok doesn’t just play with your content — it plays with your self-approval, self-improvement, and self-worth. One day you’re viral, the next you’re invisible, and you’re left wondering if you should fake a breakup for engagement.
I finally realized TikTok wasn’t just a platform anymore — it was a digital casino. You pull the lever every time you post, praying for that sweet, sweet dopamine jackpot: likes, views, validation. And the house always wins.
So I quit. Cold turkey.
Now I write on Medium, where people actually read past the first sentence, and no one is lip-syncing to their trauma for clot. I traded fifteen — second fame for full sentences and peace of mind.
Because honestly, I’d rather look boring than begging.