Say Something, Say Nothing
On the impossible tension of speaking online — and what it means when everything becomes a statement.
This post was sparked by a conversation with my friend — an OG influencer (hi Lee!) — who, by nature of her work, is often expected to respond to everything happening in the world. I brought up the pressure I used to feel: the sense that you have to say something about everything or risk being seen as complicit. I asked how she handles that tension. Her response stayed with me. She’s clear on what matters to her, and she knows when to speak and when to stay quiet. She takes criticism in stride. There’s a steadiness to her that I deeply admire. Because for me, the pressure to say the right thing, in the right way, at the right time, felt like a no-win game.
I remember when that wasn’t the case.
In the early days of blogging and social media, there was more room to simply be — to share a recipe or a story without every post needing to double as a statement. Sure, we got negative comments now and then. That wasn’t inherently bad. It reminded us that words had impact. But somewhere along the way, something shifted. Saying nothing became its own kind of statement. Saying something came with even higher stakes. And saying the wrong thing — or the right thing in the wrong tone — could lead to public fallout.
I briefly returned to Instagram in 2020. After a long break, I logged back on during the pandemic, like so many others, looking for community. But the landscape had changed. George Floyd had been murdered just a few miles from where I now live. The Black Lives Matter protests were sweeping across the world, and Instagram became the public square. In many ways, it was necessary. Speaking up mattered. But it also marked the beginning of a new precedent: the expectation that everyone say something — and say it quickly — or risk being seen as part of the problem.
That precedent didn’t stay isolated to one moment. It became the norm.
And I get it. The desire to hold people accountable is not inherently wrong. Silence can absolutely be complicity. But when every post is expected to carry the full weight of your politics, your values, your humanity — the line between presence and performance starts to blur.
And so it feels nearly impossible to show up online right now.
Not just as a creator, but as a person. A parent. A citizen. Every time I open my feed, I feel the tension: Say something, and risk saying the wrong thing. Say nothing, and risk seeming indifferent, out of touch, or worse.
Even the posts that try not to carry weight still do. There is no neutral ground. A recipe, a family photo, a weekend update — they all sit in strange juxtaposition to the grief, rage, or chaos in the world. The personal has never felt more political, and the political never more policed.
I’ve found myself frozen. Not because I don’t care, but because I care too much — and no caption feels like enough. I’ve posted statements and resources and calls to action in the past, and I’ve also been silent and uncertain, afraid of getting it wrong. Neither feels quite right anymore. The rules of what to say, when, and how keep shifting. The stakes feel high, and the grace feels low.
What social media offers in immediacy, it lacks in nuance. It rewards speed and certainty, when what most of us need is time to process, space to grieve, and the humility to say “I’m not sure.”
But there’s not much room for that. The algorithm is not built for discomfort. It wants conclusions. And so, we either harden into hot takes or disappear altogether.
There was a time when posting was an act of connection. Now it often feels like an act of risk management.
And yet, I haven’t left. I still scroll. I still care. I still wonder what my role is, and if there is a way to show up that feels human — not performative, not paralyzed, just honest.
I don’t know the answer. But I do know this: silence isn’t always indifference. And speaking up doesn’t always mean you know exactly what to say.
Behind the curtain, I want to talk about what it’s been like for me personally — as someone who used to post constantly, who once believed that saying something was always better than saying nothing, who built a career on showing up.
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