Leaving the Scroll: Why We Walked Away from Social Media

Stepping into the role of Marketing Director for Elevate Youth Services, I did what every seasoned marketer does. I took inventory. What was working, what wasn’t, where the money went, and—perhaps the biggest question of all—where the hours of our very human team were disappearing. Like every nonprofit, we were stretched thin, the fabric fraying in places we couldn’t afford to patch.

It didn’t take long to see the fracture lines. Our audience was split—parents, donors, and community leaders in one camp; the youth we serve in the other. Two completely different languages. Two completely different worlds. And when I looked closer, the cost of maintaining our social media presence didn’t match the return—not in numbers, not in impact, and certainly not in alignment with our mission or values.

As a  parent, myself, I was already navigating the state’s rollout of H.480, the groundbreaking legislation eliminating cellphones in school. Letters came home from the high school explaining that my son would soon experience his education without the constant hum of a screen. It felt radical and deeply sane.

So, I did what good marketers are supposed to do: I ran my own experiment. I deleted the apps from my phone. Kept my accounts for the archives of family photos—memories I still don’t know how to export in a way that feels permanent—but I cut off the easy access. For the first week, I let myself check in on a desktop. The experience felt flat, silly. Endless scrolls for nothing.

By week two, confidence replaced curiosity. My screen time dropped by nearly 60%. I devoured a book in three days. I texted friends and lingered in one-on-one conversations that felt startlingly alive. I reached out to people I hadn’t spoken to in decades—hungry, I realized, for the kind of connection that didn’t require a Wi-Fi signal.

I took all of this to our Executive Director, Favor Ellis. Together, we decided: it was time. Elevate Youth Services would step away from Facebook and Instagram. There’s no shortage of research—you can Google the data yourself—but none of it paints a picture that could justify staying. Social media is a grim place for young people. And, if I’m honest, for adults too.

People tell me we’re brave. They call it leadership. But none of this feels heroic. It feels necessary—an act of preservation, for our teens and, selfishly, for myself.

By week three, the absence of noise made space for something else. Human interaction. The kind that feels rare now, like a foreign language. These platforms are engineered to soothe loneliness, but only in the way a mirage soothes thirst. My brain still reaches for distractions: I wish store magazine racks still offered thick, glossy stacks to thumb through; instead, they’ve been whittled down to gossip and survival tips for a world we barely inhabit. Bookstores feel overwhelming, like stepping into a forest when you’ve been bottle-fed content in teaspoons. Even conversation—real, face-to-face conversation—feels unpracticed. My skills are dull. And yes, sometimes I feel lonely. But the loneliness is real, and there’s something honest in sitting with it.

This week, I read that Neil Young quit Facebook—not over algorithms or advertising, but because Meta’s internal AI chatbot policies allowed conversations with children that were romantic, even sensual. Young called it “unconscionable,” and demanded that his music and content be pulled from the platform. At 79, he drew a line—quietly, firmly—choosing integrity over reach. His decision resonated deeply. It was clarity. A moral line drawn in silicon. And that’s where I am as week four begins: I can’t imagine going back.

There’s nothing in there for me anymore. Instead of scrolling, my mind drifts toward simplicity—toward the idea that maybe this could be a year of less. Less information. Less noise. Less wanting what I don’t need. What I feel now is contentment. Happiness. Calm. No algorithmic currents tugging at me, no continual ads in my face, no constant comparisons, no aching need for validation.

It strikes me that if I wouldn’t hand my child a pack of cigarettes knowing the harm they’d do, why would I hand him a device engineered to do the same—to addict, to erode, to take more than it ever gives back?

Here in Vermont, the antidotes surround us—mountains, rivers, lakes, general stores serving strong coffee and slow conversation. We keep scrolling not because we want to, but because we’ve forgotten the other way. It's less simple to sit in silence than hit “refresh.” But maybe simple is the point.

So we quit. And now, in my fourth week free of infinite scroll, the quiet is loud in all the best ways.