Locked Out: Social Media, Survival Mode, and the Northern Flicker

I couldn't sleep.

It was a Sunday night, and I was laying awake worrying about the future of humanity. There had been a sudden surge of news on my feed about AI developing faster than humans can contain it. I had read an article about AI creating swarms and figuring out how to hijack systems, and someone in the industry was quoted saying humanity had a 15% chance of being wiped out in the next ten years.

It terrified me. I started thinking about what could happen if AI was no longer under our control.

But as I lay there, connecting the dots between our devices—constantly on our bodies, gathering data—and our total reliance on them, a heavier realization hit me. We are already in our most vulnerable state. I was afraid of AI taking control, but the truth was, I had already given my control away.

I am addicted to social media.

I have never been addicted to anything besides coffee in my life. Back in May, I actually took a whole week off my phone. No devices. I read four books, my head felt so clear, and I remember thinking, How can I live this way all the time?

But slowly, I slipped back. Over the summer, it became gamified. Facebook would remind me to post a reel, or tell me to use more text. It became incredibly performative. I was always checking my phone, looking for engagement, engaging with other people's engagement. Justin, lovingly, had been pointing out that it was affecting our relationship. And somewhere in the background, a deep heaviness crept in. I felt like my life was passing me by, and I wasn’t feeling joy.

So last weekend, before that sleepless night about AI, I decided to test myself. I removed Facebook and Instagram from my phone. Saturday was great, though I was very aware that I was off it—which probably meant I wanted to be on it.

On Sunday, Justin and I were headed to Campton. I knew I’d be waiting in the car while he ran an errand, and the urge to post a photo to my story hit me. You can only post to a story from your phone, so I made a plan. I downloaded the apps again, specifically to use while sitting in the vehicle.

I didn’t tell Justin. But he quickly realized what I had done and questioned me.

And right there, I openly said it: Yes. I am addicted to social media. And this is where I’m at right now and I need help.

It was uncomfortable to say that out loud. It was uncomfortable that I had made an excuse for it, but even more uncomfortable to be truly seen by my partner, the love of my life, as he held me accountable.

On Monday, I removed the apps again. I also announced I was stopping my weekly Monday guest posts for North of Normal, cutting my social media time almost in half. I told Justin that if it came down to choosing my business's visibility or my mental health, I was choosing my mental health.

By Wednesday, when we left for our vacation to Quebec, my intention was to reconnect with myself. But my nervous system was already frayed.

Half an hour into the drive, on 93 North crossing into Vermont, traffic suddenly dropped from 75 miles an hour to five. We were crawling directly behind three Caledonia County police cars for no apparent reason. The sudden shift sent my brain straight into survival mode. I was terrified. I raised my voice, Justin felt I didn’t trust his driving, and it created a friction that stayed with us for hours. On top of that tension, we spent the drive listening to a Mel Robbins podcast featuring a psychologist discussing the $17 billion lawsuit against Meta over the damage social media does to young people's mental health.

When we finally arrived at our Airbnb—a quiet, airtight modern chalet in the woods by a lake—Justin unpacked and left for a bike ride around three o'clock.

Ten minutes later, I decided to sit out on the front deck. I left my phone inside. I was wearing shorts, socks, no shoes, and a light puffy jacket.

About five minutes later, I heard beeping from the door. I jumped up and ran over, but it was already locked. I hadn't checked the code, relying entirely on Justin when we arrived. The code was in the Airbnb app, on my phone, sitting inside the chalet where I could see it through the window.

No one was breaking in or breaking out. I was about to spend several hours on the deck with nothing but my own thoughts.

As the hours ticked by, it got colder. I thought about drinking the greenish rainwater pooling on the patio umbrella barrel if I got desperate. I thought about what would happen if Justin didn't come back and I was out there for the entire night. I heard trucks pulling into the neighboring chalet, imagining what it would be like to walk over without shoes to ask for help.

But mostly, I just started looking around.

I watched a single red leaf release from the top of a tree and fall all the way down to touch the ground. I don’t think I had ever watched a leaf do that before. I kept hearing airplanes in the sky, and as I looked up to try and locate them, I realized how incredibly tight the muscles in my neck were. I realized I don’t look up very often because I’m typically hunched over my phone.

Then, a large bird came flying in and landed right on the cushiony hot tub cover. It had black spots on its body, red on its head, and gold on its wings. It only stayed for a few seconds, but I felt like something about it was special.

By this point, three and a half hours had gone by. My mind was so tired. I realized it was entirely by design that I was locked out here, forced to reckon with the harsh reality that I had spent the majority of my last several years looking at things that don’t really matter.

I broke down and started crying. I grieved the loss of that time. I felt the weight of losing myself to this addiction. And finally, I stopped fighting it.

Amanda, it’s time to live your life on your terms. With intention. Without fear of missing out.

Within one minute of crying and finally letting go, Justin’s truck pulled in.

The next morning, I pulled out a book I brought called Animal Speak. I looked up the brightly colored male bird that had visited me on the hot tub: the northern flicker. According to the book, the northern flicker represents major creative changes, bounding leaps of spiritual growth, new balance, and the opportunity to manifest healing love.

Of course it does.

It wasn’t a coincidence. It was a message that it is time to let go. If I don’t like the way I’m living my life, I am the only one who is going to change that.

I want to remember what it’s like to watch the leaves release from the branches and drift down to kiss the ground. I want to know intimately what it’s like to hear the sounds of the blue jay and the northern flicker in the woods. I want to pay attention to the warmth that the sunlight brings on my face, and in contrast, the chill in the air.

I don’t know exactly what comes next. I don’t know what this means for my business, or how I will navigate the digital world from here on out without giving away my peace. It is a deeply uncomfortable unknown.

But I am taking the next step anyway.

Because for the first time in a long time, I am choosing to trust my own heart over the noise of an algorithm. I am choosing to trust the quietness of the woods over the constant demand to be seen.

I think we forget, somewhere along the way, that a whole, breathing, beautiful world existed long before social media ever did. We existed before it did. We lived, we loved, and we connected, and we did it all without needing a screen to validate it.

If you’ve been feeling that same heaviness lately—that quiet, persistent tug telling you that you are giving your life away to a device—maybe this is your invitation, too.

You don’t need to have all the answers for what comes next. You don't need a perfectly outlined plan. You just need to be willing to step outside, leave the phone on the counter, and look up.

You might just remember who you were before the world told you to keep scrolling.

-Amanda

Amanda McKeen is a Littleton-based writer, business owner, and host of North of Normal, a radio show and podcast exploring the people, places, and ideas that shape life in New Hampshire’s North Country. Listen to Amanda read her columns aloud, and find past columns and episodes at clearviewadvantage.com/podcast.