On Stopping the Cycle of Quick Dopamine
Tales From a Former TikTok User
According to Dunbar’s number, humans can handle up to 150 relationships - whether in early hunter-gatherer societies or modern workplaces. These aren’t 150 intimate loved ones, but rather 150 meaningful contacts, stretching out past good friends to more casual ties. Even within larger cities, humans thrive when they develop “quasi-villages” within their larger urban dwellings. Breaking larger systems into smaller, more easily digestible chunks.
How does the Internet affect this number?
TikTok was officially released in September 2016, but I don’t recall it firmly taking off in my social circle until the pandemic reached its fever pitch in 2020. Prior to COVID-19 hitting the United States, I assumed TikTok was just another iteration of Musical.ly, as the two companies - both specializing in short-form lip syncing and dancing videos - merged together in 2018.
However, in the straining grips of isolation with millions clinging to media as a source of joy, TikTok seemed to take off, extending past dancing videos and into every niche genre and “aesthetic” community imaginable.
I found myself drawn to food videos, featuring TikTok creators sharing recipes, all emphasizing decadent close-up shots and quick cuts that made the meal come together seamlessly. My “for you page,” algorithmically tailored to my preferences based on the content I interacted with most, also contained visually appealing videos grouped around certain aesthetics, namely of the “cottagecore” variety. Long sweeping scapes of the European countryside, alongside freshly baked pastries on lacey tablecloths, ribbons, long pastel skirts with Sufjan Stevens playing in the backgrounds transported me from the fiendish conditions of the COVID-19 pandemic to a delightful paradise.
My “for you page” also contained a number of regular creators, many of which were comedians and critics of sorts. TikTok comedians would often put on personas and funny voices, acting out hilariously hyperbolized scenes we’ve all experienced in some capacity. Others would simply tell stories from their daily lives, which were made entertaining by their charismatic personalities. Sometimes, feminist critics and historians would pop up, giving their takes on a variety of pop cultural trends and discussing theory.
As I did during my YouTube obsession in the early 2010s, I became attached to many of these creators. The feelings of proximity offered by social media made me feel like I knew them more than I actually did. TikTok became a way of unwinding at the end of a long day of college classes, akin to enjoying an episode of my favorite TV show before turning in for the night.
Over time, the minutes I spent on TikTok seemed to disappear. Sucked away into a vacuum and forgotten like dust under a couch. What felt like 15 minutes turned out to be half an hour. What felt like 20 minutes turned out to be an hour. I would glance at the time and my eyes would widen: how could I have spent so much time on an app? It’s an app featuring short-form videos, yet I would sometimes find myself on it for minutes in the double and triple digits.
I, and millions of other young people, have heard the phrase “social media addiction” swirl around the news and in parent conversations. I had always felt in control of my social media usage, specifically on Instagram, Twitter, and Snapchat. I managed to peruse the sites coolly while still carving out time to finish my homework and get to bed at a reasonable hour. But TikTok was a different beast. It became difficult to stay on the app for less than five minutes, and whenever I had downtime, I found myself pouncing on it for even a quick sixty seconds in between Zoom calls. Control soon felt out of the question.
Many folks inside and outside the tech industry have been outspoken about the power of TikTok’s “for you page” algorithm. It can pick up on users’ interests with such precision that scrolling through the app can sometimes feel like scrolling through your own thoughts. It feels exciting and validating to see so many other people around the world sharing the same interests and ideas as you on another level of granularity.
And such validation comes instantaneously and continuously. All you have to do is open the app, and there is a neverending page filled with things and people you want to see, just waiting for you to scroll until your pinky gets numb from supporting your phone. After which, you simply switch it to the other hand and the scrolling continues.
Dr. Austin Perlmutter shares that behaviors that give people instant gratification can create problems by literally changing their brain pathways, making them gravitate towards activities that give them quick and easy hits of dopamine rather than pursue goals that require more energy and set them up for longer-term happiness.
In addition to instant gratification, something that is just as striking to me about TikTok is the sheer number of people you see on it. The neverending scroll means neverending faces. Neverending information. You never reach the bottom - the true “end” - of your feed or your time on TikTok.
Receiving this bombardment of people, facts, and opinions can be alarming for anyone, but particularly if you experience anxious thoughts on a regular basis like me. The activity that I thought was relaxing my brain - helping it unwind - was in fact making it go into overdrive. Trying to acquaint itself with the new content it’s being introduced to before the next TikTok appears. Then the next. And the next.
Thinking this through got me wondering what our ancestors - people who lived in Internet-less and even electricity-less worlds - would think about the number of faces we see on a day-to-day basis. Far more than 150.
Living in the Information Age is in many, many ways a miracle. On a personal level, I wouldn’t be able to share this blog post - any of my writing honestly - if it weren’t for the Internet. And, at the same time, perhaps some endeavors are best pursued offline. In the context of social media scale, author Claire L. Evans puts this idea well:
After some light encouragement from people in my life, I deleted TikTok off my phone a few months ago. It’s slightly amusing now to think about how difficult that act was to do in the moment.
I was worried that deleting TikTok would render me unhip. Out-of-touch with cultural trends. I thought it may even make me feel disconnected from my siblings and friends, as we were constantly sending each other TikToks that related to our shared experiences and interests. And worst of all, I thought it would make me less happy to not frequent the app every day.
None of these things have been the case.
Deleting TikTok did not in fact wipe me off the face of the Earth - I have other forms of social media that I feel more in control of using, all of which keep me up to date with what’s happening in the world. I have followed some of the TikTok users whose content I enjoy on other social media platforms so I can consume their material in a non-excessive quantity. And my siblings and friends still send me TikToks all the time, which I can now easily click out of after viewing now that I don’t feel the shadow of an endless feed looming over me.
And frankly, my head feels clearer and I feel like I own my free time now. Instead of glancing up from my phone and realizing the sun’s gone down, I now have fuller days stretched out before me. Ripe for reading books, calling friends, and publishing my thoughts online - all of which I’ve been able to do.
For the handful of you that can consume TikTok in reasonable batches and abide by the app time limits set on your smartphones: more power to you. If you’ve run into the same issues that I have, allow me to remind you that the world that you’re devouring on TikTok also exists offline.
It just moves at a more palatable pace and contains fewer faces. Offers you a bit more time. A bit more sunlight. Come re-acquaint yourself with it.
Such a good reminder to be ever present ! I completely agree that certain platforms can cause more anxiety than reduction !