I grew up in a suburb of Chicago, surrounded by family—cousins who felt like siblings, Titas who always brought an extra dish, Kuyas who never missed a gathering. We celebrated every occasion, big or small. Memorial Day? Big barbecue. New Years? Even bigger. It was a noisy, joyful kind of closeness—the kind that shaped my sense of what “community” really meant.
So when my husband and I moved to Los Angeles for work, it was a bittersweet leap. We were trading Sunday lunches and backyard birthday parties for sunshine and new opportunity—but we left behind the people who made life feel full.
At first, social media was a lifeline.
Posting photos of our growing family helped me feel like I hadn’t completely left home. My relatives in the Midwest could peek into our daily life—watch the kids grow, celebrate milestones with us, laugh at the messes and the moments. It felt like a way to hold on to that sense of shared life, even across 2,000 miles.
But slowly, that space started to shift.
What began as a tool for connection turned into something else entirely: a feed full of fear, arguments, curated perfection, and constant noise. Especially after 2016, I could feel the mood souring. And every time I logged off, I felt more anxious, more scattered, more disconnected—ironically—from both myself and the very people I was trying to stay close to.
The shift didn’t happen all at once. I didn’t wake up one day and delete everything—though part of me wanted to. Instead, it was a slow unraveling. A quiet awareness that the version of myself I was presenting online didn’t quite match how I felt inside. That the connection I craved was buried under an avalanche of noise, algorithms, and outrage.
So I began stepping back.
First, I turned off notifications. Then I stopped posting. I removed apps from my phone. I unfollowed accounts that left me feeling more drained than inspired. I started protecting my energy the way I once protected my privacy.
It took me nearly three years to fully cut the cord.
Not because I didn’t want to—but because I had built a kind of identity there. A record of my life. A timeline of my children’s growth. A network of other creative women who understood my world. Walking away felt like abandoning something precious—but staying began to feel heavier than it was worth.
And when I finally did leave, the world didn’t fall apart. My life didn’t shrink—it actually opened up. I had more mental space. More presence with my kids. More time for my own creativity. I didn’t miss doomscrolling or performative posts. But I did start to notice what was missing.
I missed the people, not the platforms.
I missed the right kind of connection—the kind I used to feel sharing ideas with other creatives, or laughing with fellow moms over the chaos of everyday life. Not the scrolling or the pressure, but the small, honest moments of camaraderie.
These platforms were never neutral tools. They were designed—intentionally—to hijack our attention, feed our insecurities, and sell our data. And while they may offer moments of joy or connection, they’re not built for our wellbeing.
So the question becomes: How do we stay connected to people, ideas, and community—without sacrificing our mental health and attention span?
For me, the answer has been to rebuild connection outside of the mainstream platforms. Not disappearing, but shifting.
Now I’m choosing online spaces differently—smaller, slower, and on my terms. I’ve been experimenting with values-aligned communities: private groups for creative entrepreneurs, design forums that actually encourage feedback and growth, email newsletters where people write from the heart, and long-form writing that allows space to think, reflect, and go deeper.
It’s slower. It’s less visible. And it’s so much more human.
This slower internet is what I want to be part of building.
That’s part of why I started Ube Bread. I wanted to help other small business owners—especially moms and minority-owned businesses—build the kind of online presence I wish I’d had when I was starting out. A space that feels like you, not like what you think you’re supposed to sound like. A well-crafted website can speak volumes about your story without selling your soul to the algorithm.
Because connection doesn’t have to be loud.
Community doesn’t have to mean constant sharing.
And creativity doesn’t need a platform to be valid.
We don’t have to post every moment. We don’t have to chase algorithms. We don’t have to accept that toxic online spaces are the norm.
If you’re feeling overwhelmed by the noise of social media, you’re not alone. You’re not a failure for needing space. You’re not behind for wanting something gentler. You can still connect. You can still create. You can still grow—on your own terms.
There’s a new internet being built—kinder, slower, smaller. The kind that feels less like a feed and more like those Sunday lunches in Chicago—a place where people gather because they genuinely want to be there, not because an algorithm told them to show up.
Let’s build it together.
