Analog Nostalgia in a Performative Age

The first movie I ever saw was National Velvet, and by the time I saw Velvet and her horse, Pie, compete at the Grand National, the movie was already nearly 60 years old. The other movies I was allowed to watch were of a similar vintage. We didn’t have cable. Just an old TV with a small screen, a large clunky body, and rabbit ears. A movie night was a special occasion for our family. A rarity, really. My brothers and I loved the movies we got to watch. They were old, but we didn’t know any different. Until we started school. And then couldn’t participate in the conversations our friends had about the latest Disney movies or the best cartoons and shows.

My parents were intentional about our media consumption. Near militant, perhaps. In high school, my friends all had email addresses, MySpace accounts, and MSN. I was a late adopter, and when I finally convinced my parents that I needed to be online, they set up an awkward old desktop computer in a communal space that was only to be used for a certain amount of time per day, and never at night.

I loathed my parents for these strict rules. I slammed my door, raised my voice, and argued that they were different. They were. My friends’ parents bought them flip phones. For safety, their parents said. But mine shrugged and told me to find a landline if I wanted to reach them. Of course, safety didn’t matter to me, but I wanted to fit in. My friends sympathized and for my sixteenth birthday, they pooled their money and bought me a cellphone. I may not have known about the latest episode of the OC or The Hills, but at least I finally had autonomy in my communication method.

Millennials, or those of us born between 1980 and the mid 1990s, make up the last generation to have experienced life before the ubiquity of social media. We watched as MySpace made way for Facebook, Twitter, and YouTube, and then for Instagram and TikTok and Snapchat. A night out in the early aughts meant sharing a dedicated photo album on Facebook. Early use of Instagram predated hyper-curated feeds, algorithmic pressures, and influencers. Instead, we shared grainy, square cropped photos that were drenched in heavy filters like Valencia and Hudson. There was an innocence. Engagement felt personal rather than performative and it created a space of spontaneity rather than strategy. A space where the goal wasn’t perfection, and the experience wasn’t driven by the algorithm.

But things have changed since then.

A few months ago, while out on a walk, I listened to a podcast in which Dr. Anna Lembke, a psychiatrist, addiction expert, and professor at Stanford University was interviewed. Her work, which is highlighted in her book Dopamine Nation: Finding Balance in the Age of Indulgence, focuses on how the brain’s reward system is affected by the overstimulation of modern life, including technology, social media, and instant gratification.

Dr. Lembke explained that our brains naturally seek a balance between pleasure and pain; however, when we are constantly exposed to pleasurable stimuli, such as social media, the brain adapts by lowering dopamine production. This contributes to a ‘dopamine deficit state’, where we feel irritable, anxious, or dissatisfied. Because the brain wants to maintain balance, repeated exposure to high-reward activities causes the ‘pleasure-pain’ seesaw to tilt toward pain, leading to tolerance, withdrawal, and even depression or anxiety.

Social media, Dr. Lembke argues, has led to the rise of the ‘performative self’. This is the push toward performing rather than being or existing or perhaps even experiencing. The performative self creates a digital narcissism in which self-worth is increasingly tied to performance metrics such as likes, shares, and views.

I listened to the podcast with a mix of fascination, revulsion, and an accurate awareness that I not only participate in this culture, I contribute to it. Years ago, before moving north, I noticed the emergence of a bad habit. Maybe something worse than a habit. I found myself invertedly scrolling. Scrolling and comparing. Scrolling and comparing. Over and over. I did it mindlessly and it sent me into a dark pit of self-loathing. So, I deleted social media. I figured I’d get it again when I could approach it in a better way. And when I did return to social media, I felt I came back with more intentionality and a deeper sense of who I was and why I used it.

But listening to Dr. Lembke, I realized that I didn’t have it all figured out. Her words relate to me as much as they relate to anyone. There are so many ways in which I fall short. I listened to her and wondered who it is that I’m posting for. I’d like to think that what I share is for myself, not for the validation of self by others, but if I truly examine myself, I recognize that’s not entirely true. Heck, I don’t even have to do much soul searching to know that’s the case. To know there is more to it.

So, where do I go from here? Do I revert back to my luddite childhood experience? Or do I simply accept that the dopamine deficit I must be in is just an unavoidable consequence of current-day social media use? There must be some middle ground. Dr. Lembke acknowledges that she didn’t let her own children use the internet until they were nearly finished high school. But she also acknowledges that this is a near impossible feat and not something she recommends everyone do. Instead, she encourages intentional engagement with technology: taking regular breaks from social media to reset dopamine levels, posting and consuming content in a way that prioritizes meaning over metrics, and shifting from performance to presence.

Now, these suggestions are all fine and dandy, and I think it’s certainly possible to implement them. But, but, but… What about the algorithm?! The algorithm, my mind yells. The algorithm, which I imagine as an enormous, all-powerful, all-knowing presence, of course, prefers consistency to authenticity. It prefers metrics over meaning. It prefers performance and polish. And the acknowledgement of all that just makes it feel impossible. It makes my creativity wane, and my motivation disappear. It feels like a balance I don’t know how to achieve.

I often think back nostalgically to my early days in the Yukon. Everything I experienced was new and different and difficult and beautiful all at the same time. I feel a deep longing for that time. It was a time when I shared what was as new to me as it was to my followers. The successes, the failures, the lessons, and the challenges. One of my closest friends recently moved to the Scottish Highlands, and before she moved, I told her to savour those early days, when things feel chaotic and new. Perhaps, as in my case, those will be the days she’ll remember most fondly. Part of me wonders if the nostalgia I feel for the early internet innocence is really a nostalgia for myself before I felt the need to create content from what’s become my norm.

I don’t have a solution for any of this. I try to heed Dr. Lembke’s advice, and maybe that counts for something. Because maybe the point isn’t actually to solve the tension in this, but just to notice it. I’m trying to show up in an authentic way, to share when and what I feel compelled to share. And when my mind drifts back to the algorithm and the fact that it may not reward this sort of authenticity, I can remind myself that my own sense of self might.