What would my 20-year-old self think if she could see the distance I have traveled and the life I have built since then? Over the past fifteen years, my accomplishments have been both diverse and deeply personal—among them, contributing thoughtful, professionally published pieces to respected magazines such as *Psychologies* and *Cosmopolitan*; establishing a flourishing freelance writing career entirely on my own terms, independent of the traditional boundaries of office life; and, at the age of thirty, reaching the milestone of purchasing my first home. By almost any external measure, these achievements should fill me with pride and quiet satisfaction. And yet, beneath that surface of success, a strange and persistent disquiet often stirs. It takes only one scroll through my LinkedIn feed—a single, passive glance down the digital corridor of other people’s triumphs—to send me metaphorically spiraling, tempted to hurl my laptop straight out the window. Each time I log on, the once-neutral act of checking a professional platform transforms into a visceral experience: my heart tightens, my stomach sinks, and my confidence drops precipitously through an invisible trapdoor.
The feed feels like an ever-revolving showcase of other people’s brilliance and momentum: twenty-somethings proudly announcing their new book deals, former classmates celebrating enviable career promotions, and digital nomads documenting their seemingly effortless lives of travel and independence. Against this relentless parade, my own bylines—the sum of my efforts and discipline—appear to fade. I find myself numb, questioning why my accomplishments feel smaller when compared side by side with someone else’s highlight moments. Yet the irony is that, instead of breaking free from the habit, I continue to return to the very source of unease.
At some point, imperceptibly and without conscious decision, LinkedIn became woven into the fabric of my daily life. It began innocently enough: occasional visits, perhaps once a week, to check new connection invitations or to see whether any editors were seeking contributors. Those interactions were light, even energizing. Over time, however, what started as a tool for genuine networking slowly evolved into something more insidious. Around 2023, I experienced a marked shift. The platform, once dedicated to professional engagement, had transformed into a carefully curated stage for achievements—a virtual amphitheater of boasts. Suddenly my feed overflowed with success stories: triumphant sales figures, proud announcements of entrepreneurial ventures, endless posts proclaiming liberation from corporate life in favor of coaching or personal brands. The metrics of approval—likes, comments, shares—multiplied rapidly, turning authenticity into an algorithmic competition.
It began to resemble a polished, commercialized version of Facebook—a so-called “Facebook 2.0” with a veneer of professionalism and hustle culture. Digging through that torrent of updates to find genuine insight felt like wading through quicksand. And naturally, I succumbed to the universal tendency of comparison, measuring my career trajectory against others’ brightest highlights. The emotional toll of that process was cumulative, subtle, but very real.
In search of clarity and perhaps a measure of relief, I sought guidance from a professional. Jackie Daniels, Director of Clinical Development at the Indiana Center for Recovery, helped me understand the psychological underpinnings of what I was experiencing. She explained that, according to social comparison theory, people naturally assess their own worth and progress by evaluating others. On LinkedIn, this instinct is amplified exponentially because the platform serves as a nonstop cascade of curated successes—filtered glimpses of professional lives at their most polished. Posts about promotions, awards, or carefully worded “humble-brags” dominate the feed, which in turn conditions users like me to engage in constant and usually self-defeating evaluation. The system itself rewards the most sensational voices and the most confidently exaggerated claims; the higher the engagement, the greater the visibility. Thus, the algorithm reinforces both envy and exhibitionism.
I have always been taught—and genuinely believed—that networking lies at the heart of career advancement. From internships to editorial meetings, the importance of building connections was impressed upon me as an essential strategy. Consequently, abandoning LinkedIn altogether feels implausible; professional identity is now intimately intertwined with one’s digital presence. Yet this very dynamic turns the platform into a paradoxical space: part indispensable tool, part emotional minefield.
Daniels emphasized that what I’m experiencing is common—a psychological loop of anxiety and compulsion. I notice it in my own rhythm: viewing a single post triggers restlessness, my pulse quickens, self-doubt blossoms, and in a mix of discomfort and curiosity, I close the tab. Then twenty minutes later, as if compelled by an invisible force, I find myself reopening the same window, seeking reassurance. Daniels described this as a self-reinforcing cycle: anxiety provokes checking, checking offers momentary relief, but the exposure to more comparisons reignites the very anxiety I was trying to ease. The loop continues endlessly, and I know it all too well.
As a self-employed writer, much of my livelihood depends on visibility and the organic flow of professional opportunities generated through those online networks. LinkedIn, paradoxically, is both a window of possibility and a trapdoor into insecurity. Recognizing that tension feels like the first step toward managing it. According to Daniels, to protect mental health in such digital ecosystems, it’s crucial to establish explicit boundaries. Completely disconnecting may not be realistic for someone whose work thrives on visibility, but adopting disciplined habits can blunt the emotional impact.
Her most practical suggestion was “time-boxing”—allocating small, well-defined periods, perhaps fifteen minutes at specific intervals, during which I allow myself to scroll consciously rather than compulsively. Outside those windows, the platform remains closed. It is a strategy I have been experimenting with, and though it demands an ongoing effort, it instills a sense of mindful control. Gradually, I am retraining my relationship with the feed.
Beyond technical boundaries, however, there lies a deeper mindset shift: a reorientation of perspective. The ultimate challenge is reminding myself that LinkedIn, like all forms of social media, represents only a fragmentary portrayal—a mosaic of best angles, carefully edited moments, a highlight reel detached from the true complexity of life. When I close the browser and refocus on my tangible achievements—the clients I value, the words I have written, the independence I have worked so hard to claim—I rediscover something steadier than fleeting online validation: genuine satisfaction. My journey may not unfold beneath constant applause, but in its quiet, authentic progression, it holds precisely the success I once dreamed my younger self might one day attain.
Sourse: https://www.businessinsider.com/successful-linkedin-feed-bragging-anxiety-career-2025-10
