How Do You Be an Online Creator When You Hate Being Online?

Mother has some thoughts on how to be online without losing your individuality (and your mind).

I’ve realized something slightly ridiculous about myself lately: despite making a living online, I don’t actually enjoy being online very much.

Which feels vaguely inappropriate to admit considering the circumstances.

But the internet increasingly feels like one long, fluorescent airport terminal to me. Endless noise, repetition, advertisements, urgency, and people trying to sell you something while speaking in an overly enthusiastic tone of voice.

I scroll for about two seconds and I’m out. It’s either an ad, someone yelling about something, or that clicky little sound effect that everyone’s using right now. I never seem to see the creators I actually like and follow—and I’m bored.

I never go on Tik Tok, except to post something, and recently I tried making an actual Tik Tok in the app itself and somehow accidentally deleted half the footage I filmed. God? It’s me, Larissa, are you trying to tell me something?

When people ask me if I’ve seen the latest “it” bag or what some enormous creator said or did this week, I haven’t a clue. At times it makes me feel out of the loop but then I discover what they’re asking about and realize, nothing is that precious to be in-the-know about, exactly the minute it hits.

Everything feels loud. Fast. Repetitive. Performative. I could blame my age for this except I won’t, because first, I don’t blame my age for much, and second, I’ve always been this way. I even see it playing out in my own kids and they are far from old. Online fatigue is real.

So naturally, all I want to do is disappear into the woods with my dog.

Which I do. Frequently.

I also spend a lot of time reading about ancient worlds like in the book, Kristin Lavransdatter, one of my all time favorites, set in 14th-century Norway. It’s probably why I also watch almost exclusively old dramas and period pieces, preferably in other languages (for added modern escapism). Give me corsets, longing, complicated family dynamics, and subtitles. I devoured The Empress and The Leopard with the intensity of someone preparing for college finals (and then rewatched them like three times).

I also get genuinely excited about embroidery projects now. It makes me think I’m back in some old castle with no electricity and a dramatically shorter life span. My latest obsession has been recreating Amy Smilovic’s Tibi sketches from her book, Creative Pragmatist. Apparently my nervous system requires tactile hobbies in order to survive modern life.

And I recently renewed all my old loves: print subscriptions. Actual magazines. Vogue, ELLE, Marie Claire, Harper’s Bazaar. Delivered monthly. Physical copies. I want pages that wrinkle and perfume samples that fall out onto the floor. I want to dog-ear things again. I want fashion that exists somewhere other than a glowing rectangle beside my bed at midnight (which it doesn’t because I leave that shit downstairs).

I’ve always preferred inspiration from street style, too, which is why I mostly hang out on Pinterest when I’m not traveling. There isn’t much true street style in my own backyard so when I am out in the world, I absolutely soak it in. The color of building trims. The interior of the local bar. The woman ordering coffee with a sweater tied in an unexpected way. It feels alive. Unmanufactured. Human.

And perhaps that’s the strange contradiction of all this: I may work online, but almost all of my inspiration comes from offline life.

From texture. Observation. Slowness. Books. Film. Conversation. Nature.

It’s okay to not be the most online person in the room. Or even the most in-the-know person in fashion. For me, the key is, protect enough of your real inner world so you still have something interesting left to say once you log back on. xo