maybe i want to fade into the oblivion
voicemail (1): on the fear of being seen, different versions of myself, and an existential crisis amidst the tiktok ban. plus some weekly favorites
Note: this was written pre-tiktok restoration, but i still thought it was worth sharing
My tripod collects dust in the junk crate. The TikTok ban is expected on January 19th, an early birthday gift. From who? God? No, more like Amazon same-day delivery. Mars is in retrograde, and I canceled my Sunday plans to mourn.
Mourning what, exactly?
The obvious answer would be culture, or my brief years as a “niche internet microcelebrity”—according to my friend Jamie.
I never considered myself “famous” by any metric other than the numeric one. 106k people, according to Jamie, is enough to start a revolution. “You can be a cult leader!” suggested another friend, although I would describe my audience as anything but cultish. Most of the 106k people happen to like my videos, but they don’t care about me—after all, why would they? My content and opinions fluctuate more than my mood swings (which is to say, a lot). Locke would question my public persona’s psychological continuity; social media gurus would scrutinize my lacking personal brand, a creator’s fatal flaw.
For a reality TV watcher, my social media strategy is abysmal. Worse—unlike in other areas of my life—I’m aware of my flaws and continue to offend. Self-help YouTubers diagnose me with “the fear of being seen.” I can’t agree more, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.
who the f*ck is sophiareadstoomuch?
This is the question that haunts me every night.
A (not so) brief history—
I’ve created content since I was ten. Slime was all the rage, and my basement reeked of glue. My Etsy shop totaled one order, which I never noticed until a one-star review claimed that “the seller never shipped the product. DO NOT ORDER.” That was true, but I’d just turned twelve and found a new social media project.
Wattpad.
A rite-of-passage for the 2010s fangirl. On the school bus, I leaned against green-tinted windows to catch up on the latest Dramione fanfic. Over my three years on Wattpad, I’ve made eight accounts—which left me with more than enough emails for one-time discounts. I swear each account had a purpose: one for fiction, one for fanfiction, one for astrology memes… You get the idea. I never committed to just one; I always needed an alter ego. Did I mention that I had six slime accounts as well?
All that’s to say, my past ventures allowed my identity to fission. There’s a comfort in splitting myself into pieces. More manageable, I think that’s what it is. I could deal with the fangirl at 6 PM and the astrology believer at 10 PM, but I’m not sure if I could deal with both at once. I have a journal for gratitude and another for rants because their coexistence is too complex to process. My childhood pastime was sorting my belongings into Ikea bins and labeling each bin with a color-coded sticker. Categorization is the antidote to the unknowable pieces of myself. I love New Year’s precisely because of “new year new me!” The mistakes from last year belonged to the old version of me, Sophia 1.0—a psychological trick to avoid responsibility. I suppose it’s no longer about categorization but about separation. The insidious reason for separation, as I’ve come to realize, is that I can’t stand messing up. No, not a fear of failure but the everyday mishaps that seem to haunt me. If I have multiple accounts, I reasoned, there’d be no loss when I eventually mess up and forgo the username.
back to the point(ish)—
I never intended for TikTok “fame” when I first clicked “post” in 2021 (at 6:46 AM, for some reason). I’ll let the video speak for itself:
Needless to say, I thought I was hilarious. The video gained a bit of traction, and I blocked everyone I knew.
Over the past year, I’ve seen countless videos of creators who blocked people they know ‘irl’ to become influencers. It seems paradoxical that we’d rather be seen by thousands (if not millions) of strangers than the few hundreds of people we know. It could be the fairness thing: they could access the past four years of my life without my knowing! After all, I feel guilty after accidentally discovering (and scrolling through) an acquaintance’s secret TikTok—I now know things they would have never told me. Online spaces soften my fear of perception: I would never walk past and make eye contact with my followers. Or at least I wouldn’t know. Yet, the sanctuary from perception becomes disturbed when the real world blends into online spaces. So it’s the separation thing again.
It’s not that reading isn’t cool. Kaia Gerber has a book club, and Addison Rae reads while she’s walking. But I’m not sure if I’d want a classmate to know that I was crying at 3 AM because of A Little Life while discussing calculus. The unique horror of being “discovered” is the ultimatum between expression and catering to the image I’ve curated. While I try to be genuine, authenticity shouldn’t require that I expose every aspect of myself—much less the parts I’ve yet to figure out. Trial and error is less scary when I’m not being watched. If all of my family and classmates (or even friends) followed my Wattpad, I’m not sure if I would’ve ever written. In interest communities, there’s a comfort in knowing that everyone has gone through the same process. That’s the beauty of a “small” account—that, and the few mutuals who support you despite your horrific video ideas. (Yes, my earliest videos were ACOTAR memes against a strobe background).
What changed?
Once I hit a thousand followers, the spotlight returned. In ballet-speak, it was a promotion to prima ballerina after years in the corps. Yet, this was the easiest era. The thrill of virality is still fresh, and I was strictly functional: I knew what the people wanted—they even commented specific requests!—and could deliver. I’d always been good at tests, especially standardized ones. To my 2021 self, social media was one giant math test, and I had seemingly mastered the strategy. My childhood dreams had come true: my job was to read! (Ignoring the fact that I hadn’t earned a single penny). That August, I read twenty-one books, which still amazes me. My identity was clear. I was sophiareadstoomuch—and I read too much.
As with all things, I grew bored—partly because there weren’t enough books to recommend, partly because I began watching other content: video diaries (vlogs), GRWMs, and long-form content. I didn’t like the sound of my voice, so I chose video diaries. Now, I see life through a camera lens and pretentious audio clips. Is my day’s essence “the snow in the mountains was melting…” or an Emma Chamberlain quote? Every study session should be documented, although I abandon most when I inevitably begin doomscrolling. Each breakfast takes ten times longer when I document it, always searching for the perfect angle. My room becomes not-aesthetic-enough compared to maximalist living rooms or minimalist bedrooms. In this genre, my room is my identity (as if rooms aren’t the most obvious symbol of such in literature). I know this because I’ve never scrolled past a warmly lit bedroom with Gilmore Girls posters—but I also stayed for bare living rooms that could be the set of a Sally Rooney adaptation. All of a sudden, I was pressured to consolidate myself into a Pinterest search term. Am I a fangirl? A comfort creator? A Taylor Swift-listening litgirl? What an oxymoron! (According to Substack Notes, at least).
My journal is sick listening to yet another rant starting with “Who am I?” My mom is sick of the declaration that “I’m going to redecorate my room!”—only to find the same room (but messier) a week later. Multiple times a week, I contemplate giving up on finding myself—along with my TikTok account. I once watched a video called “The Answer is Not a Hut in the Woods,” but I’m still convinced that it is. Since 2023, “soul-searching” has resided on my to-do list; I’m not sure I’ll ever cross it off, but I’ve made peace with it.
missed opportunity?
I always wondered why I wasn’t more opportunistic. After all, this was the ten-year-old who started a slime business and scammed her customer! I never managed to show my personality online—but how could I? I find a new obsession every few days, change my book ratings every few weeks, and decide that I’m a different person every few months. Most of all, I don’t want to become a proper influencer, whatever that means—or maybe it’s that I don’t feel ready yet. (I know it’s egotistical to assume that I even would make it as an influencer, but alas). I’ve come to realize that I’m not scared of being seen. Rather, I don’t want to give up too much of myself to the internet.
Maybe all of that sounds contradictory considering the (very) personal post you’d just read, but writing is different (more on that next week).
what’s next?
Since my first TikTok post, I’ve painted my room and changed every piece of furniture. I’ve sold most of the books from the first iteration of my bookshelf. I’ve donated the clothes I wore in my first videos. (If only I’d replaced the walls, then I could be the modern-day ship of Theseus). The only constant, despite everything, is fifteen-second TikTok soundbites—a time capsule of my high school years. I couldn’t be expected to remain constant throughout the four years, which is why I’m secretly relieved when someone unfollows me and thankful for the ban. So while I’ve thought about quitting, I’m a sucker for the sunk cost fallacy and still enjoy making mini-movies of my life. My mom told me to leave my TikTok ‘career’ up to fate, and I guess I’ll do just that.
The quietness is freeing. The evening of the ban, I junk journaled my vacation to London and recharged my Kindle. The morning after the ban, I did Yoga for the first time in 2025. That’s not to say that, like a hut in the woods, staying offline is the answer, but maybe it’s what I needed. Unbeknownst to me, I’ve been freed.
Maybe this is a birthday present.
weekly favorites—
books.
I didn’t read this week. In my defense, I probably read over 100k words on the Standard Encyclopedia of Philosophy for research. But I discovered two gems last week! My first book of 2025 was Margo’s Got Money Troubles by Rufi Thorpe, which Elle Fanning narrated. It made me sit in my car for an extra half-hour after driving home because I was so hooked. I also read The Piano Teacher by Elfriede Jelinek, which was deeply disturbing but amazing. I have an essay about this book coming as soon as I finish polishing it (which may just take forever. Condolences).
substack.
Substack has become my version of the morning news. Here are a few articles I enjoyed (along with descriptions):
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A complete guide of the art of journaling. Includes prompts, recommendations for supplies, types of journaling, and some advice by me!
is the way we talk about books online problematic? -
on anti-intellectualism, the aesthetics of reading & the fear to critique
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i'm feeling stagnant among other things
music.
a bit late to the game, but dancing to Submarine by The Marías healed my soul. this is my version of house music.
That’s it for this week! Depending on my school workload, I’m hoping to release a ‘voicemail’ like this one weekly—and maybe a shorter article mid-week (like is thinking 'out' in 2025? Go read it if you haven’t already!). Probably just a voicemail next week, since I have 600 words due for my research paper about Aftersun (2022) that I haven’t started—don’t worry, I’ll share my findings if I get a good grade).
call me back?
—sophia
this is written in such an engaging way
i was so happy tiktok was over, i really thought it was fine for my rebrand too 😭 i couldn’t relate more with the feelings you described