View this post on Instagram

 

The Art of Deinfluencing

There’s a moment in every life when the noise becomes unbearable. For me, it was a Sunday morning, scrolling past a parade of glowing faces and pastel-toned product reels. Skin so luminous it seemed to defy biology, clothes so pristine they seemed untouchable. Each post a siren call: buy this, and you too could glow.

But what if I didn’t want to glow?

What if I simply wanted to feel…real?

Deinfluencing, as they call it, began as a whisper against the cacophony of consumerism. It’s not about rebellion or cynicism. It’s quieter than that—a gentle nudge to reconsider. A question posed softly in the middle of a storm: do you actually need this?

It’s tempting to see deinfluencing as a counter-trend, a rebellion against the glossy world of influencers and their endless promotions. But that framing misses something essential. Trends are fleeting, but this movement feels deeper—like a return to the roots of who we are.

I think of the things I own, the objects I’ve gathered in my life. Some, like the scuffed teacup passed down from my grandmother, are alive with memory. Others—purchased in a moment of Instagram-induced desire—sit unused, abandoned in a corner. The former nourishes my spirit; the latter clutters it.

Deinfluencing invites us to separate the wheat from the chaff in our lives.

It’s not anti-materialism. It’s pro-meaning.

There’s a certain irony in how it’s unfolding, of course. TikToks about not buying a viral mascara can rack up millions of views. Creators share stories of resisting the urge to splurge, their videos inevitably polished and compelling. But beneath the performative sheen, there’s a kernel of truth.

We’re aching for freedom from the endless stream of must-haves.

When I first dipped my toes into this new ethos, I thought of it as a challenge. Could I resist buying that one thing that everyone was raving about? It was harder than I’d imagined, the act of not-clicking. I felt the pull, the way desire hooks you in subtle, insidious ways. But then, in the space left behind by wanting, something curious happened.

I felt lighter.

Without the weight of expectation—the belief that the right serum, the right handbag, the right lamp would transform me—I began to see myself more clearly. The craving for things dissolved, and in its place emerged a craving for time, connection, stillness.

Deinfluencing is less about products and more about perspective. It asks us to recalibrate, to step back and wonder at the forces shaping our desires. In a world so often defined by what we consume, it’s an invitation to think about what we create.

Perhaps it’s not for everyone. There’s joy to be found in indulgence, in splurging every now and then. But even that joy feels sharper, more vibrant, when it’s intentional.

In the end, deinfluencing isn’t about deprivation. It’s about trust. Trusting ourselves to know what we truly need. Trusting that our worth isn’t tied to what we own. Trusting that sometimes, the most meaningful choice is no choice at all.

And maybe, just maybe, trusting that we already have enough.

~