What happened when I vowed to stop processing advocacy on Instagram stories

Spoiler alert: I just I wrote a long, rambling newsletter instead.

Good morning,

But is it? I’ve been feeling bad lately. Seems to be the universal vibe at this time, and for heavy reason.

In the aftermath of my advocacy burnout, I made a commitment to myself that when I have big feelings (especially politically), Instagram is the last place I go. It used to be the first–a grounds for processing the world in real-time, hashing it out amongst everyone else doing the same.

But doing that almost took me out.

What I learned from my experience with being harassed + stalked online for calling myself an ‘advocate’, trying to navigate constant worldwide political issues, and letting Instagram be the performance space for it all, is this: sharing hot takes on the internet won’t save us.

That’s not to say that amplifying, sharing, posting isn’t valuable. But I fear we let performative displays of “our values” outweigh the smaller, more meaningful, more impactful actions like having a tough conversation with a neighbor, calling your representatives every day, and even putting down the doomscroll to stop absorbing more information and instead go back to that thing you usually spend your energy on to contribute good to this world.

For advocates of this earth, doing nothing is never an option.

But let us go forth doing things that are actually doing good for the earth, and for our neighbors, and for ourselves.

This Wednesday, I had my first book event for On Digital Advocacy. Seven women (and one man, shout-out to my husband) gathered at Together We Bloom’s urban flower farm in South Ogden for an evening breaking bread and sharing space to talk about advocacy. It was small and magical. I had been avoiding book events since publication, because honestly, I’m still a little scared–I’ve changed so much as a person since writing those chapters. I was nervous that who I am now wouldn’t align with what I wrote in the book.

Here’s the thing: I am who I am today because I listened to my own advice shared within those pages. I’m the original reader, and I’ve turned out exactly the way I hoped someone would walk away from the book.

So I showed up to the farm, sat at a long table, and shared conversation. I said things I’d never say in the digital space, we grieved together, we laughed together, we each offered vulnerable truths that we might not share in another space.

I left the farm with a full heart and arms full of daffodil bulbs. My mind spent the rest of the evening considering what the other women had shared, and letting it impact me. We all walked away from the flower farm better than we had walked in, and that is what I think advocacy should ultimately feel like:

Contributing to the solutions we want to see.
Exercising creativity as a tool for doing good.
Holding space for each other’s humanity and goopy feelings.
Sitting together in heavy moments.
Holding it all up together.
Strangers, friends, lovers, farmers, moms, daughters,
together.

To bring us back down to the harsh reality we live in, by Sunday, my advocacy sparkle was replaced with the nagging doom that comes with watching the brutal dehumanization of our global neighbors via constant violent content. I had been solid in my “hot takes on Instagram are not the way!” position, but after slipping into the scroll of doom before sunrise, I found myself desperate to say something. I still believe that screaming into the ether wouldn’t actually be helpful–but damn if I didn’t suddenly have empathy for why we do that sometimes. It hurts to realize how helpless we are. Those little Instagram dopamine hits help.

But the Instagram dopamine hit only helps you, for a brief moment in time.

If you, like me, are desperate to do something, anything, to help us preserve our humanity–I see you right now, and I’m right there too. Here are a few things I’ve been doing to put my advocacy energy to what feels like meaningful use:

• First, I’m having person-to-person conversations. Please check in on your Jewish and Palestinian loved ones. Don’t make it political, check in on their hearts. Our friends and family are scared, hurt, angry, confused, heartbroken. Start with your heart, and use it to take care of someone else’s.

• Second, I’m contacting my representatives. That’s where I’m channeling my hot take energy—right to Mitt Romney’s office. You can look up all your reps here. Take up space in all of their inboxes. Demand a ceasefire, demand release of hostages, demand humanitarian aid, and demand that we don’t all lose our humanity. The 5 Calls app makes it even easier!

• Third, I’m paying attention to Doctors Without Borders and giving my daily coffee money. Maybe you have more to give, maybe you don’t have anything at all. That’s okay. I would also recommend this org as a source for unbiased information.

• Fourth, I’m turning off the doom and focusing on my own work. The hottest take I’ll offer today is: consuming wartime content all day doesn’t help, at all, and in fact is quite harmful to you and your ability to contribute good to the world. The moment I found myself scrolling traumatic news reports instead of harvesting oregano to feed my chickens, I shut that down and took my butt outside. Staying informed is critical, but becoming frozen with dread isn’t helping anyone.

• Finally, this will be unpopular but, give yourself permission to not post on Instagram. You do not have to post on Instagram to be a good advocate, or to meaningful contribute to the conversation. Social media does not prove that you care. (But by all means, amplify what feels right! Just check in with yourself before posting on social media, and ask yourself what you’re contributing, especially if, say, you’re not an international politics expert.)

Above all else, filter everything you do through a lens of humanity. Do not let your advocacy for one human life stand on another’s. Every human has a right to live, every child has a right to a future. You advocate so hard for this entire earth, so don’t forget any of her children.

I’ve blubbered on enough today, and if you’ve made it this far, thank you for reading. To my Palestinian and Jewish friends, I love you so much and am praying every day at the altar I built for you in my garden. This space is always open to you if you need a hug and jar full of apple sauce.

With respect,

Katie Boué