I'm a photographer, and I quit Instagram after 13 years. I hadn't noticed how much it was distracting me from my kids.

On a recent trip, my sister asked her 14-year-old son if he wanted to send a postcard. “Why?

I have Snapchat, TikTok, Instagram,” he responded, listing all his social media apps.

When she shared this story with me, we laughed, but I felt a lingering sadness.

Before everything became instant and shareable, connection required effort, time, intention, and the willingness to be alone with your thoughts.

When I turned 16, my parents gave me a bike trip through France.

I bought postcards, wrote them in cafés, and mailed them home, hoping they would arrive before I did.

I was excited to have a digital platform to promote my work.

As a professional documentary family photographer, the app became a marketing tool.

My friend Chantel, with over 24,000 followers, told me how to succeed: post three times a week, at optimal hours, only show my best work, and write captivating captions under 25 words.

I didn’t feel right sharing client images even with their permission; instead, I posted images of my children during their most quotidian moments — brushing their teeth, doing homework, practicing the piano.

I agonized for hours deciding what to post and who liked it, distracting me from what I really loved, taking photos.

My followers increased, but it rarely translated into more business.

I took an interest in painting and collage and began following those accounts for inspiration.

I was no longer seeing posts from people I followed as the algorithm bombarded me with tutorials, fashion, home design, art, nightlife, and products I didn’t know I wanted.

I set time limits on the app, but I overrode those settings and stayed on too long.

I fell for ads, like a pair of fuzzy loafers that never arrived, and ended with me canceling my credit card.

My two older children had permission to join Instagram when they were 13, and I gave up with the youngest; he joined at 12.

The kids sent me clips: the dog they wanted, the things they wanted me to buy, the life they wanted us to live.

The algorithm now fed me information for my teenagers: how to study better (15-minute intervals), how to become successful (make your bed every morning).

I was feeding the machine — and rotting all of our brains in the process.

I didn’t need a stranger’s recipe for success.

First, I hid the app from my home screen, but I knew it was still there, and the lure was too compelling.

The solution was to permanently delete it.

I still wanted to know what my kids were up to, so I relied on my brother to send me screenshots of their IG feed.

Six months after deleting the app, my daughter was studying in Paris for a semester.

It was our first family trip since my divorce five years earlier.

I bought postcards again and wrote them in cafés.

When we were hungry, we wandered until we found a charming place to eat.

I practiced speaking French and took recommendations from the waiter, not an influencer.

I was prone to expectations, and everything felt like a discovery.

When my 21-year-old daughter came home from college, we spent an afternoon strolling through SoHo, shopping for her spring formal.

We took fashion advice from the salesperson, not a bot.

While eating lunch, we saw a group of preteens recording a TikTok dance.

We smiled, agreeing we did not need to see the final version.

Watching them try, fail, and laugh was enough.

A week later, when my daughter was back at school, I received a postcard from her.

Written on the back in her meticulous printed handwriting, “Thinking of you, Mom.

I love you.” That message is still taped to my fridge.

Without Instagram, my mind is quieter, and my material desires have softened.

I am returning to what is important to me.

I keep up with fewer people, and my clients don’t seem to mind.

I am experiencing the beauty of life the way I used to and the way I want to.

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