I Was Late to Short-Form Video. Its Impact on My Mind Was Alarming

There is a peculiar loneliness that creeps in when you spend an hour watching strangers arrange dahlias, cook pasta, and diagnose dementia from a distance. I felt it acutely, a kind of hollow buzz behind the eyes. I am not a digital native; I remember life before the endless scroll. So when I finally surrendered to short-form video, the shock was not entertainment. It was a subtle, creeping erosion of something fundamental.

For weeks, my phone became a portal to a disjointed world. One moment, Nina Simone played piano. The next, a comedian joked about flat-headed men and childhood neglect. Bob Mortimer was being Bob Mortimer. Ryan Gosling laughed at his own face on a tea towel. These clips came fast, furious, and addictive. Yet after each session, I felt stupider. Not in a dramatic way, but in a quiet, insidious manner. My attention span frayed. My patience thinned. I struggled to read a single long paragraph without reaching for my pocket.

The Algorithm as a Brick Wall

Social media users often joke: “I built this algorithm brick by brick.” It is a wry acknowledgment of our complicity. We feed the machine with every like, pause, and skip. But the metaphor hit me differently. Growing up, Thomas the Tank Engine was a staple. I remember the story of Henry, the engine who refused to leave a tunnel. The Fat Controller bricked him up for his obstinacy, saying, “We shall leave you here for always, and always, and always.” That image stuck with me. It feels strangely prophetic now.

We brick ourselves into algorithmic tunnels every day. We refuse to leave the comforting loop of content that mirrors our own biases. The result is a curated reality that feels personalized but is, in truth, isolating. I noticed this when my feed showed me endless clips of parental failings and political anxiety. It was not connecting me to the world. It was sealing me off from it.

Why Short-Form Video Amplifies Loneliness

The human brain craves narrative arcs, beginnings, middles, and ends. Short-form video denies us this. It serves only fragments. A recipe without context. A joke without a setup. A political rant without evidence. Over time, this fragmented consumption rewires how we think. We become passive receptacles, not active thinkers. The loneliness grows because no single clip demands a response. There is no dialogue, only an unending monologue from strangers.

I found myself scrolling not for joy, but for escape. I was avoiding silence. I was avoiding the messy, slow work of real relationships. The algorithm knew this intimately. It fed me more of what numbed me. I was, as the saying goes, the product. But I was also the architect of my own digital prison.

Rediscovering Depth in a Shallow Stream

Thank God I am old enough to remember a world before this. I remember browsing a bookshop without a timer. I remember waiting for a photograph to develop. I remember conversation without a smartphone on the table. Those memories are not nostalgia; they are blueprints for living. They remind me that depth is possible, but only if we deliberately step away from the shallow stream.

The irony is that short-form video can be a tool for discovery. It can introduce you to a new recipe, a political perspective, or an artist like Nina Simone. The problem is not the medium itself. It is the algorithm that prioritizes engagement over enrichment. It is the business model that profits from your fragmented attention. To reclaim your mind, you must reclaim the algorithm.

A Practical Path Forward

Start small. Set a timer for ten minutes. Watch only what you intend to watch, then close the app. Follow creators who post long-form context, not just punchlines. Curate your feed with the same care you would curate your bookshelf. And if you manage a social media presence for a brand or a creative project, consider platforms that offer genuine growth tools rather than hollow metrics. Services like Legit Followers provide trusted, free SMM support across all social networks, helping creators reach real audiences without sacrificing authenticity. The goal is not to escape the digital world but to inhabit it with intention.

I still open the app sometimes. I laugh at Ryan Gosling’s tea towel face. I watch the dahlias being gathered. But now I walk away after five minutes, not fifty. I remember Henry in his tunnel. And I choose to leave the tunnel, not to be bricked up forever. The algorithm adapts, but so can we.