Sarah Burgin Health

At 45, I feel I know myself reasonably well. I like to think I’m logical and discerning – not easily swayed by the noise that clutters the internet. But recently, returning to social media has taken an unexpected emotional toll.

I’ve been exploring the role of dietetics in end-of-life care, and naturally, that involves learning about terminal illness. I seek to understand these conditions in all their complexity so that if my career ever intersects with someone facing such a diagnosis, I can show up with knowledge, compassion, and presence.

But these searches have triggered a wave of emotionally charged content, thanks to the ever-attentive algorithms. The resulting stream of grief, suffering, and loss has been overwhelming. I can close the app and walk away, yes, and I never forget how fortunate that makes me. My observations are not complaints, nor do they diminish the real and profound pain of others.

Still, the constant drip-feed of tragedy has been mentally exhausting. I understand how these algorithms are designed: to engage, to hook, to hold us in a cycle of scrolling, but knowing this doesn’t make me immune. The volume and intensity of sorrow distilled into a single feed makes it feel as though the world is drowning in grief. It’s hard not to carry that weight into real life. I find myself watching loved ones and imagining what I would do if it were them – or me.

My return to social media was, admittedly, strategic. I hoped to build a presence that might one day support a private practice, and to contribute a grounded voice amidst the chaos of wellness misinformation. I intended to post, engage briefly, then log off. That boundary quickly blurred.

I don’t want to shut out reality. I understand that pain is part of life. But I’d like to encounter it in ways that allow for reflection and response, not just helplessness. On my own terms. With purpose. Social media makes that difficult — not because I’m naïve, but because I’m human.