Grieving in the Age of Never-Ending Feeds
When relationships end but the algorithm won’t let you move on.
Hey, checking in, because the quiet stuff matters too.
Today’s reflection: why grief doesn’t end when relationships do… because your feed refuses to let go.
I was scrolling through Instagram the other day, just a casual scroll between tasks, when I saw her: an ex-friend I hadn’t spoken to in three years. She was laughing in a coffee shop, latte in hand, seemingly thriving without me. My chest tightened, a mix of nostalgia, irritation, FOMO, and that familiar ache I thought I’d left behind.
I’d unfollowed, muted, even blocked some accounts, but the algorithm… apparently it knows what I “need” to see. Or maybe it just wants to mess with me. Either way, grief doesn’t come with a timer anymore. Relationships end, but social media keeps them alive in ways that make closure feel impossible.
Then it hit me: this is a modern kind of mourning. Not dramatic, not recognized with cards or casseroles. Quiet, insidious, triggered by a notification or a “Suggested for You.” You’re grieving a person, a past version of your life, or even the version of yourself you were when that person mattered. And yet, no one taught us how to handle this.
The feed whispers: remember them. Reconsider. Relive it. And you feel a strange combination of curiosity and dread. You’re not stalking (well… maybe a little), but your brain refuses to let go, and your heart pays the price.
A grief our parents never had
The truth is: older generations didn’t have to mourn like this. When friendships dissolved, they stayed dissolved — unless you accidentally ran into someone at the grocery store or received their family holiday card. Out of sight really did mean out of mind.
Now? The past doesn’t stay in the past. Social media keeps people adjacent to your life, even when they’re no longer in it. It’s like grief has a recurring subscription; you never fully cancel, you just get periodic reminders that it’s still active.
We live in an era where your “ex-anything” is one click away. Ex-partner, ex-friend, ex-coworker, ex-roommate, ex-you (because apparently my 2015 Facebook statuses are still floating around out there).
This changes the way we process loss. There’s no clean break, no gradual fading of memory. Instead, it’s a tug-of-war: you take one step forward, and an algorithm drags you two steps back. (Who came up with the algorithm thing anyway? Was it Mark Zuckerberg?)
When the feed feels like a bad ex
Honestly? The algorithm acts a lot like a clingy ex.
It shows up uninvited.
It “reminds” you of memories you didn’t ask for.
It assumes you want updates you never agreed to.
And LinkedIn isn’t innocent either. That friendly inbox nudge — ‘Your former intern just got promoted!’ — lands like a tiny grief bomb. You’re happy for them… mostly. But your brain? It’s doing mini-loop-de-loops of envy, nostalgia, and what-ifs.”
And like any bad breakup, here’s how it leaves its mark on you.
How it shows up
Lingering sadness for someone who’s technically “gone,” yet still digitally present.
Irritation at seeing updates you don’t need but can’t avoid.
Mental loops: replaying past interactions, wishing things had gone differently.
Micro-comparisons: why are they smiling there while you’re sitting in your PJs eating cereal at 3 p.m.?
Phantom pain: even after goodbye, your mind keeps replaying the habit of them.
Body reactions: a pit in your stomach, a sudden flush of heat, the mini-adrenaline rush of being reminded of someone you’ve worked so hard to forget. It’s often the tiny things that wear us down — not the big dramatic memories, but the drip-drip of reminders we never asked for.being reminded of someone you’ve worked so hard to forget.
Unlike traditional grief, there’s no natural fade-out. Instead, the algorithm keeps delivering glimpses of the person you’ve lost. Even when you try to move on, social media drags you back in.
Platforms rely on dopamine-driven reward loops, the same neural circuitry activated by slot machines and addictive substances, to keep users coming back for more. At the same time, social media doesn’t just store memory, it actively shapes it: feeds, comments, and algorithmic resurfacing can reinforce certain details, overwrite others, and even generate false memories.
Why it hooks us
Part of the reason this digital grief is so sticky is psychological.
Dopamine loops: every notification is a tiny slot machine. Even seeing them gives your brain a jolt; painful, yes, but also stimulating. Your brain registers it as something important, something to pay attention to.
Unresolved attachments: relationships don’t end neatly in our nervous systems. Even when the conscious mind says, “We’re done,” the emotional brain still checks the door, waiting for closure.
Comparison trap: comparison trap: their curated highlight reel vs. your messy behind-the-scenes is not a fair fight, but your brain doesn’t care. It just asks, why are they thriving while I feel stuck? It’s the moment when your growth is starting to feel threatened. Not by your own progress, but by the algorithm’s endless reminders of everyone else’s.
The illusion of proximity: seeing someone online tricks your brain into thinking they’re still close. But they’re not in your living room; they’re pixels on a screen. That gap between illusion and reality creates emotional static.
The cruel irony? Social media sells itself as “connection,” but often what it gives us is phantom connection — a ghost version of closeness that keeps us tethered to what we’ve lost.
Gentle ways to reclaim your space
Name it. Call it what it is: grief for someone or something you’ve lost. Silent, digital, ongoing grief. Saying it out loud, even just to yourself, reduces the sneaky power it has.
Set boundaries without guilt.Unfollow, mute, block. No shame. These actions aren’t about punishment; they’re about protecting your emotional bandwidth. Think of it as digital hygiene, not drama.
Curate intentionally. Follow accounts that lift you: a cooking account, a meme page, a plant parent with calming videos. If social media is going to hand you endless content, at least let it serve you.
Experiment with absence. Try a 24-hour no-scroll reset. Notice how much lighter your brain feels when it’s not fed ghosts of your past. (Also notice how much your thumb twitches like it’s lost its favorite fidget toy.)
Ritualize small closures. Write a note (digital or paper) acknowledging the relationship, the loss, and what you’re ready to leave behind. No one else needs to see it. This small ritual helps mark the ending in a way the feed refuses to.
Anchor in the tangible. Grief lives in the body as much as the mind. Go for a walk. Touch the grass. Drink tea. Hug someone you trust. Touching real life reminds you that grief exists but doesn’t have to dominate your present.
A tale of two feeds
On a curated day, the algorithm brings you inspiration, old friends who uplift, and moments that make you smile. You feel seen, not haunted.
On a heavy-feed day, your timeline is a hall of mirrors reflecting past regrets, old friendships, and missed opportunities. Emotional exhaustion sets in before you even finish your first cup of coffee.
Same life lived, different emotional outcome. The difference is whether you’re steering the feed, or letting it steer you. You wouldn’t tolerate this from a person, why tolerate it from a platform? Boundaries aren’t rude. They’re necessary.
Reframing: the feed doesn’t own your feelings
Here’s the reframe I keep coming back to: social media can amplify grief, but it doesn’t control you.
You can grieve without an audience.
You can mourn without validation.
You can reclaim your boundaries — even if the algorithm never does.
Less exposure doesn’t mean ignoring reality; it means giving yourself permission to heal on your own terms. Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is scroll past, pause, notice the ache, and gently step away.
Moving toward quiet closure
Closure doesn’t always mean forgetting. It can mean remembering differently without the sting, without the spiral. And sometimes closure isn’t a single act, but a practice. Every day you decide how much of your past you’re willing to carry into your present.
No matter what the algorithm says, your emotional life is yours. The feed? That can keep scrolling.
And… also because emotional healing isn’t always grand gestures, here’s a little honest check-in from me this week:
One thing that grounded me: accidentally making the perfect cup of coffee this morning and feeling like a minor wizard.
One thing that ungrounded me: a car alarm that went off for no reason at 3 a.m.
Your turn: what’s one small choice, grounding or ungrounding, that shifted your week?
If you’re new here, welcome to Joydify — your soft landing for the quiet stuff that matters.
Thanks for subscribing to Joydify and sharing a quiet moment with us. Here’s to gentle support, one check-in at a time.