That Strange Feeling After Scrolling (And How to Protect Your Joy)

Why the content you love can still leave you feeling a little off

Dearest Reader,

Have you ever felt close to a content creator?
Like, yes—(s)he’s living a life you could absolutely adore.

And yet, after the video you couldn’t wait to watch ends—or even the next day—there’s that strange, lingering feeling…
A quiet unease, a restless whisper in your mind, a soft frustration disguised as discontent…

I know what you mean.

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There was a creator I found during a time of deep identity change (or crisis, to be fair)—when I transitioned from a high-performing corporate role into becoming a stay-at-home mother. I think many women can relate to this huge transformation that comes with motherhood, and how you can lose your ground and not know who you are anymore.

Back then, homemaking content—not the exaggerated, rage-bait version, but women sharing their homes with grace and joy—truly held me together. It helped me rediscover meaning in my new role. It brought me back to a sense of peace.

Watching her felt grounding.

It felt like being a child again, in an endless summer—blue skies, golden fields, and a quiet, uncomplicated joy.

But slowly, something began to feel… off.

I noticed the unrealistic timelines, the performance, the heavily edited clips that I haven’t even noticed before.

It completely broke my heart, if I’m honest.

Like watching a beautiful tree through a window on a late summer afternoon—sunlight pouring through the leaves—until, almost imperceptibly, the glass begins to… crack.

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Looking back at those sleep-deprived, difficult days with a newborn, I found her in a deeply vulnerable moment.
And I attached emotions to her work.

Emotions that resembled safety, freedom, joy—
memories of something I once lived, or perhaps something my mind simply remembers that way. When I was deeply vulnerable and lost.

And this is what content naturally does — it creates emotional experiences in us.

Not in a manipulative or evil way—most of them genuinely want to entertain, to inspire, to bring joy. Especially those who are not making a fortune, but simply sharing something they love and building a community.

But here is the quiet turning point:

we begin to project meaning onto their content.
We attach emotions to it.
And we return, again and again, to feel those emotions.

And through that process—slowly, unintentionally—they begin to hold influence in our inner world.

Over our thoughts.
Our standards.
Even our sense of adequacy.

Because even while watching something as simple as a woman baking a cake after a long day, our brain is still working.

It analyzes.
It compares.
It builds a narrative.

And suddenly, you catch yourself thinking:
my kitchen isn’t clean enough.
I’m not managing my time well enough.
How could I possibly fit sourdough baking into my already full day?

But what we often forget is this:

even the most gentle, authentic vloggers are still creating an experience.
They edit.
They re-film.
They prepare.
They curate.

And even with the best intentions, what they create can drift away from reality—
as it should.

Because we don’t go to these platforms for raw, unfiltered life.
We go there to escape.

We don’t necessarily want to see dirty socks on the floor or children interrupting every sentence.

We want the feeling.

And this is where something subtle has shifted over time:

Social media once connected us to friends.
Fiction lived in books and films.

But now, the two have blended.

We are invited into the lives of people we feel close to—
people whose routines, thoughts, and details we know more intimately than those of our own neighbors.

And while we know—logically—that social media is curated, that it is often a business, that some creators earn a living through this…

our emotional brain does not fully accept that distance.

It still feels like closeness.
Like friendship.
Like something real.

And that is why it can hurt.

Even if your favorite creators are small, even if they earn nothing, even if their intentions are pure—

they are still creating content to entertain.

And entertainment, by its nature, has always been a form of escape.

So maybe this is what we need to gently remind ourselves:

They can be kind.
They can be genuine.
They can even feel like home for a while.

But they are not our friends in the way we might feel they are.

And protecting that small emotional boundary
might be the quiet act of care we owe ourselves
when we step into these beautiful, curated worlds.

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If this resonated with you, a small ❤️ lets me know I’m not alone in feeling this.

If this feeling felt familiar to you, I’d love to hear your experience.
Have you ever noticed this quiet shift after watching someone you admire?