Navigating the labyrinth: Finding community on social media

By Katherine Francisco

The year was 2006. I found myself sitting in front of a desktop computer, at the point of no return. Despite my extreme hesitation as a shy kid, I’d finally decided to sign up for Friendster, my first venture into social media.

It’s not that I wanted to close myself off from the world. As a deeply insecure and easily embarrassed introvert, it just felt safer to play the part of the smart, responsible kid — serious, quiet, not the type to be silly and carefree. But I had a killer sense of humour at home, and I wanted people to see that I could be fun too. I was always torn between the desire to be known and my fear of social judgement. The barrier Friendster provided between my self-expression and my physical self bridged these seemingly conflicting desires. Suddenly, there was balance — if I didn’t have to deal with how I was being perceived in real time, I didn’t have to worry about what I was posting online.

When I ventured into blogging, I began writing about things I wouldn’t have had the courage to say in person: deep insecurities, existential problems, things I would later come to recognise as early indicators of depression. Friends would sometimes reach out and comment on my entries, but it often felt like I was writing for an audience of one, and there was freedom in laying my emotions bare without feeling exposed. It was also supplementing my real-life relationships: since there were lots of things about myself that I was only willing to express from behind the safety of a screen, only those who saw both my offline and online personas had access to the ‘real me’. It was like a cheat code; a way to deepen relationships without risking rejection and emotional hurt.

Over the years, I became aware of warnings about the dangers of social media — that algorithms were prioritising high-engagement content, that some posts had been covertly paid for to push certain agendas — but these comments felt like distant noise. As long as social media helped me manage my friendships, I didn’t mind. If I could still enjoy the convenience of connecting with friends, then what did it matter if a feature had been altered or some terms of use changed? I was getting the feeling of community without having to put in the effort of in-person interactions. I didn’t give much thought to all this until the 2016 Philippine national elections — and, later, the pandemic lockdowns — when suddenly both the tormentor and healer of my mental health existed in the same space.

My previous apathy meant I felt the shift in people’s online behaviour as if everything had changed overnight. In the lead-up to the elections, it felt like everyone had to choose a side politically; nuance and shades of grey ceased to exist. We would later find out that this was partly the result of targeted propaganda created by the consulting firm Cambridge Analytica, who exploited the Philippines’s high rate of online usage and relatively lax regulatory structures to use the country as a “petri dish” to — in the words of whistleblower Christopher Wylie — “experiment on tactics and techniques that you wouldn’t be able to as easily in the West”. The most immediate effect was watching colleagues reveal where they stood on all manner of controversial political issues. I discovered, to my horror, that a kind lady in my office fully endorsed extrajudicial killings, and I watched as agreeable coworkers sharpened their metaphorical knives for battle online. I suddenly realised that I never knew what my ‘community’ truly looked like.

I understand, to some degree, why things were the way they were. Political parties were shaping their narratives around things that deeply resonate with Filipinos — discrimination based on ethnolinguistic identity, the struggles of the working class, resentment of the educated elite. Of course people were going to be emotionally attached to their political affiliations. This was clearly reflected in Facebook comments, where any criticism levelled at one’s preferred politician was perceived as a personal attack. 

Plenty of assumptions and generalisations were made; I was guilty of this too. I started painting people with a broad brush based on where they came from. I knew that there were kind people out there, but it mattered little — if someone online referred to a particular region as their hometown, or displayed some sort of regional pride, I would jump to some sort of (often negative) assumption about them. I started believing people to be hostile — even before I met them — because they finally felt seen, understood and represented by politicians whose ideals and morals I found questionable.

Avoidance seems to be a pattern for me when social situations get tough. The toxicity that spilled from the confines of the internet into real life was something I could easily ignore by burying my head in the sand… at first. Then the pandemic hit, and there was no other way to seek community but go online. It felt like navigating a labyrinth, with no guarantee of what would be around the next corner — I found relief in memes one moment, only to be devastated by news of mass deaths and Covid-19 deniers the next. I was stuck; as horrified as I was by what I saw on social media, turning away completely would have meant also turning away from comforting voices assuring me that we’d make it through these unprecedented times.

The realisation crept up on me that I’d shot myself in the foot. By letting social media handle the emotional toll of building community for me, I’d dulled my ability to create or sustain connections without the crutch of messaging apps, memes, and things that pinged on my phone. This became all the more challenging as personal struggles and family health issues led to a depression diagnosis in 2023. When you have a mental health disorder, seeking community support online gets doubly difficult; it’s like a game of Russian roulette because you can never predict if you’ll be greeted by compassion or hostility.

But there are still benefits to being on social media, as I learnt one day. Recovering from both a stomachache and an intense social media binge, I listened to ‘It’s Time to Stop Doom Scrolling’, an episode of Chasing Life with Dr Sanjay Gupta, a podcast produced by CNN. It was suggested in the podcast that one can reap the benefits of community through active engagement — posting and commenting — instead of passively lurking on pages. Easier said than done, I thought. How do you sincerely engage when the online community feels so divided, the spaces so poisoned?

My desperation for some sort of connection did result in a silver lining: I found that smaller, moderated spaces felt like a return to something safer, something more reminiscent of the early days of social media. I began posting on the forums of Sanvello, a now-defunct app for mental health, banking on the assumption that surely no one in a tiny moderated forum would be a threat. It made me feel safe but also made me wonder if we’ve really come to a point where the only safe spaces available online were moderated ones with community guidelines — as if we are all kindergarteners who needed to be told how to behave.

I know there’ll always be bad actors online as long as there’s money to be made. Still, I have hope when I see how genuine engagement, led by people who truly want to come together, can translate to real-world action. I saw hope in community pantries organised online during the pandemic by private individuals — first in one neighbourhood, then spreading to several places across the Philippines. I see hope in successful movements to boycott problematic companies as a show for solidarity with vulnerable populations affected by their activities. I see hope in online groups calling for volunteers, whether it be for pop idol concerts or political rallies. I have hope that this level of dedication to genuine causes will never be bought by money or corrupted by online bots.

It’s frustrating to point to individual responsibility as a solution when the problem is systemic. But having an increased awareness of how we conduct ourselves online can be a starting point for real change, not only in social media spaces but also in our perception of what it truly means to build community. A deeper understanding of our own emotions and motives for engaging with content the way we do, and a stronger desire for in-person connection, can help strengthen our personal values. I’ve found that daily meditation helps me be more cognisant of my emotions and more easily break the spell of the endless scrolling that still negatively affects me.

The social media sphere has come so far since that moment in 2006 when I first joined the ranks of Friendster users. But the heart of it remains the same: humans, just wanting to be seen and to connect. Remove the genuine humanity of it all and we can see social media for what it really is: a mimicry of community, a space without soul.

Katherine Francisco is a communications professional with a degree in psychology from the Ateneo de Manila University. She likes keeping up-to-date with online pop culture and mental health topics. She lives in Manila with her family and a senior shih tzu dog, Charlie.