Growing up, I wanted to be a doctor. A pediatrician, to be specific. I signed up for all the extracurriculars, did the internships, and put myself in the best position to get into med school, but in between college essays…I was writing One Direction fan fiction.
I wrote fan fiction purely for fun. I had no dreams of getting a book deal or becoming a writer. I wrote voraciously for an audience who loved my (absolutely ridiculous) one-shots and Zayn Malik + y/n stories. I did it because I loved it. It gave me something to look forward to each week.
Tumblr gave me the confidence I needed to tell my story without fear. I had a safe place to put my drafts and to receive praise and feedback. I could experiment and be silly. Weird and risky.
I am a writer today because Tumblr showed me that it was possible.
For most of my teen years, Tumblr was the one place—both IRL and online—that I felt I could be myself, completely and uncensored. When I was 19, I drove fourteen hours to meet a boy who slid into my Ask box (we were in love, I promise). When I was 17, my mutuals became pen pals, secret Santas, best friends. So much of my personality, my music taste, and my style was influenced by various Tumblr communities.
I knew people self-harmed. I’d already done it once, months before I made a Tumblr account. And then, Tumblr showed me open wounds. Tools. Scars. Stitches. The more I saw how and why people self-harmed, the more I wanted it.
The depression-related content on my dashboard had no end. If I wanted, I could scroll myself into a spiral. And yes, in hindsight, my teenage self shouldn’t have followed those accounts. If I hadn’t, maybe the algorithm would have never known I was sad or the severity of my sadness.
But that’s where it gets difficult: It didn’t feel safe to be sad in real life. Tumblr was a vessel for my sad thoughts, and more than anything, I didn’t feel alone. I felt validated. There were other people like me, who wanted to die, who self-harmed. Tumblr made sure to let me know that there was never anything wrong with me; so many other people felt the same way.
And we weren’t getting it. Why was I 14 and talking a 17-year-old off the ledge? There were no resources, no guardrails, just a massive, sad teen echo chamber.
Some of my mutuals died by suicide. These weren’t strangers to me. They were my friends. I still think about the other people I met and wonder if they survived. I don’t think all of them did. I almost didn’t survive myself.
And I hate the part I played, too, even if I was a teenager/young adult. I wanted to be seen, to be heard, but it was not helpful for the world to see my suicide notes, the “I’m going to cut” PSAs—everything I should’ve told a therapist, not the internet (but let’s be real, I still told the internet, even after I got a therapist).
Here’s what’s at the root of this for me: Tumblr was the only place that I could be sad and not pitied, honest and not misunderstood, seen and not treated differently. And that’s the teenage dream—to be, with no boundaries.
But my body remembers. I miss the version of sad I could be when no one was watching. When my dark thoughts resurface, I miss that depression echo chamber.
And, I’m so, so glad that I got out.
I could’ve been a doctor, by the way. I got accepted into college as a neuroscience major on the pre-med track. Until I took my first writing class. I remembered how good it felt to write my old fan fiction drafts. I wanted to feel that again. I wanted to do it forever. I honored my 16-year-old self and changed my major and never looked back.
Remember who you are, Tumblr girl, the meme says. I don’t think I’ll ever forget. For better or for worse, thank god for that.
p.s., to all my reformed, healed Tumblr babes: I like your shoelaces.
Ship of Theseus by Rodney Gomez
sometimes i find a real fucking bop on TikTok, and this artist has been my latest obsession (this song, specifically):
all the love, all the warmth, all the light,
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who i am: a writer, a lover, and a very Black + queer person. i love deeply, forget rarely, and spend most of my time cuddling with my dog, my cat, and my partner.
who i'm not: a therapist, mental health professional, or emergency service. i love hearing the stories of your experiences, but please don't send explicit or triggering details of your story without my prior consent.
if you're in crisis, please call 911 or use any of the following resources:
National Suicide Prevention Hotline: 988
National Domestic Violence Hotline: 1-800-799-SAFE (7233)
Crisis Text Line: Text HELP to 741741
S.A.F.E. (Self Abuse Finally Ends): 1-800-DONT-CUT (366-8288)
Eating Disorders Awareness and Prevention: 1-800-931-2237
RAINN (Rape, Abuse, & Incest National Network): 1-800-656-4673
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