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Offline in an Online Generation

by Nidhi Yadav
(Agra, India)

While I was sitting with few of my college friends, I kept listening more than speaking, as the words exchanged in conversation were not recognisable by me, these were slang picked up from trending reels and stories on Instagram and Snapchat. And everybody except me seemed to understand the references instantly, laughing, adding contexts and building each other’s points. But I don’t, not because I am uninterested, but because I am not on those social media platforms. The conversation moves on without me, smoothly and unintentionally.

They talked about classmates who recently went on a trip, about someone filming a moment, about stories posted and reposted. I recognise the names, even the places but not the images, not the context, not the excitement. Without having seen what everyone else has already seen, I find myself unable to participate. It is a quiet kind of exclusion.

As I’m a 19-year-old college student in 2026, this absence feels more noticeable than I expected. Gen Z slang, trending references, and shared online moments form a kind of social shorthand among people my age. In classrooms, corridors, and canteens, these platforms shape not just how we speak, but how we connect.

I am only on WhatsApp and LinkedIn. WhatsApp keeps me connected to my family, close friends, and classmates. LinkedIn helps me stay aware of developments in my field and think seriously about growth and opportunities. But the everyday social world of my peers seems to exist elsewhere. My classmates share their lives through Instagram stories and Snapchat snaps, where they go, what they eat, what they wear, even moments that are entirely ordinary. Nothing has to be special anymore to be shared; it simply has to be happening.

I know this because my friends show me what I’ve “missed” a story here, a reel there. Watching their screens, I realise how routine this constant documentation has become. Capturing and sharing life is no longer an event; it is a habit.
Standing just outside that habit has made me aware of something I didn’t expect not just how social media connects people, but how easily it can create invisible lines between those who are online and those who choose not to be.
At this, a question often arises sometimes silently, sometimes spoken aloud.

Was I pressured into staying away from social media? Was it a rule imposed by my parents or guardians?

The honest answer is no. No one has forced me, restricted me, or warned me away from these platforms. This decision has always been mine. I simply never felt the necessity to be there. For me, staying away has been less about discipline and more about comfort, the comfort of not having to be constantly visible, constantly reacting, constantly performing.

This choice is often misunderstood. Not being on Instagram or Snapchat does not mean I am unaware of their influence, nor does it mean I look down upon those who use them. I have seen classmates who are active on these platforms and still manage their academics, friendships, and responsibilities with balance. Many of them are confident, capable, and creative. This is not a rejection of people or platforms; it is simply an acknowledgement that what works for one person does not always work for another.

Over time, I have also realised that I am not alone. There are others like me, students who have chosen not to be on these platforms.

Interestingly, we often find each other without trying. There is a shared rhythm among us, a similar way of engaging with the world. Just as students active on social media tend to gravitate towards those who share their online spaces, those who stay away often form quieter, more offline bonds. Neither is superior; they are simply different ways of belonging.

What I find most striking, however, is the contradiction I often encounter. When people learn that I am not on social media, their reaction is usually one of surprise, followed by approval. “That’s actually really good,” they say. “These platforms waste so much time.” “They mess with our mindset.” What makes this reaction complex is that it often comes from people who are themselves deeply active on these very platforms. Even as they praise my choice, they make no effort to step away themselves. It is as though acknowledging the harm is easier than confronting the habit.
This contrast became even more visible after I moved into a hostel. Until then, my home environment had been largely free of social media culture. My parents, too, use only WhatsApp and LinkedIn, with the occasional use of YouTube. I had never grown up watching endless scrolling or late-night screen habits.

Hostel life was different. I saw students staying awake deep into the night, scrolling without noticing the time, and waking late in the morning. As someone who had always been a morning person, this was unsettling and I did not want this to become my normal.

What hurt me more than the scrolling itself was what it replaced. Even when students were physically present together, conversations often shifted back to screens. Friendships were built, maintained, and expressed online, while real-world interactions quietly thinned out. Those on the same platforms knew each other’s lives in detail where someone went, what they did, how they felt without ever having a proper conversation in person. Those of us outside these platforms, including me, were left knowing less, not because we didn’t care, but because access itself had become conditional.

Yes, this created gaps. It made forming connections harder. It sometimes made me feel invisible. But even with these difficulties, I still do not feel the urge to join. I do not feel left behind, I feel intentional.

I am part of Gen Z. I am a 21st-century college student. And yet, I choose not to be on these platforms. Not out of resistance, not out of fear but out of clarity. This is the pace at which I want to live. And for now, that feels enough.