Valentine’s Day Disaster: My Shadowban Struggle and a Love Letter to You
Valentine’s Day used to be a neat little script: pick a card, overcook pasta, ignore the third heart-shaped candle melting into a waxy puddle. This year, the script unraveled online. I posted a goofy video — a slow-motion pasta toss, a wink, a bad crooning — and watched the view count flatten like a deflated balloon. No likes, no comments, no heart emojis. Just silence. That’s when I learned the modern heartbreak: a shadowban.
At first I shrugged. Algorithms are mysterious; maybe Wi-Fi gremlins intercepted my content. But the more I refreshed, the more it sunk in: my little corner of the internet had been boxed off like a forgotten postcard in an attic. People I know were getting notifications about other creators, and my notifications were absent. Valentine’s Day, of all days.
I swung between theatrical outrage and private embarrassment. One minute I drafted an impassioned thread about censorship; the next I was pleading to my two followers for sympathy. I imagined my account as a ghost town lit by a single stubborn streetlamp — me, doing a monologue to tumbleweeds.
In that hollow quiet, something honest unfurled: I could choose what I wanted from the day. If the internet wouldn’t amplify my Valentine, maybe this was a cue to go analog. I lit a real candle (the heart-shaped one that had survived previous disasters), cooked ridiculous pasta from leftovers, and wrote a letter by hand. Not for a camera, not for validation — just because I wanted to say something true.
Here’s that letter, folded and tucked into an envelope I almost didn’t address:
Dear You,
If you’re reading this, paper still matters. You cared enough to open something that isn’t clickable. Valentine’s Day isn’t a performance — it’s a string of small, stubborn acts: a too-long phone call, a shared playlist that makes you cry, someone warming your hands without asking. I’m sorry I let numbers decide my worth. Even when the world quiets you, you are not invisible.
Love,
Me
I sealed it, feeling foolish and strangely brave. Then I walked down the block and slipped the envelope into the mailbox like a 19th-century spy. No followers, no trending tab, no dopamine spike. Just the satisfying thunk of the mailbox flag and the knowledge I’d shown up for something real.
Later, my phone buzzed — not with algorithmic approval, but with a text from my neighbor: a video of them opening the envelope, laughing, wiping a fake tear. “Best Valentine’s surprise,” the message read. Heart emojis arrived in real life.
Since then I’ve become messy about showing up. I post less for approval and more for record: a snapshot of the ridiculous and tender moments that make up my life. I still film the occasional kitchen disaster — my dog photobombs every time, convinced the camera is a treat dispenser — but now I pair each post with real-world acts: notes, small deliveries, surprise playlists. It feels steadier.
I still don’t know if the shadowban lifted that evening. The internet is its own weather system. But my Valentine’s Day disaster taught me a stubborn truth: being seen isn’t always about everyone seeing you. Sometimes it’s about reaching the one person who matters and loving them without waiting for applause.
