Okay, let me just rip the Band-Aid off: I’m not mad that TikTok is getting banned. There, I said it. Go ahead and gasp dramatically. Do a little fainting spell if you must. I’ll wait.

Now that you’ve recovered, let me explain.

I discovered TikTok back when it was still Musical.ly, which feels like a lifetime ago. It was 2016 or something, and the app had this weird “figuring itself out” energy, like a college freshman who just started wearing berets and calling it a “phase.” By 2018, it blossomed into TikTok, and it was glorious. My ADHD brain fell in love instantly. Short, snappy videos that ended before I got bored? Perfection. Plus, there was nothing to buy. Just endless clips of people being stupid, ridiculous, and—best of all—not me.

But then I made the ultimate mistake: I left a comment.

Now, I don’t remember what I said, but it wasn’t that bad. I probably disagreed with the groupthink in a comment section, which, as it turns out, is basically social media’s version of poking a hornet’s nest with a stick. What followed was a tidal wave of insults, all-caps rants, and trolls who clearly had too much free time and zero hobbies. I was blocking people faster than I could scroll. It was like playing whack-a-mole, but with mean strangers and significantly less fun.

That’s when I learned: TikTok is not for the faint of heart. Or the thin-skinned.

Fast forward to 2020, and TikTok became my nightly ritual during the pandemic. While the world was falling apart, I was scrolling through life hacks I would never use and dance challenges I would never attempt because I have knees that audibly snap. My bed became my personal TikTok cave, where I would waste hours—yes, HOURS—watching content I couldn’t remember the next morning. Did I need to know how to clean my oven with just baking soda and blind optimism? No. Did I watch the whole tutorial? Obviously.

Then, the shopping started.

Suddenly, TikTok wasn’t just a fun distraction; it was an infomercial on steroids. And I was buying things. Things I didn’t need. Things no one needs. I now own an automatic stirrer (spoiler: my arm works just fine), a countertop egg cooker (I eat those kinds of eggs twice a year), and a dog hair remover even though I don’t have a dog. TikTok convinced me I needed it all.

But let’s talk about the creators, because this is where things really go off the rails. Some of them are genuinely incredible. There’s this guy named Jessie who does magical “Creating Wonders” videos, and honestly, I will miss him. But for every Jessie, there are fifty influencers trying to sell me “game-changing” leggings that rip after one wear.

Here’s the kicker: many of these creators quit their jobs to become full-time TikTok stars.

Excuse me?

I have so many questions. Did no one stop to think, “Hey, maybe this app that gives me paychecks based on how many strangers click ‘like’ isn’t exactly a solid retirement plan?” Did health insurance just…not come up? TikTok was never going to last forever. The internet is basically a toddler with a short attention span. Remember Vine? Exactly.

So, am I sad that TikTok creators are scrambling to figure out how to pay their bills now? Well

Sure! For many influencers, this was the way to be creative and do what they wanted and make bank. Look, I get it—chasing your dreams is great. But maybe those dreams should include a steady paycheck and a 401(k). Just a thought.

As for me, I’ll miss the chaos, the comedy, and yes, the oddly satisfying videos of people power-washing their driveways. (Don’t judge me—you liked them too.) But I won’t miss the toxicity, the political dumpster fires, or the endless stream of ads disguised as “honest reviews.”

Honestly, I think we’ll survive without TikTok. Maybe we’ll read books. Maybe we’ll take up knitting. Or maybe we’ll just migrate to Instagram Reels and pretend we’re better than this.

Spoiler: we’re not.