For a long time, Instagram felt like a necessary part of the journey. It was where the stories lived, where photos were shared, where short moments from longer days were compressed into something scrollable. It felt like participation. But somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like connection and started feeling like obligation.
With the ever-increasing intrusion of AI into every aspect of daily life, social media no longer feels like a space I want to spend time in—or promote. Every interaction is filtered, analyzed, optimized, and eventually sold back to us. More targeted ads. More “suggested” content. More subtle nudges toward political views, products, and agendas that have nothing to do with why most of us showed up in the first place.
Honestly, I don’t even know how many followers ever clicked through from doom-scrolling to actually read more. How many people moved beyond a photo, a caption, or a reel and took the time to engage with something deeper? Instagram never really wants you to leave the app, and that alone tells you everything you need to know.
Like most of you, I’ve caught myself checking the time and thinking, shit… that wasn’t a quick check. That’s not an accident. These platforms are engineered to keep us hooked, not informed, inspired, or fulfilled. Our attention is the product, and the longer they keep us staring, the more valuable we become to advertisers.
I’ve been on the fence with this decision for a while. I deleted the original @time_2_xplore account, stepped away, and about a month later started fresh with a tighter focus—more about the Volvo build and the places I’d been with it. For a bit, that felt right. But even that wore out its welcome. Especially as AI began creeping into private messages, content creation, and engagement on Instagram and Facebook.
I’ve been off Facebook for over six months now, and I don’t miss it. If anything, the distance has made it clearer just how noisy and manipulative those spaces had become.
It also doesn’t help that the last few months have been heavy. Injuries, setbacks, and obstacles—physical and mental—have slowed things down more than I’d like. But they’ve also forced reflection. And reflection tends to cut through bullshit pretty fast.
Looking ahead, I want 2026 to be a year of real adventure. Not algorithm-approved adventure. Not optimized, sponsored, or artificially amplified moments—but experiences that actually matter. Experiences I can sit with, write about, and share without worrying about reach, likes, or retention graphs.
That brings me back to my original tagline: How do you adventure?
Not “how do you perform adventure,” or “how do you monetize it,” or “how do you package it for engagement.” Just—how do you adventure?
I’ve tossed around the idea of bringing the podcast back. But when I’m honest with myself, I remember the last round: constant rescheduling, guests ghosting, conversations that never made it to air. I could pivot to an “adventure news” format, but that’s not me—and it’s not what I want to listen to either.
What I do want is depth. Slower stories. Fewer platforms. More intention.
So this isn’t an angry goodbye or a dramatic exit. It’s simply a choice. To step away from a system that no longer aligns with how I want to live, create, or explore. To invest time here instead—where words can breathe, ideas can stretch out, and nothing is trying to hijack your attention every three seconds.
If you’re here reading this, thank you. Truly. That alone tells me more than any follower count ever could.
So I’ll ask it again, the way it was meant to be asked:
How do you adventure?