When I first joined Facebook, I was hesitant. At the time, I already had a MySpace account and loved customizing my page, creating spaces to write blogs, and sharing stories from my life. Facebook, by contrast, offered no customization options, and most of my friends were still devoted to MySpace. But on November 6, 2007, I took the plunge and created a shiny new Facebook profile. Seventeen years later, I find myself reflecting on what Facebook has meant to me and the role it has played in my life.
Initially, Facebook was secondary to MySpace, which I kept active for another year or two. Eventually, Facebook became my primary social media platform, where I connected with friends, shared milestones, and engaged in countless discussions. But now, as we enter 2025, changes to Facebook’s platform have prompted me to close this chapter of my life. Mark Zuckerberg’s decision to allow hate speech against minority communities, including my own, is a line I cannot cross. I refuse to spend time in a space where bigotry is sanctioned.
As I prepare to leave Facebook, I’m struck by nostalgia. The platform has been a digital diary of sorts, capturing my journey from a scared kinderqueer, freshly out of the closet, to the person I am today. Over the years, I’ve made countless friends, married my husband, had children, and even changed my name from G. Blake Hoopes to Blake G. Swell. Facebook has been a repository of memories—some joyous, others painful.
During the early days of the COVID-19 pandemic, with no morning commute, I began reviewing my Facebook history. Each day, I’d scroll through old posts, reflecting on how much I’d grown and changed. Sometimes, I’d cringe at the petty arguments or laugh at forgotten moments. Other times, I’d revisit debates on current events and national policies, marveling at how my views had evolved or remained steadfast. Those memories highlighted how Facebook had become more than just a social platform; it was a mirror reflecting my life’s journey.
However, Facebook was also a stage for drama, particularly with my family. Rereading old debates revealed the extent of the emotional toll those arguments took. Many were with close family members, including a brother-in-law who seemed to relish provoking me. My attempts to bridge the gap—to be seen and valued as a human being—often felt futile. I was desperate for acceptance and understanding, but their arguments reinforced feelings of rejection.
In early 2022, during transcranial magnetic stimulation (TMS) treatments for depression, anxiety, and PTSD, I began to connect the dots between my struggles and my past. Memories of trauma surfaced, particularly from LifeLine, a program recommended by an LDS counselor and funded by the Mormon Church via my ward Bishop. Recognizing these experiences as abuse was a turning point. It gave me a new perspective on the role Facebook played in revisiting those wounds. Arguments on the platform often re-triggered my trauma, amplifying my feelings of inadequacy and rejection.
Despite the challenges, I found moments of joy and connection on Facebook, especially within supportive community groups. But those positives were overshadowed by the hurtful interactions with family members who dismissed my identity and choices. One particularly poignant memory stands out: seeing a post in an Ex-Mormon group where a mother celebrated her family’s decision to leave the church in support of their queer child. That kind of unconditional love was foreign to me. While I knew my family loved me, their support never reached that level.
I’ve shown up for my family in ways they never reciprocated. I attended temple weddings I couldn’t enter, supported baptisms I disagreed with, and even missed Pride celebrations to be there for them. Yet when I asked for their support—to attend Pride or help share my story—I was met with excuses and refusals. My sister’s admission that her husband’s deliberate provocation of me was “a fun hobby” underscored how little my pain was valued.
By mid-2022, I realized I needed a break from my family to heal. Asking for a period of no-contact was one of the hardest decisions I’ve made, but it was necessary. While I’ve reconnected with my parents on occasion, my sisters have chosen to remain estranged. I respect their decision, though it’s not what I had hoped for. Sending apology cards was my attempt at reconciliation, but I’ve learned not to force relationships.
Facebook’s changes have made it clear that it’s time for a clean break. While the platform isn’t solely to blame for the pain in my life, it served as a battleground where much of that pain played out. Leaving Facebook means saying goodbye to the communities and connections I cherished, but it also means prioritizing my mental health and surrounding myself with people who truly value and respect me.
As I move forward, I’m grateful for the lessons and growth Facebook has facilitated. But it’s time to let go of the past and embrace a future built on real-life connections with friends and chosen family who celebrate me for who I am.
