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This year, I had to admit something uncomfortable: The work I once called “advocacy” on social media no longer felt effective. For more than five years—beginning in the early days of COVID-19—I slowly built what some might call a sizable online presence. As my accounts grew, so did my comfort speaking publicly about difficult but important socio-political issues: feminism, racism, political unrest, and the role politics plays in our lives. I was busy.
It felt like I was making a difference. The views were up, the engagement was high, and the conversations kept flowing. As a psychologist, I knew those numbers were proxies, not outcomes, but I still believed they meant something.
This year, after stepping back from online advocacy and taking a part-time faculty position at my local university, I was forced to confront a difficult realization: The work I had been doing online felt far less impactful than the work I was now doing in a classroom. The difference had nothing to do with passion or effort. It had everything to do with structure.
The Structure of Social Media Influence
I began to ask myself why social media advocacy could feel so effortful and still fall short. I had poured time and energy into maintaining an online presence meant to make a difference, yet it felt increasingly unrewarding. Where was the evidence of impact? Where was community? Where was change?
Over time, I came to see that my dismay stemmed mostly from the mismatch between my goals and the design of these platforms themselves. Social media is not built for deliberation or learning; it is built for engagement. Psychological research has long shown that when beliefs are tied to identity—especially political identity—people become more resistant to information that challenges their worldview. Add algorithms that prioritize outrage, certainty, and tribal signaling, and even well-intentioned advocacy can begin to feel like a frantic swim against an ever-strengthening current.
That current is driven by several well-documented dynamics. Political tribalism and identity-protective cognition thrive in online spaces, pushing people further into their metaphorical corners, away from the center where ideas are exchanged (Cinelli et al., 2025; Del Vicario et al., 2016; Garrett, 2009). As individuals continually seek communities that reflect their existing worldviews, their beliefs become more entrenched (Flaxman et al., 2016; Garimella et al., 2018). Algorithms further reinforce these echo chambers by learning users’ political preferences and ranking, filtering, and suggesting aligned content in real time (Ahmmad, 2025). Because these systems are designed to keep users logged in and active, the dominant incentive is not learning or shared understanding, but outrage (Bail et al., 2018).
In that kind of environment, fostering authentic and productive advocacy is extraordinarily difficult. Are there influencers who succeed? Absolutely. But they are the exception. Those who rise above the noise often do so by projecting confidence, speaking boldly, and often leaving little room for differences of opinion (even if making space for talking about those differences would help change people’s minds). Their pedagogy is done through swiftness and certitude. These are structural adaptations—responses to platforms where confidence, speed, and consistency are the keys to making an impact. But what about those of us who prefer a subtler brand of influence? Where do we go to make a difference? For me, the answer is to the classroom.
Communal Advocacy and Making an Impact
The college classroom operates under very different conditions than online spaces. The pedagogical process happens slowly, often uncomfortably, and almost never in front of an audience trained to expect certainty. There is space to be wrong without humiliation, to sit with uncertainty, and to revise one’s thinking over time. These conditions apply not only to students, but to teachers as well.
I am learning the subtle art of making a difference over time—not by telling people what to think, as social media so often rewards, but by teaching them how to think. This is relational influence, not performative influence. It is earned through trust, openness, and genuine connection. It welcomes curiosity and confusion, recognizing them as the psychological conditions that make learning—and change—possible. And perhaps unsurprisingly, when people are taught to think for themselves without shame or threat, they often arrive at conclusions marked by greater empathy, nuance, and concern for the collective good. Influence, I am learning, is cumulative as trust is earned, not viral as admiration is won.
The Small But Collective Pull
I can’t help but wonder if others will experience a similar shift—choosing to prioritize immersion within their communities over influence in online spaces. This won’t be true for everyone. It remains deeply important that those who are effective advocates in digital spaces continue that work. But for some of us, the pull may be toward teaching, organizing, mentoring, running for local office, engaging in mutual aid, or building community in quieter, less visible ways. The scale may be smaller, but the depth is often greater.
Education Essential Reads
This kind of advocacy has always existed, so I am not suggesting that this is anything new. What perhaps feels new in this digital age is the growing need to reassess where our energy actually makes a difference. Perhaps it is time for some of us to redistribute our efforts—to choose impact over influence.
For those who tried to change the world online, the question may no longer be How many people see this? but rather: Where does my presence actually change something—even if fewer people are watching?
