There’s a specific kind of low-grade misery that settles in around the third or fourth scroll. You weren’t even feeling bad before you opened the app. You were fine. Maybe a little bored. But then you did it anyway, and now you’re sitting there wondering why your career feels like a participation trophy while everyone else is apparently disrupting industries and “grateful for the journey.”
I’ve been in tech for almost two decades. I’ve worked infrastructure, product, support, strategy. I’ve been the person in the hoodie keeping the lights on at 2am, and I’ve been the person on stage talking about organizational culture. I’ve been laid off and I’ve laid people off. I’ve been through the whole buffet. And I’m telling you: LinkedIn is doing something to us that we haven’t fully reckoned with.
It’s not just vanity. It’s something more insidious.
The first thing LinkedIn does is compress time. Everyone’s accomplishments appear in the same undifferentiated feed, stripped of context and duration. The person who spent eight years grinding before their “overnight success” shows up right next to the 27-year-old who raised a Series A. There’s no metadata. There’s no “this took a decade of failed attempts.” There’s just the announcement, the confetti, and the three hundred congratulatory comments from people who work at competing firms and are networking in real time while they type.
What you’re actually looking at is a highlight reel curated specifically to maximize professional status signaling. But your brain processes it as: everyone is moving faster than you.
The second thing LinkedIn does is manufacture a very particular flavor of fake vulnerability.
You know the posts I’m talking about. “I was let go eighteen months ago and I was devastated. I want to be honest about that. [paragraph break] But it turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me. I’m now the CEO of a company doing $4M ARR and I’ve never been more aligned with my values. Growth mindset wins.”
This is not vulnerability. This is a redemption arc with the ending pre-loaded. Real vulnerability doesn’t come with a punchline. Real vulnerability is “I was let go and I still don’t know if I’m okay.” The LinkedIn version is vulnerability as currency, traded for engagement points and the warm glow of being seen as both relatable and successful simultaneously. It’s a trick, and the trick works because most of us are desperate for the relatable part and mistake it for the real thing.
For people like me (and there are a lot of us, more than anyone talks about), the neurodivergent people who already spend enormous cognitive energy trying to decode what’s authentic versus what’s performed, this particular genre of content is exhausting in ways that are hard to articulate. It’s not just annoying. It creates a kind of sensory overload of performed sincerity that makes it genuinely difficult to trust what you’re reading.
The third thing LinkedIn does is gamify comparison in a way that has no natural endpoint.
Social comparison is something humans do constantly. It’s not inherently pathological. The problem is that most natural environments for comparison come with limiting factors: you can only really compare yourself to the people in your actual life, your actual city, your actual industry cohort. The comparison has texture. You know these people. You know their struggles, their advantages, their context.
LinkedIn removes all of that. It is comparison without context, at scale, optimized by an algorithm that has learned that you engage more when you feel inadequate than when you feel secure. The scroll continues because the discomfort continues, and the discomfort continues because the algorithm keeps showing you the people whose trajectories look, from the outside, like everything yours is not.
And here’s the part that nobody says out loud: you can’t win. If you close the app feeling superior, you’ve revealed something uncomfortable about yourself. If you close the app feeling inferior (the much more common outcome), you’ve just handed a billion-dollar company your emotional state in exchange for nothing. There is no good ending to the session.
I want to be careful here not to do the thing I just criticized, which is wrap this up with a tidy lesson and a call to action that makes me sound simultaneously wise and humble.
So I won’t do that.
What I will say is that the people I’ve known in tech who seem most genuinely grounded, most actually successful in ways that survive contact with reality, are almost uniformly bad at LinkedIn. They post rarely. They don’t have the cadence down. Their content doesn’t perform because it’s not optimized for performance. It’s just true, which means it doesn’t hit the same dopamine notes and gets fewer impressions and doesn’t build their “personal brand” in any measurable way.
I find that genuinely encouraging, even if it’s not actionable.
The depression you feel after five minutes on LinkedIn is information. It’s telling you that you’ve just spent five minutes in an environment designed to make you feel like you’re losing a race you didn’t sign up for, measured by metrics you didn’t choose, against a field of competitors who are mostly performing rather than actually competing.
Closing the app is a complete sentence.
