A little less than a year ago, I lost my job because of mental illness.

Like many desperate people, I turned to social media.

Social platforms thrive on desperation the way wolves respond to the scent of blood carried on the wind. If you’ve lived long enough, you already know this — even if you’ve never put words to it.

At the time, I was a relatively inexperienced indie author, desperate to sell my books. Like everyone else, I chased the mythical viral post, hoping to strike gold, win the lottery, be the one. It’s the same principle, after all.

Desperation reeks — and social media can smell it from miles away.

Think about it.
People stuck in toxic relationships, desperate for affection.
Job seekers clinging to hope.
Parents searching for missing children.
Families praying for terminally ill loved ones.
Community leaders desperate for followers.
People moving, rebuilding, starting over.

Where do you fit in?

Exactly.

I was the perfect target.

Unemployed. Anxious. Desperate to sell books. Carrying unresolved grief over a missing father. I matched every behavioural signal these platforms are designed to exploit.

My goal was simple: hit the viral post.

A myth — achieved by one in a billion, usually by accident.

What I didn’t realise at the time was that social media runs on the same psychological machinery as gambling. A variable ratio reinforcement schedule — unpredictable rewards that keep you pulling the lever just one more time.

Post again.
Tweak the caption.
Share it once more.
Try a new angle.
Sound familiar?

The unpredictability is the hook. You don’t know when the reward is coming — so you keep going, even while losing. Dopamine floods the brain not only when we succeed, but when we anticipate success. That chemical surge fuels compulsion.

I posted. Reposted. Tweeted. Retweeted. Shared. Reshared. Experimented. Repeated.

There were small wins — attention, opportunities, promises. Most turned out to be false hopes or outright scams. But the cycle continued.

Days became weeks. Weeks became months.
I kept going — extinguishing the last flame I had left.

Instead of focusing my energy on one platform — the one that actually mattered — I spread myself thin across all of them. A desperate man in his early fifties, performing hope in public.

Meanwhile, the real world closed in.

Banks chased me. My landlord chased me. I stood precariously on the edge of existence, dangling by a very thin thread.

Yes — I considered the unthinkable.

The only thing that kept me alive was my wife. She had recently lost her father, and I could not add my disappearance to her grief. If not for that single tether, I honestly don’t know where I would be today.

Call me a coward if you like. At the time, I was.

My life was going nowhere slowly.

Then, during a long walk one afternoon, those words surfaced in my mind — going nowhere slowly. They became the seed of my memoir. Writing at night kept me anchored in the present. Research during the day gave structure to time. Gradually, I stepped away from social media — especially the loudest platforms.

By then, most of my friends were gone anyway. People I had supported emotionally and financially had vanished like smoke. My follower counts dwindled. And strangely, that loss created space.

With my wife’s support — and a loan we could not afford — I enrolled at an accredited university and completed qualifications in Feature Journalism and Copy-Editing. I wrote fiction at night, blogs and updates by day, and technical documentation wherever I could.

I had purpose again — a vital ingredient in mental health.

Purpose plus inspiration is a powerful remedy.

Slowly, the lights came back on.

Iwan 2.0 emerged.

On a whim, I applied for a job I never expected to get: Lead Technical Writer. Against all odds — after three failed reinventions — I was hired. And not just anywhere, but in the payments industry, a field I had dreamed of entering for years.

Here I am now. Making a difference. Doing work that matters.

I won’t say “living the dream” — that phrase deserves its own essay.

This experience taught me lessons I will never unlearn.

We only grow when we are uncomfortable. Comfort zones teach nothing. Resistance — the wind in your face — is what builds strength.

Today, I use social media on my terms.
No direct messages.
No contact details.
No comment bait.

My list of friends is limited — and I can name them. Three. The pillars who carried my stories while I was absent.

My books are selling — slowly, steadily — and social media has nothing to do with it.

They got me once.
They won’t get me again.

I have found my voice.

The only way out is through.