Your phone keeps buzzing. More likes, more mentions, more people reaching out through a screen you didn’t plan to check. As you scroll, you feel both seen and ignored. Your network is bigger than ever, but your world feels smaller. Friends might be nearby, but you only see their icons and half-hidden faces. You care, but it’s tiring.

Old school social media kept its promise. It brought us together and gave everyone a voice. And it made the world feel smaller. We all learned to write in short bursts. To take vertical photos and share our lives in tidy snapshots. But these same tools turned our attention into a nonstop public space. Now, we’re expected to share strong opinions, big emotions, and keep up with the pace. Most of us never asked for this. But still, we show up each day. To check in and let the feed set our mood.

Imagine a different kind of social media — one that puts your boundaries, your consent, and your well-being first. Instead of the feed deciding what you see, you connect when and how you want. You control the space, like a home where you turn on a porch light when you’re around and keep things peaceful when you’re not. Friends can leave thoughtful notes, and you choose when to respond. Here, you own the space, not just your profile picture.

I keep thinking about MySpace (similar solutions, from a time before time). Many of us remember it with a mix of nostalgia and embarrassment. The backgrounds were messy, songs played loudly as soon as you opened a page, and friend lists felt like schoolyard drama. It was chaotic, but it felt real. You could make your page your own, show your style, your mood, and inside jokes only your friends understood. It felt like a personal room, not a constant feed. When you closed your laptop, everything went quiet.

I’m not looking to return to the past. I want to move forward with that same feeling. Spaces we own, with fewer demands. A pace that allows for downtime and focus. A way to stay close to important people while keeping some distance from the constant noise. Somewhere, we can say more and feel less like we’re putting on a show. A place where you can come and go without worrying about losing reach or breaking a streak.

The case for an anti-social model starts with consent. The feed puts the system in charge of timing, deciding when your attention should spike and when your mood should change—the platform profits when your day becomes a cycle of checking and reacting. A calmer web gives you control over your own timing. You set your availability and when you want to rest. People can still reach out, share, and support you, but the pace is different. You get to keep your mornings and your sleep. Ownership matters too. Most of us just rent a small spot in a vast online mall. We can decorate it, but we don’t have the keys. Having your own small site changes how you write and listen.

It will let you be yourself, even if that means being a bit odd and more human. I allow you to write a long paragraph next to a sketch without worrying about an algorithm cutting your thoughts short. You can share rough drafts without strangers piling on with opinions. You can use a simple guestbook for comments and check them when you want. When you own the space and set the rules, everything feels more relaxed.

Connection doesn’t disappear in this model. It becomes steadier. The people who care will still show up, subscribing in their own way. Some might use email, others RSS, and some may visit once a month, like friends who live a little farther away. Messages still get around when they need to. The difference is that sharing feels relaxed, not rushed. You get quieter in your week, and your work benefits.

People often ask how we discover new people and ideas if we move to smaller spaces. Discovery works differently in this model. Instead of a nonstop, endless feed, think of it like a magazine rack at a neighborhood café. Each month, you might share a few handpicked links with brief notes about what drew you in, and your friends do the same. Blogs can still link to each other, podcasts cross-connect, and people share recommendations directly. Search engines continue to let you find what you need. The core change is scale and focus: you learn from a trusted neighbor, not by scrolling through a flood guided by an algorithm. Discovery becomes more intentional and personal, creating a stronger sense of place online.

Of course, this approach has its limits. It won’t replace the big platforms for fast news or huge product launches. It can’t solve every part of our lives that needs more than a website can offer. A quieter web isn’t a cure for loneliness. People still need real connection—hugs, meals, and walks together. A page can’t do that. But it can take some of the pressure off performing and make it easier to have honest conversations with people who genuinely want to connect.

I tried a small experiment this year. I took a week off the big platforms and made a simple site with a note, a now page, and a guestbook. I shared the link with a few friends and turned off notifications. The first couple of days felt strange—I kept reaching for the feed out of habit. By the third day, my attention had settled. I wrote longer messages and replied to people in groups. By the end of the week, my mind was quieter, and I knew who I was writing for. When I returned to the big platforms, I noticed the difference: fewer words, more stress, and less sleep. The small site wasn’t magic, but it was like a porch light, letting friends know when I was around.

Design choices matter if we want to build this for more people. Start with calm settings. Skip autoplay, endless scrolling, streaks, and counters that turn life into numbers. Being present should be your choice, not a performance. Use a simple status like “here” or “away” with a set time. Make publishing easy and encourage longer posts. Please just let me know that the comments stay closed until the host is ready to read them. Keep consent prompts short and clear, and make it easy to take a break. Treat attention as something valuable that deserves care. Keep your space open for a month and then rest. Imagine holding open office hours once a week to answer mail and notes. Picture a small directory you maintain with a few friends, where you vouch for each other and share work. Or a shared calendar for neighbors to plan potlucks, game nights, and book swaps (as a Swede, this will never happen). The tools are already here: a calendar, a simple website, and email. What matters most is the spirit—consent, a comfortable pace, and clear boundaries.

Games like Animal Crossing feel relaxing for a reason. You visit when you want, take care of your own space, and see friends on your schedule. There’s no pressure, and the world is kind. If you miss a day, nothing bad happens—you’re welcomed back. We can bring that same feeling to our online spaces. A place that welcomes you warmly and lets you come and go freely makes room for honest conversations and for quiet moments, too.

Safety is a key part of this idea. Big platforms promise safety for everyone, but often struggle to deliver, even with large teams. A smaller web can use a different approach. Hosts can set clear rules in simple language, and visitors see them right away. Abuse can be handled quietly, without making it public. Neighbors can support each other if problems arise. It’s not perfect and needs attention, but it keeps control closer to those affected.

Money always brings tough questions. Who pays for hosting and maintenance? Who pays for moderation? Who builds and secures the tools? The answer can be simple. People can pay a few dollars for hosting and a domain. Friends might split the cost of a shared directory. Creators could accept tips or small subscriptions. Some nonprofits and public-minded companies can fund the leading software. This model already works for much of the web we trust. It can work here too if we keep things small and focused on people. The slower pace is intentional, like sitting on a porch. The quiet gives space for more profound thought and kinder replies. It lets you read a full page, not just a caption, and connect meaningfully with a friend rather than count acquaintances. It helps you be a person, not just a profile measured by numbers.

We can make a slower way of living online feel appealing again—not old-fashioned, just sensible.

If you lead a product team, you can try this in just a month. Choose a small group of users and give them a personal site template that takes about an hour to set up. Offer email and RSS options, a way to set presence times, and a simple guestbook. Remove likes and public counters for this group. Ask them to share daily notes about their mood and productivity. Watch what happens. If their days improve and they write more, keep going. If it feels too quiet, add a simple directory with short introductions and let people choose to meet neighbors.

If you want a quieter web, you can try this in a week. Set up a simple page with a now section, a short note, and a way for people to reach you. Post once and tell five people who matter to you. Turn off notifications for seven days and check your page once a day. Keep a small journal about your mood and focus. Invite one person to leave a note. At the end of the week, review your notes and decide what to keep. You might keep the page, the habit, or return to the big platforms with a new perspective. Any choice is okay.

Dignity matters. A feed reduces us to numbers; a room lets us be hosts and guests. A slower, kinder exchange brings meaning back to our conversations. With just a page and some effort, we can get care and connection online again.

I don’t think this idea will solve loneliness on its own. Loneliness comes from many places—housing, work, family, and public spaces. A website can’t hug you, but it can invite you to a call, point you to a local club, or help you plan a walk. It can give you a quiet place to share your feelings. That matters. It’s a beginning.

The big platforms aren’t going away. They still have their uses, memorable moments, and times that feel historic. I still enjoy a good meme or a live thread during significant events. I don’t want to lose that. But I also want a second home online that doesn’t wear me out. I want a quiet spot where friends can visit, where I can rest when I need to, and where I’m not always counting numbers.

Anti-social media isn’t against people. It’s about choice and rest. It’s a web that respects our limits and the natural rhythms of life. It gives you a chance to write in your own voice and connect with people who genuinely care. It’s made of small tools and spaces that create a kinder network. It’s not trendy in a flashy way, but it feels lively and just the right size.

The move now is small. This week, build a porch. A page you own with one note, one link to a now page, and one way to reach you. Set a presence window and keep it open. Tell a few friends. Check in once a day, not every hour. See how it feels. If the quiet gives you back an hour, keep going. If you miss the noise, bring a little of it back on purpose. Practice choosing when to be social and when to be silent. That is the core of the model. Connection on your terms. Attention on your terms. A web that lets you be more human and less product.