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I recently noticed something about myself.

There was a time when getting that visa stamp on my passport was an essential part of the travel experience. I needed that physical proof, and I would get so upset when countries moved to digital visas and stopped stamping passports.

Even the immigration stamps started disappearing, like when I went to Australia and returned with a completely clean passport. WTAF? Back then, if there was no stamp, it felt like I hadn’t truly traveled at all.

For a while, travel wasn’t about the joy of doing it but about counting countries. Every new destination was a number ticked off on a list—a shiny badge of pride. I would diligently create Facebook albums, blog posts, and Instagram updates.

But by the time I hit my 42nd or 43rd country, something shifted.

I stopped announcing each milestone. I still reveled privately in the visa and immigration stamps, and I still took photos, but I rarely ever shared them. And I no longer cared if people knew where I had been and where in the count it was.

Suddenly, I realized I no longer felt this driving need to catalog every moment. I started experiencing travel purely for myself, without needing to validate it to the world.

That shift made me reflect on other parts of my life. I began to wonder: Where else had I stopped turning experiences into data points for others? Where else was I finally doing things for myself alone?

Here are four ways I’ve unplugged from algorithm culture in other areas of my life:

1. I now make room for analog randomness.

These days, I find myself leaning toward minimalism, though I’m nowhere close to being a true minimalist.

When it comes to clothing, shoes, and accessories, I am still a proud maximalist, with categories for every possible occasion. I tell myself it’s because of work and travel, but deep down, I know I genuinely enjoy these things and am still attached to them.

However, when it comes to my home, I’m obsessed with decluttering. I already have all the big essentials like furniture and appliances, but now I want to get rid of everything else. Old papers, random stationery, forgotten gadgets, and my dad’s old camcorder—I want them gone. I’ve become fixated on clearing out the lofts, the place where things go to disappear.

My ultimate goal is to have cupboards that are nearly empty, apart from my clothes, bathroom necessities, and basic kitchen items and groceries. I want nothing extra, nothing that doesn’t serve a real purpose. There’s something so liberating about creating empty spaces, about letting go of the physical weight of things I no longer need.

This quiet purging feels like a rebellion against the endless accumulation that defines modern life. It’s a small act of freedom I savor.

2. I let go of exercise guilt.

Weirdly enough, I still track my calories and weigh myself every single day. As someone who was once bulletproof when it came to weight gain, I had to adjust as my body changed. As a short person, I realized that if I didn’t keep an eye on my weight, I would quickly become “stout,” and I didn’t want that.

Since I dislike gymming and lifting weights with a passion, and quickly realized that I did not want to jog or skip, walking was my only option. But given the stigma it carries for not being “real” exercise, I believed that I had to walk every single day without fail to make up for it not being a high-intensity workout. And until as recently as three months ago, I forced myself to walk a few hours every single day.

But about three months ago, I seamlessly let that go. I still watch my weight carefully, and if I’m in the right range, I simply skip my walks without guilt. Some weeks I still walk all seven days, but there have also been weeks when I didn’t walk at all. I trust my body more and no longer feel like I’m falling behind if I don’t get those steps in.

Letting go of that rigid routine has freed me from a self-imposed prison. I still care about my health, but now I approach it with more flexibility and kindness.

3. I create things for no one.

This is one of the truest things about me these days. I make photo albums no one sees, create art I wouldn’t dare show anyone, and it all gives me so much joy.

The other day, I ordered matka kulfi (a type of Indian ice cream that comes in earthen pots), and after finishing it, I painted over the tiny clay pots using random paints I bought online. They turned out horrendous, as many friends and foes have gently (and loudly) pointed out. But I don’t care. I proudly display these hideous pots in my living room alongside the National Award I won for my book, because they give me pleasure and bring a smile to my face when I see them.

I don’t see clashing colors that “simply don’t go together.” I see the intense peace of mind and pleasure it gave me. And that is all that matters. It’s not about making art—it’s about how it makes me feel.

The same applies to social situations. If I know an event or meeting will bring me even a hint of unease or mental anguish, I skip it. Even if it’s important or celebratory, I just don’t go if it costs me my peace of mind.

These quiet, private acts of rebellion have become my new measure of success. They remind me that it’s enough to create and exist just for myself.

4. I find comfort in the same old routes.

I find that for me, peace of mind often comes from doing the same thing repeatedly. Since walking is my only physical activity and I live in a big city, I mostly walk on the main roads and bylanes. There are endless route options, and while I experimented with different routes in the beginning, I now find comfort in the routine.

For, in my usual route, I see the same shopkeepers and street vendors selling mangoes and oranges and bananas. The jasmine flower vendor asks me every single day if I want some flowers because “they will make you look pretty.” Some days I smile and buy them. Other days, I smile, wave, and walk on. While these people are not my friends, they are familiar, comforting faces.

There’s a temple I pass by daily. I don’t go inside since I’m wearing shoes, but I stop outside to do a quick namaste and whisper a small prayer. I also pause at a few charming bungalows I’ve admired a million times now. But every day I look at them, nod my head in approval, mutter about the many unique choices the owners have made in their construction, give them my silent stamp of approval that they did not ask for, and move on.

These small gestures and repeated moments bring me a deep sense of belonging. In a city that is constantly moving and changing, my same old walk feels like an anchor, a daily reminder that stability can be its own quiet joy.

I guess, somewhere along the way, I stopped turning my life into a highlight reel for the world. I stopped cataloging, stopped proving, and started simply living. Whether it’s creating art that no one sees, skipping walks when I feel like it, or taking comfort in my same old streets, I’ve learned to unplug from the constant algorithm of needing to be seen and measured.

If there’s one thing this shift has taught me, it’s that true freedom isn’t loud or flashy. It’s quiet, deeply personal, and sometimes beautifully boring.

And in this quiet, I finally feel most alive.

How about you? Does this resonate with you? What do you do to unplug from this increasing algorithm culture?

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