The psychology of online rejection

How we can change the landscape of digital interaction

This was my original friend group: Jessie and Cathy on the left, Kristine and me on the right (I am in the back by the window), circa early 2000s. When in-person conversation was the norm.

For the audio version of this essay, please click on the arrow below:

The unsubscribe and unfollow dilemma

In April,

Dan Blank

wrote Lessons From My First Year on Substack. I have read Dan’s weekly newsletters for over ten years. I worked one-on-one with him two summers ago. His work reflects his personal values, which speaks powerfully to me as one who aims to do likewise.

Acknowledging that the article is difficult to read for many writers (including myself)—because Dan discloses his specific growth in subscribers on this platform—I also want to highlight a portion of it for commentary here:

Something you don’t see in these charts is that every single week, people unsubscribe from my list, as well. In fact, every time I click “publish” on a new post, some people unsubscribe.

This is a normal part of the process! But one that I want to highlight because “growth” is really an ebb and flow. I have talked to many writers who have a huge following and get upset when they notice a few people unsubscribe. They feel like they’re failing, losing their knack, or letting people down.

So in sharing these charts with lines going upwards and to the right, I never want to gloss over that every week I lose subscribers, as well. Yet each week, for 19 years, I have showed up again and clicked “publish.”

I wrote my reaction in the comments:

I think there is a lot of psychology behind the feeling some writers get when people unsubscribe or unfollow them. Let's say they have tens of thousands of followers/subscribers, but they lose four each week, or maybe one this day and ten on Saturday, etc. Whatever the ebb and flow, as you describe it, it's an emotional and psychological blow to some of us.

My theory is that the words themselves evoke a negative image: "un"subscribe and "un"follow. It's semantics. When you see the word, you conjure an image associated with that word: someone is walking away from me, someone is rejecting me, someone doesn't like what I wrote, I offended someone, I upset someone, they might think badly of me, etc.

Obviously these thoughts and feelings originate elsewhere. But in a media-centric world, in which writers have been told for over a decade that building a platform is vital to their success, it's easy to understand why many of us project our self-doubts and insecurities onto the ebb and flow of finding your ideal audience.

I happen to be a fiercely loyal person. I don't follow or subscribe to someone unless I have read several things they've written and have found almost everything to be resonant in some way, even life-changing. Then, once I click that button, I'm all in. I'm just one of those people. Afterwards, it takes a lot for me to unfollow or unsubscribe to that person. They'd have to make a huge 180 shift in either their content or personality (and even then, I may not walk away right away) in order for me to say to myself, hey, this isn't working for me anymore.

But what I've noticed is that, at least in the digital sphere, many people impulsively click "like" or "love" or "follow" or "subscribe" without a lot of deliberation over whether or not this person and their mission truly aligns with what they value, need, and want. I mean, obviously taking time to write something, as well as taking time to read something, cuts into our time. And time is important to everyone, because we all feel stretched so thinly.

So I think two things are important here: One, a person "building a platform" really needs to work daily on self-awareness, which means recognizing when they feel rejected or disappointed about the very fickle ups and downs that happen online. Work on that internally. Journal. Go to therapy. Think. What I also do is this: I don't look at the stats of my subscribers, because I know I am sensitive to those who unsubscribe when I post each week. And I also know myself well enough to understand that I will likely second guess what I wrote. "Oh, 16 people unsubscribed after I published that piece about body image in mid-life. Maybe it was TMI. Maybe it was offensive. Maybe boring..."

And two, people can learn to be more intentional online. As in, don't just "like" or "follow" everything and everyone you see that, in the moment, makes you feel some certain sort of way (validated, happy, etc.) Really think about what you want to spend your time doing online, and then align yourself with people who share your values and with whom you can build a mutually beneficial rapport.

Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria

Thanks to Dan, I got to chewing on this more deeply. For several years, I noticed tension, jealousy, and frustration about my online activity. I was advised, as a debut author in 2014, to “build your platform.” So, I did my research. At the time, the seasoned authors who mentored me told me to hop on board with every single social media outlet that existed, which, at the time, were over half a dozen.

I did that. I spent hours exploring the features of each, commenting personally to those who posted, sharing what others published, “liking” and “loving” lots and lots of photos and quotes and articles. My hope was that there would be some reciprocity. There wasn’t.

I did this for ten years. But during the final two years before I said adios to all social media, minus Substack, I became disenchanted with the clear biases of algorithms. Then I learned that I needed to create content for the algorithms, so that my work would be visible to more people. I tried that, too.

The growth in my “following” was not substantial. At first, I tracked the ups and downs of followers/subscribers and those who left after a day or two, or maybe after I published a specific thought or idea or insight. I panicked. This felt severely off to me.

I recognized it as a psychological phenomenon, though I did not have language for it then. Now I know it is termed Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria.¹ Primarily associated with those who have confirmed neurodivergent conditions (particularly ADD/ADHD), RSD happens when a person is unable to sufficiently process the intense emotional pain resultant from real or perceived rejection. I would wager to bet that this applies to those who are highly sensitive, but not necessarily neurodivergent, as well.

What I did is not what everyone does, and I acknowledge that. I like to tell those who defend their continued use of social media this way: Good for you. I’m happy it works out that way for you, but it doesn’t for me. I needed to step away, but that doesn’t mean I expect or judge everyone else to do the same.

I don’t check my follower statistics. I can’t. When I have, I slump into a terrible spiral of self-doubt and negative self-talk. Sometimes it’s so bad that I can barely function, let alone carry on in my creative endeavors. So I took a risk by deactivating all of my major social media outlets. It’s been six months of no Instagram or Twitter/X or Facebook, and I can breathe again.

I feel liberated.

It seems to me that rejection dysphoria might be rooted in unhealed wounds and past trauma. As in, when have I suffered betrayal? When did someone walk away from me without explanation? Was I ghosted when I asked a hard question or told someone a vulnerable tidbit about me? Did I offer friendship to someone who did not feel the same affinity?

Online encounters provide a sort of buffer for people who don’t want to confront the more difficult aspects of navigating relationships. Hiding behind a computer or tablet or smartphone provides a fortress, in which one person can easily, and swiftly, ignore a comment or question or proposal from another.

Choosing to communicate with kindness

We forget that these are humans behind the typed words. They are, in some cases, faceless to us, but they still exist inside a body with a beating heart. Because the majority of communication happens through tonal inflection, facial expressions, and body language (experts say up to 85%), then what happens when we eliminate these by exclusively interacting with others through digital devices?

We are left with 15%.

What does that mean? It means that we have to guess at a lot of things: What did that person mean? Were they being humorous, sarcastic, or nasty? Are they a stalker, or are they genuinely complimenting me? Will she think I am a stalker or understand that I am genuinely complimenting her?

Should everything be explained? There is that phenomenon called overexplaining that happens to be a trait correlated with trauma. You know, when you or someone else thinks you have to spill all the nitty gritty details in defense of a statement or opinion or belief or boundary.

It’s trickier to communicate online. A follow or unfollow, subscribe or unsubscribe, might mean a person needs to digitally declutter, to simplify. It’s not personal. The rational mind knows this. But to one who is highly sensitive and/or struggles with rejection sensitivity dysphoria, it might be taken as a direct affront.

We’re constantly deciphering and decoding the nuances of human language. In ages past, we didn’t have the added frustration of online forums to convolute our relationships. It was: meet a friend for coffee, sit across from them, observe the way they smile or sigh or their lip quivers, the soft or dramatic intonation of their voice. You could clasp their hand, give it a squeeze. You would know when they were joking or hurt.

Because of this, my personal view is for us to be exceptionally kind when we communicate online, especially if we do not have an IRL (in real life) relationship with someone. What do I mean? Well, to begin with an affirmation. Say something positive, even if you are emotionally triggered by what you read. Here’s an example.

Not long ago, I received a scathing email from a man who’d read an article I wrote several years ago. He claimed I was negligent in sharing something that could mislead readers and that my oversight could not be forgiven. There was simply no excuse for it. What did I do? Before responding—which I realize I was not obliged to do—I returned to the primary source, the article in question, and pored over the section he highlighted.

In situations like these, I try to distance myself from my emotional reaction so that I can see the other person’s perspective. In this case, it was a stretch, but I did see it. And here’s what I did: I emailed my former editor and explained that this particular sentence was worded in a way that had been misconstrued to mean something entirely different than what I intended. I also offered a brief amendment.

Next, I emailed the gentleman. I began with, Thanks so much for contacting me. I can see that you were thoughtful in wanting others to have clarity on this topic. When I returned to the article, I noticed my error and informed my editor about the correction. My intention was not to mislead, but to share.

He replied, You should never have made the mistake in the first place. That’s on you and you don’t need to respond.

My impulse was to do just that—respond, react. I was incensed at this point. But I stepped away from my email, took a walk, collected my thoughts, and refrained. You see, I don’t like any sort of unresolved conflict, especially if I am perceived as the perpetrator or instigator. I like to clean up my messes, correct my mistakes, repair things. Misunderstandings hanging between two people upset me, disrupt my inner equilibrium.

The point I am making is that we all react strongly to things, especially what we read online. But we have choices in whether to be kind, or unkind. My belief is to give others the benefit of the doubt, believe that people are basically good at their core, and reply to them in a dignified manner. Not saccharine or contrived, but sincere.

Maybe one reason so many of us feel overwhelmed and exasperated is that our human connections lack a certain level of depth and authenticity. Everything we are exposed to in the digital world is divisive, polarized, manipulated, and vitriolic.

But I believe you and I can be change agents in our one-on-one encounters, in humbling ourselves when we screw up and owning those mistakes, in fishing for the good in all people and then reflecting that goodness back to them.

We are all ripples in a pond.

1. https://drsharonsaline.com/2021/05/25/rejection-sensitive-dysphoria/