What if your TikTok Addiction isn’t the Problem?

How I’m making peace with the hours I’ve lost on TikTok.

I was once playing a drinking game with friends when someone pulled a card that said:
“Show the group your screen time.”

My stomach dropped. The idea of revealing my screen time felt as exposing as standing there naked.

I spent hours on TikTok. Consistently getting 3-hour sleeps because I got too caught in the dopamine loop to put my phone down.

I didn’t need external judgment to confirm what I already knew: I had a problem.

There were many attempts to control my screen time, most of which resulted in an impulsive deletion of the app.

Yet somehow I always ended up redownloading it to find a recipe or check a friend’s post. And slowly, quietly, I would slip back into addiction.

So one of the most effective quitting techniques I tried thereafter was incredibly simple:

Every time I reached for the app before my consciousness caught up, I asked myself,

“Why am I opening TikTok right now?”

The answer that kept coming back shocked me:

I was using TikTok to avoid pain.
When I had a stomachache — I NEEDED TikTok more than Tums.
When I fought with a friend— I NEEDED TikTok more than reconciliation.
When my childhood cat died — I NEEDED TikTok more than comfort

In 2024, I was deeply unhappy and struggling to self-soothe. Every time my thoughts spiralled, I reached for something that hardly made me think at all. And I knew it… But I had no idea how to fix it.

In the end, what drastically improved my screen time wasn’t something I did intentionally. The more I began prioritizing my mental well-being, the less I needed TikTok. Not because I made some grand commitment to reduce my screen time, it just became less necessary.

The Aftermath

I grieved the hours I’d wasted. I mourned the mental clarity I’d lost like an athlete whose injury took them out of their beloved sport. I ruined a lot of the best years of my life under a comforter glued to a glowing box.

I spiralled into “What ifs”:

What if I’d used that time to learn a new language?
I’d be fluent by now.

What if I were reading instead of on TikTok?

I still would’ve got the escapism, but I would sound smarter, and my attention span would be better.

What if I’ve done irrefutable damage to my brain?

I spiralled until I eventually had to swallow the tough pill:

The time is gone. The lesson has landed.
So now it’s time to make peace with those lost hours.

It’s easy to say, “If only I’d had better coping skills, I’d be so much further ahead.”
But here’s an equally valid possibility:
What if I’d had worse ones?

I was miserable. If TikTok hadn’t existed, I would’ve still needed something to numb that pain.
What if I’d turned to drinking? Gambling? Purging? Hard drugs?

One way I’m healing my relationship with TikTok is by thanking it for holding me when nothing else could.

I thank it for the laughs.
For reminding me that pain isn’t permanent.
For showing me people who were living full, happy lives when I couldn’t imagine one for myself.
For comforting me in my darkest hours.
For giving me recipes and workout ideas that gently nudged me toward a better life.

In spiritualism, addiction is often seen as a kind of soul-sickness; a struggle to come home to yourself. I have deep compassion for people who suffer from addiction. Because when you’re fully present and regulated, no one would choose to be dependent on something. No one would want to alter their brain chemistry like that.

So I owe myself that same compassion.
My addiction was my lifeline.

This TikTok found me on such a dark day, and I genuinely spent hours laughing.

My Next Challenge

I still haven’t fully overcome my fear of sharing my voice on there. But I’m getting closer.

One question that keeps tugging at me is this:
As someone who cares deeply about wellness, am I contributing to the problem by posting on TikTok?
Am I endorsing a coping mechanism I once struggled to break?

I get that perspective. These platforms are designed to be addictive, but for many of us, they’ve also been portals.
Portals to creativity.
To connect.
To heal.

I’m not saying we shouldn’t be critical. I just think the conversation deserves more nuance.

When I was younger, I felt most alive making YouTube videos and editing on Video Star. Not for clout, but because it made me feel like myself.

An absolute iconic production from 12-year-old me (I don’t know why I am dressed like a middle-aged banker, but it’s okay).

And when I’m old, reflecting on my life, I know I’ll regret not showing up for that joy.
I’ll regret not giving YouTube another shot.
I’ll regret holding myself back just because I was scared of being misunderstood.

Here in Canada, we don’t earn money from TikTok.
But I still want to post, not for validation, but because it feels aligned.
It feels fun again.
And the kind of people who would love this blog?
They live on TikTok.

So now I’m turning the question to you:
What do you feel in your body when you’ve had too much screen time?

xx

Jas