Me vs WhatsApp: A tale of ghosting, guilt, and group chat muting

Little did I anticipate that the most formidable opponent of my early thirties would be none other than…WhatsApp.

Of all the battles I expected to face in my thirties, WhatsApp did not feature on the list. And yet, here I am, slowly succumbing to the unshakeable truth that this stupid little app has become the most anxiety-inducing, guilt-wrenching, and constant first-world battle of my adulthood experience thus far.

Forget ageing or taxes—my biggest problem is WhatsApp.

I look at those excitable little numbers next to all the people I've been ghosting, and wonder whether this is my life now: A never-ending run of apologies for not replying sooner, over and over again, until I wither away and it’s all finally over. My life has become a constant battle between the (earnest!) desire to keep up with friends and family, and the overwhelming sense of dread that accompanies a backlog of messages and digital catch-up with seemingly no endpoint or completion rate in sight. Ever.

"I'll get back to you this week!" I say with all of the best intentions. "Work's just super busy!" I add, to assuage my guilt at not replying immediately to fifteen new photos of their baby. But, nevertheless, days turn into weeks, and weeks turn into months. And now, here I am, wishing them a late merry Christmas in March. Every belated response transforms my well-intentioned words into a cruel reminder of missed milestones; they've already been on the holiday, quit the job, found someone else to help.

I’d like to add that I never used to be this bad. In fact, berating my now husband for his bad reply-itus was something I did often when we first got together. Being someone who had instantly responded to messages since getting my first brick phone at fifteen, I couldn't fathom why he'd leave his beloveds hanging for weeks at a time. How hard was it to just…reply!? It was so rude!?

But now, I get it. Sweet god, DO I GET IT.

Maybe it’s getting older and realising the only antidote to a life spent chronically online during the week is an entire weekend with my nose in a book, aggressively ignoring my phone and any type of digital distraction. Maybe it’s because I just don’t have as much energy as I did at 16. Maybe it’s having the craziest, most mentally draining but exhilarating job which leaves me satisfied but depleted come Friday. I don’t have the time to respond during the week, but by the weekend I just don’t have the willpower. I crave the tranquillity of unavailability.

The situation has become so abhorrently stress-inducing that I’ve begun assigning specific slots to work through my WhatsApp backlog as if WhatsApp itself were an entire occupation. A job to be done. A hideous, odious, laborious task. And yet, without these allotted reply sessions physically booked into my calendar (I’m not even joking), I fear that no one would ever hear from me again.

For months, I debated deleting WhatsApp entirely and going iMessage only. I turned off my “Last seen”, online status, and read receipts. I removed every single message notification from my phone. I become an obsessive archiver, conversation muter, and group chat leaver. I’m proud to have perfected the art of muting a group chat just as soon as I’m added to it, in a fashion not dissimilar to a round of ‘fastest finger first’.

If I could add an out-of-office to my phone telling everyone to expect a reply in seven to ten business days, I would. If I could tell everyone I loved them, but that I’m simply non-contactable via WhatsApp for the rest of my life, even better. 

The hardest part of the fight against WhatsApp is the presumed assumption from friends that I must not care. The fact that it takes me three months to reply to a birthday message must mean I’m nonplussed about their existence. Then there’s the nagging worry that my WhatsApp reluctance makes me a shittier, less empathetic friend, too: The small reasons for texting out of the blue I used to love—a photo of their favourite food, a stupid joke only they'll understand, a TikTok of their 00s crush—I seldom send anymore. Why? Because before I can share the cat video that made me cackle hysterically and that I know they'd enjoy in equal measure, I have to respond to a million messages, pictures, and voicenotes about their trip to Spain (three months ago). And, honestly? The video of Jacob Elordi just isn’t worth it.

And it truly isn’t because I don’t care about their trip. I do. So much so that I want to be in the right brain space when I hear all about it. I want to be relaxed, switched off, non-harried. I want to enjoy the experience with them. Respond affectionately. But the window of opportunity for that mindset is so infinitesimally small that I end up not replying at all. I savour these updates from my loved ones as though they are treasure; saving them up for just the right moment to respond with every inch of myself. But that moment is…never? Adult life doesn’t slow down. The days, weeks, months (yes, months! I once replied six months later) drag on. 

The one good thing, however, is that I have become the most understanding and unoffended WhatsApp conversation partner ever. It can take entire months to reach the crux of an issue when there’s a 3-week delay between each conversation round.

But do you know what? That’s FINE, I’m here for it. If you want to spend a year apologising to each other for a lack of contact? I’m your girl. If you completely ignore my ugly selfie from the bath? You're clearly busy, no hard feelings. And if I never hear back from you ever again? Honestly? Girl, good for you. You did it. I’m proud of you. Go and live that WhatsApp-free existence. Teach me.

So, to every wonderful human in my life: I am still here, still interested, and still rooting for you from the sidelines. I would just like you to stop messaging me, please.