Disconnected: What Facebook Took From Me

Fifteen years of memories, friendships, and connection—gone without warning.

Fifteen years ago, I was managing a college bookstore, and social media wasn’t part of my daily vocabulary. The young people who worked for me kept talking about a platform called Facebook. Reluctantly, I joined, not expecting much.

Two weeks later, a shooting occurred at the store. My mother entered hospice, and a week after that, she died.

To say I was overwhelmed would be an understatement. In that moment of grief and chaos, the simple act of reconnecting with old friends online became a balm for my broken heart.

In the years that followed, Facebook became a central part of my life. My wife and I even hosted an annual “Facebook Barbecue”—a day when people we’d connected with online came to our home in person. One year, over 150 people stopped by. New friendships were formed, and old ones were rekindled. It was a gathering born of digital connection, grounded in something very real.

Facebook is also where my writing career began. Readers who followed my online stories encouraged me to publish the Alex and Cassidy series. They initiated “Taco Wars” between character teams and helped catapult my first novel, Intersection, to number one. Later, I introduced my work as JA Armstrong on the same platform.

I didn’t just build a following; I built relationships—lifelong ones. I met readers, writers, and friends from all over the world—what began as a virtual handshake became something personal, meaningful, and lasting.

Yesterday, Facebook said goodbye to me. No explanation. No warning. Just… gone.

My account is now “under review” after I appealed Facebook’s decision to permanently remove me from the platform, but I’m not hopeful. The reason? A breach of their cybersecurity standards—likely the result of a strange message I received on Messenger just hours before my account vanished.

I had a verified profile, but that didn’t matter. Within the hour, I was erased. I couldn’t log in. Friends couldn’t find me. One reader assumed I had unfriended and blocked her, and she took to her own page to disparage me. I only know this because another author messaged my wife. Even my son called me from work, confused—he uses Facebook to send me jokes and share my photography and writing with his friends.

If my appeal is denied, I am not allowed to create a new account. Not ever.

There is no customer service line. No help desk. No human being to speak to. No context or compassion. Whatever happened—whether it was malicious access or an algorithmic misread—it doesn’t matter. Not to them.

Is losing Facebook the end of the world? Of course not. But it is life-altering.

Facebook sells itself as a community, a place to connect. And at its best, despite the noise, the ads, and the endless scroll, it is that. My account held fifteen years of memories, hundreds of conversations, and dozens of people I only connect with through that platform. And now, they’re gone.

What hurts most isn’t just the loss of connection—it’s the loss of a record:

My son leaving for the Navy.

My wedding.

Photos of our fur babies.

Book releases, concerts, barbecues.

Moments of grief, shared and supported.

Fundraisers for people in need.

Tributes to people I love.

I’ve thought about stepping away from Facebook many times in recent months. The constant barrage of dehumanizing memes wears on my soul. The arguing, the accusations, the distortions—it’s hard to watch the steady erosion of joy. But I stayed because I believed in connection.

I’ve tried to meet people where they are, even when we disagreed. I’ve tried to be thoughtful, respectful, and welcoming—even when challenged. I’ve tried to keep Facebook a place where connection meant something.

I shouldn’t be astounded. But I am.

And I worry.

I’m lucky. I have a large support network. My work lives across multiple platforms: Substack, Instagram, Patreon, andTikTok. I’ll be able to rebuild.

But what about the people who can’t?

What about the woman who was so hurt by my disappearance that she assumed I’d blocked her over political differences—and used that assumption to publicly vilify me? Her post hurt me far less than my absence hurt her. I became one more reason to distrust and dehumanize.

That’s the risk Facebook refuses to acknowledge.

Its algorithms don’t see the person—only the pattern.

Its decisions don’t consider context—only compliance.

This isn't just about me. It's about what happens when a company markets itself as a community, then vanishes a person from it without recourse, without recognition, without a trace. What happens when that “community” is someone’s only tether to others? Especially in a time when loneliness is epidemic and connection can mean everything?

Facebook requires rules, yes. But it also demands regulation. We've seen the headlines about harmful algorithms, bullying, lies, and division. But there’s another side: the erasure. The silent vanishing. The disappearance of digital identities with real human consequences.

This experience has left me rattled, not just for myself, but for those who won’t have the tools or platforms to rebuild. Those for whom Facebook is their only public square, their only neighborhood, their only way to be seen.

We live in precarious times.

The individual is shrinking in value.

Rights are being stripped away.

Immigrants. Women. People of color. LGBTQ people. The poor.

Even consumers.

We are being reduced to data, bought and sold in systems that no longer recognize our humanity.

Facebook is part of that system.

And while it may not have intended harm, harm has been done. To me. To others. Quietly. Dispassionately.

I’ve built my life and work around deepening connection, on any platform I can. To meet people where they are. To invite them into my space. To see them. Know them. To learn from them and leave something behind in both of us that is lasting.

That hasn’t changed.

In the weeks ahead, I’ll be rebuilding my social media world—not out of vanity or necessity, but out of hope. Hope that we can still use these tools for good. That we can build something more humane.

But I worry.

I worry we are losing something essential—our warmth, our empathy, our capacity to understand beyond what an algorithm can track. I want to be part of what brings it back.

I still believe connection is worth fighting for.