When Congress passed the TikTok ban earlier this year, a part of me hoped ByteDance, the parent company of Tiktok, wouldn’t sell to an American buyer. As I write this from Green Library, my phone sits next to my laptop with the TikTok app very much intact and operational. Like many of my peers, I’ve mastered the art of “just one more video” while my papers and problem sets remain untouched.
The failed ban attempt has become somewhat of a joke on campus. Classmates share TikToks about the ban, and discussion sections occasionally devolve into almost heated debates about digital sovereignty and free speech. But beneath my performative relief that my favorite funny videos remain safe, I feel a growing sense of missed opportunity.
And I know I’m not alone.
It’s no secret that TikTok has become the ultimate procrastination tool in our academic arsenal. Its algorithm knows exactly when I’m most vulnerable – usually just before a paper deadline – and serves me an endless stream of content.
The platform’s addictive nature isn’t just about wasted time. It’s reshaping how we experience life on the Farm, making it difficult to fully immerse ourselves in everything from daily social interactions to the sublime moments of Stanford tradition. Instead, we’re viewing these experiences through the lens of highly curated and produced content, wondering if our lives match up.
There’s even a vicarious aspect to Tiktok. During last quarter’s finals week, I spent more time watching TikTok compilations of people studying than actually studying. The irony wasn’t lost on me: I was watching other people’s productive lives instead of living my own. When the ban seemed imminent, I felt a strange mix of panic and relief. Panic because, like any good addict, I couldn’t imagine life without my daily dose of digital dopamine. Relief because maybe, just maybe, I’d finally get more sleep or read those novels collecting dust on my dorm room shelf.
What does it say about us that we’ve become so dependent on an app that many of us secretly hoped someone would take the decision out of our hands? The failed ban represents more than just a chance to break free from digital dependence – it’s a mirror reflecting our collective inability to set boundaries with technology and assert agency in our choices. The gap between our desire and our behavior feels increasingly wide.
And yet, Tiktok is in many ways a marvel. It can educate us in seconds from a wide range of sources, expose users to a plethora of new ideas, allow teenagers — especially those who feel most alone — to find community, and give anyone from anywhere the ability to share their voice. Sure, the app is addictive. In fact, while writing this, I’ve checked TikTok three times, each time justifying it as “research” for this article.
The ban may have failed, but maybe that’s exactly why we need to have an honest conversation about our relationship with this app. Instead of blaming the app, we need to take responsibility and use one of the most powerful tools ever created intentionally — rather than mindlessly. Congress couldn’t save us from ourselves, and it might be time to consider that nobody is coming to save us. It’s on each of us to hold ourselves accountable for what we do with the siren call of “just one more” video attempting to lure us in again.