The illusion of free speech and why my Facebook is deactivated

This is about the illusion of free speech and why my Facebook account is deactivated.

This is not just a blog about deactivating Facebook. It’s about what happens when a woman dares to speak her truth after years of being the entertainer — when she stops posting just beauty, and starts sharing what matters: abuse, culture, identity, tradition, and the cost of honesty in a world that says it's free.

For more than a decade, I’ve shown up — day after day — offering something of myself through the Facebook space. I connected with artists from all over the world, built soul-based relationships, and found a kind of honesty and kinship with strangers that I often couldn’t find with those who had known me for years. We spoke from the soul — not filtered through fear or surface roles, but through shared wounds, wonder, and creativity. But like a river, things shift. They evolve. And I find myself standing at a different bend in the current now.

I’ve shared art, colour, joy, reflections, fragments of poetry, and moments of beauty. I’ve poured in entertainment, encouragement, and inspiration. In many ways, I’ve been like the singing cricket in the French fable — lightening the load of others with my voice, even while carrying my own.

But lately, something has shifted.

After all these years of sharing uplifting content, I felt the call to go deeper. Not just fluff, not just the beautiful brushstrokes — but the truth beneath them. The subjects that matter to me:
Abuse. Trauma. Narcissistic wounds. Being an immigrant. The traditions that give a nation its backbone — like those of Romania, my homeland, the cultural tapestries that shape us — including stories from Russia and other countries that shaped my identity and curiosity. And how history, memory, and meaning can so easily be erased under the pressure of fast-moving narratives.

But the moment I began sharing these reflections, the room grew colder.

People I thought were friends disappeared. Others came out of the shadows not to support, not to listen, but to attack. There’s a particular kind of cruelty that exists online — a self-righteous, reactive noise that only gets loud when you dare to say something different.

They weren’t there when I shared daily bits of art.
They weren’t there when I opened up about pain in the society and family, things that many don’t want to see.
They didn’t check in or ask, “How are you?”
But they appeared when they disagreed — with claws sharpened by a culture of judgment.

And there’s another layer. The invisible one. The quiet surveillance.

New people enter your life — potential collaborators, clients, neighbours, friends of friends, business contacts. They don't say it, but they scroll. They watch. They judge. They read between your lines, project their fears onto your words, and form opinions about you based not on who you are in person, but on a curated glimpse of your complexity online. Careers, opportunities, and partnerships can disappear — not because you’re unqualified or unkind, but because you dared to be authentic in a world that prefers safe masks.

It reminded me not of communism, but of something even more painful: the illusion of freedom here, in a society that prides itself on it.

Because here’s the truth: I felt safer expressing myself in Romania during communism than I do sharing certain views here. Let’s remember—we all speak from personal experience, and even a single word like communism carries different meanings for different people. It holds a multitude of nuances and shouldn’t be dismissed with broad brushstrokes or recycled platitudes. Nothing in history is purely black or white. It's a complex terrain, and for those who approach it with superficiality, it quickly becomes a minefield.

There, at least, the boundaries were clear. The rules were known.
Here, everything’s unspoken — yet you feel watched, judged, corrected for thinking independently.

People say, “We have free speech.”
But if your words challenge mainstream dogma or the pre-approved narratives, you’re not encouraged — you’re isolated. If you share about emotional abuse, traditions, or cultural nuance that doesn't fit the current script — you're deemed a problem. If you question, you're erased.

So what does that mean for people like me — people who write, create, provoke thought?

It means I am considering logging off. Actually I have logged off and Facebook is gone for me.
Not because I’m afraid of my voice — but because I want to protect it.
I want to use it where it can breathe, not just survive.
I want to connect with people who don’t just “like” art — but who understand the truth that fuels it.

Art is not only decoration. It’s declaration.
It’s survival.
And I refuse to dilute that to make others comfortable.

So perhaps now, the cricket stops singing for the crowd and starts singing just for herself — and those who truly want to listen.

If you’ve ever felt the sting of silence after sharing your truth — if you’ve lost friends, neighbours for speaking up or felt watched instead of supported — I see you. I’d love to hear your story. Share a comment, send a message, or simply pass this along to someone who’s feeling the same. Let’s create a space where truth doesn’t feel like a threat, but a homecoming.

Until next time, be well!

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