A Meditation on my Late Youtube Career (2020-2021)

For a generation raised in quarantine, the bedroom became the world. Traditional places for growth—playgrounds, classrooms, and social clubs—were superseded by the chaotic nature of the internet, a system where free will reigned and attention spans collapsed. This was the world of my channel, "GamerMemeBoy," a space built upon the fleeting flame of Tower of Hell livestreams. On my channel, the audience was a number, and the community was both a help and a hindrance. The line between me and my content blurred. This way of living online leads to burnout. The old idea that we were "just playing games" is wrong. My own story proves we face a choice about how to see this past.

Instead, we should see our online history as a hard but useful training ground. We must look closely at what happened, find the lessons we were taught by accident, and make them clear. This turns regret(the obstacle) into strength(the way). We can find the skills we built without knowing it: managing a group, handling a crisis, planning with resources, and guarding a reputation. This understanding shifts from people who simply consumed our past to people who actively build our identities from it.

On the surface, my time as "GamerMemeBoy" was a hobby defined by its end. My 12-year-old self cited the irritation of fans begging for Robux and the high cost of private servers as reasons to quit. Yet, this ignores the powerful precedent of real-world learning embedded within those challenges. Consider the facts: I managed a daily two-hour broadcast, moderated a live audience, and budgeted a virtual currency—HUNDREDS of Robux a month—to maintain the platform.

The most undeniable evidence came from a fan who developed a stalker-like obsession, tracking down my personal accounts. My immediate response was fear and a swift ban. But the lasting lesson was not about a creepy fan; it was a mission-critical education in public-facing risk, digital boundaries, and the responsibility that comes with even minor influence. My past self didn't care even if they were a hot model or a celebrity. But the fact remains clear: this experience led me to a greater grasp of online privacy.

Obsessed with the creator I failed to be, I ignored the person I was becoming. For too long, we have asked if our past online actions were cringe-worthy or commendable, if we were rude or if we were charismatic. Is it not time to ask what those actions were building? The question is no longer about the foolishness of banning a fan, but about the political will to see that act as a goofy, first attempt at moderation. Our responsibility is to align the value we seek from our future with the wisdom buried in our past.

The best way forward is to adopt a personal rule: a clear review of our digital past. The steps are simple. First, write down what happened. Second, list both how you felt then and what real skills you were learning. The reason is plain: the internet was our generation’s first test in business, society, and politics. If we do not learn from these first steps, we build our adult lives on a weak foundation.

Now, I used this experience to enter the realm of journalism. I gained an edge on marketing and media. Yes, I wasn't a student leader. However, this experience built me into the person that I am today, distinct from what I could've achieved as a student leader. I have industry experience.

But should I yearn and weep for my past? No. The only thing I could do is to laugh and learn from it. At the end of the day, it's all about embracing who you are and what you did, even if it was cringe or ludicrous.