It makes me sad; I had to stop seeing my fans. It is like mental

The words of Ashnikko, “It makes me sad; I had to stop seeing my fans. It is like mental self harm to go and read my DMs,” echo with the pain of a soul caught between love and wounding. They reveal a tragic paradox of the modern age: the very bond that connects the artist to those who cherish their work can also become the source of anguish. In this lament, we hear both sorrow and survival—the sorrow of losing closeness with admirers, and the survival born of stepping back from the wounds inflicted by unchecked words.

The origin of this reflection lies in the world of digital intimacy, where social media opens a door between the creator and the multitude. Once, the artist stood upon the stage and the crowd applauded; the exchange ended with the closing of the curtain. Now, the stage follows them home, pouring into their private hours through endless messages, praises mixed with cruelty, adoration entwined with venom. To step into one’s inbox is no longer a gesture of communion, but, as Ashnikko names it, an act of mental self harm, for the wounds inflicted are invisible yet deep.

History too offers echoes of this struggle, though in different form. Consider Marcus Aurelius, emperor of Rome, who in his Meditations often reminded himself that he must endure the criticism and malice of others, that the voices of the crowd are fickle and often cruel. Though he lived in an age without screens, he too knew the burden of being judged by multitudes, praised by some and despised by others. Ashnikko’s words remind us that the challenge has not changed—only its form. Where once the noise was in the forum, now it lives in the digital shadows of private messages.

Yet there is also wisdom in her decision to step back. She recognizes that to preserve the self, one must sometimes create distance. The ancients called this guarding the soul—knowing when to retreat from the battlefield not out of cowardice but out of necessity. For to continually expose oneself to cruelty is to allow poison to seep into the spirit. By turning away, she does not betray her fans, but rather preserves her strength so that she may continue her art, her voice, her gift. In this, there is courage, for it is not easy to walk away from connection, even when that connection wounds.

The sorrow she names, however, is real: “It makes me sad; I had to stop seeing my fans.” The loss is not small, for the bond between artist and audience is sacred. To lose it, or to weaken it, feels like tearing away part of oneself. Yet such loss must sometimes be endured, for a bond poisoned by cruelty cannot nourish. The grief here teaches us that boundaries, though painful, are necessary for survival, and that sadness does not make them less wise.

The lesson is profound: do not sacrifice your mental well-being on the altar of others’ opinions. The world will speak endlessly—some with kindness, some with cruelty. But you must guard your heart, for no art, no work, no relationship can flourish from a wounded spirit left untended. Like Ashnikko, you may need to step away, to close the door, to choose silence over exposure. In doing so, you are not weak—you are preserving the soil from which your creativity and strength will grow again.

Practically, this means cultivating boundaries with courage. Limit what voices you allow into your mind. Seek out circles of trust where you are known in truth and not judged in cruelty. Remember that silence from the mob is not the end of your worth, but the beginning of your healing. For the voices of hate are many, but they do not define you; the voice of your own heart must remain louder.

Thus, Ashnikko’s words, though born of sadness, carry the weight of ancient wisdom. To protect oneself from harm, even the unseen harm of words, is not selfishness but strength. Let future generations remember this: to guard your mind is to guard your life. And when cruelty comes disguised as connection, walk away with dignity, and choose peace over poison.