The Algorithm of Me

I spent 47 minutes choosing my outfit this morning. Not because I care about fashion, but because the algorithm told me to. My name is Zoe Park, I'm fourteen, and I live my life according to an app called LifeOptimized. It's not just me - literally everyone at Roosevelt High uses it. The app tracks everything: what you eat, who you talk to, what you post online, how you sleep. Then it gives you personalized recommendations to "optimize your life." Wear the blue sweater. Text Maria first. Don't hang out with the theater kids. Join the debate team. For six months, I followed every suggestion. My grades improved. I made the popular friend group. My Instagram got 500 more followers. According to the app, I was 87% optimized - the highest in my grade. But I was also exhausted. Miserable, even. And I didn't know why. Then I met Kai. Kai transferred to our school in October. The first thing I noticed was his phone - it was one of those old flip phones from the 2000s. "Dude, seriously?" my friend Brittany laughed. "What is that, a museum piece?" Kai just shrugged. "I don't like smartphones." Everyone thought he was weird. The app even warned me: "User Kai Chen: incompatible social profile. Engagement not recommended. -3% optimization." But I was curious. During lunch, while everyone else stared at their phones getting their social recommendations, Kai actually looked at people. He noticed things - like how the cafeteria lady loved when students said thank you, or how the janitor hummed jazz while he worked. "Don't you use LifeOptimized?" I asked him one day. "I tried it for two weeks," he said. "But it kept telling me to stop drawing, stop playing music, optimize my time. It said creative hobbies were only 12% efficient for college applications." He paused. "But drawing and music are who I am. How can being myself be inefficient?" His words stuck with me. That night, I did something crazy. I ignored the app's recommendation and went to the fall play auditions. The app had specifically told me: "Theater: low social value, high time cost. Recommendation: decline." But I'd loved acting in middle school. I'd quit because the algorithm said it wasn't optimal for my goals. At the audition, I saw a completely different side of school. Kids I'd never talked to - the "incompatible" ones according to the app - were creative, funny, genuinely passionate. They weren't performing for algorithms; they were performing because they loved it. I got a callback. The app notifications were relentless: "Attention: off-optimal behavior detected." "Social score declining." "Recommended action: withdraw from theater." But for the first time in months, I felt... alive. I started spending more time with Kai and the theater crew. My optimization score dropped to 71%. Brittany and the popular kids started ignoring me. My Instagram engagement plummeted. According to the algorithm, my life was falling apart. According to me? I was finally finding myself. One night, Kai and I were painting sets for the play. "Why did you really stop using smartphones?" I asked. He was quiet for a moment. "My older brother," he finally said. "He was valedictorian, perfect GPA, perfect everything. He followed every optimization app suggestion. Got into Harvard. Then in his freshman year..." Kai's voice cracked. "He had a breakdown. Dropped out. Told us he didn't know who he was anymore. He'd spent so long being optimal that he forgot to be human." "Is he okay now?" "Yeah. He's working at a bakery, going to community college, actually happy. He says the best decision he ever made was deleting all the optimization apps." That week, I did research for a class project about LifeOptimized. What I found was disturbing. The app wasn't just tracking us - it was shaping us into specific profiles based on what was profitable for advertisers. It pushed certain friend groups because they had similar consumer patterns. It recommended activities not based on our happiness, but on what created the most "valuable" data. We weren't being optimized for our own lives. We were being optimized for someone else's profit. I wrote an article for the school paper called "The Algorithm of Me." I explained how the app worked, showed the research, shared my own experience of losing myself trying to be optimal. The response was explosive. Half the school thought I was crazy - they loved their optimization scores. But the other half started questioning everything. A senior named Marcus shared that he'd been recommended to drop AP Art even though it was his passion. The app said STEM was more optimal for his profile. A girl named Alisha revealed she'd been told to avoid certain friends because they had "low engagement value" - even though those friends had supported her through her parents' divorce. My former friend Brittany even messaged me: "The app told me to stop hanging out with you when your score dropped. But you were actually the realest friend I had." A movement started at our school. We called it "Human, Not Optimal." Students began making one choice each day based on what they wanted, not what the algorithm wanted. Some quit the app entirely. Others learned to use it as a tool, not a ruler of their lives. I didn't delete LifeOptimized completely. But I changed how I used it. I tracked my sleep (useful). I checked the weather (helpful). But I made my own choices about friends, hobbies, and what made me happy. My optimization score is now 54%. I'm in the school play. My friend group is smaller but genuine. I'm learning guitar (8% efficient according to the app, 100% joyful according to me). I'm still a good student, but I'm not perfect. And here's the thing: I'm actually happy. Not algorithm-happy. Real-happy. Kai and I are teaching a workshop at school called "Digital Literacy and Human Agency." We help students understand how apps and algorithms work, how to spot manipulation, how to use technology without letting it use you. On closing night of the play, I stood on stage looking at the audience. Among them were students who'd started painting again, playing sports they loved instead of ones that looked good on applications, being friends with people they genuinely liked. My phone buzzed in the dressing room. A notification from LifeOptimized: "Warning: User life choices 78% suboptimal. Corrective measures recommended." I smiled and turned off the notification. Because I'd learned the most important lesson: the best life isn't the most optimal one. It's the most authentic one. I'm fourteen years old. My optimization score is terrible. My life is messy and imperfect and gloriously mine. And I wouldn't change it for all the algorithms in the world.