The internet, a friend of mine once argued to me, is like a sprawling city: Everyone knows there are neighborhoods you shouldn’t wander into, but it would be wrong to prohibit people from entering them.

The problem with my friend’s view is that whereas one has to go looking for bad neighborhoods, the internet’s dangers—specifically and most perniciously, pornography—come looking for you, even if you happen to be a child. A recent Wall Street Journal investigation found that dummy accounts that specified their age as 13 were regularly served up soft porn by Instagram’s algorithms. Upon the accounts’ creation, Instagram began showing the imaginary users “moderately racy” content, such as women dancing seductively or dressed provocatively. Once these accounts lingered on such videos, Instagram began introducing more graphic videos and posts. “Adult sex-content creators began appearing in the feeds in as little as three minutes,” the Journal reported. “After less than 20 minutes watching Reels, the test accounts’ feeds were dominated by promotions for such creators, some offering to send nude photos to users who engaged with their posts.”

In fact, porn is so ubiquitous online that it’s tempting to dismiss the preponderance of porn available to children as mainly harmless in most cases—a rite of passage for kids growing up on the internet. But childhood exposure to porn is a public-health concern with serious, long-term ramifications for children. Their interests are essentially collateral damage in adults’ right to consume porn as they please, and a massive industry’s interest in preserving its billions of dollars a year in revenue.

[Read: The age of AI child abuse is here]

Some websites take greater care than Instagram or X in preventing minors from accessing sexual content, and recent legislation across the South has begun requiring age verification before a user can browse sites such as Pornhub. But whatever safeguards are in place to protect minors online, they don’t seem to be working. A 2023 report by Common Sense Media found that the average age of first pornography exposure in American children is 12, and another 2023 survey conducted for the Children’s Commissioner for England revealed that a quarter of British youths ages 16 to 21 had been exposed to porn for the first time in primary school. An Australian survey last year, meanwhile, placed the average age of first pornography exposure at a little over 13. Just more than half of the American minors surveyed said that they had encountered porn accidentally; 38 percent of the British young people surveyed reported the same. If safeguards are in place to protect children from coming into contact with porn, they appear laughable.

Childhood experiences with pornography can be distressing for children and can negatively affect their sexual development. Research presented at the 125th Annual Convention of the American Psychology Association in 2017 found that the earlier a man’s first exposure to porn was, the more likely he was to desire power over women, suggesting that contact with porn at an early age may contort a child’s sexual development. One 12-year-old interviewed for the British survey said that her boyfriend had strangled her during their first kiss—part of a trend teenagers I interviewed in 2021 also brought up. A Taiwanese longitudinal study of youths further found that early porn exposure predicted an earlier sexual debut and participation in unsafe sex. A third of respondents in the Australian study indicated that they relied on porn for information about sex, a concerning substitute for proper education—the sort provided by people who know and care for children, not by people attempting to sell them sex. Along with these specific risks, children are also subject to all of the usual problems cited with the adult use of porn: internalizing unrealistic standards for sex, developing excessive consumption habits, becoming desensitized to sexual violence. The main difference is that when porn use begins in childhood, it steps in to miseducate desires that have yet to fully form.

Proponents of porn use generally crusade under the banner of free speech—the Free Speech Coalition, an organization currently fighting a Texas law that would require porn sites to collect proof that users are over 18, is a porn-industry lobbying group. On Wednesday, the FSC argued against the state of Texas over these age-verification laws before the Supreme Court, claiming that these laws abrogate the exercise of free speech. (Pornhub, along with other major porn distributors, has already withdrawn operations from several southern states with age-verification laws on the books.) Even an FSC attorney admitted at the Supreme Court that the organization recognizes the government’s compelling interest in preventing porn from reaching minors.

My friend who analogized the internet to a city with good and bad neighborhoods perhaps failed to consider that the people traversing those streets are in many cases children, and in our society, children’s issues are especially fraught—see recent conflicts about which books should be available to children in their school libraries, and about whether children should be allowed to change their identity at school or their body. All of these debates really are, as the scholar Rita Koganzon wrote in a Yale Law Journal article published last year, “part of an ongoing culture war between factions of adults.” It’s unfortunate that arguments over how to protect children from exposure to porn are very likely to be proxy battles between adults’ differing views on whether porn is good, bad, or neutral—each debate deserves to play out separately, without the interests of children being made subordinate to the interests of adults. The risks associated with childhood porn exposure are real, and worthy of society’s special attention.

There are times when, deep into a scroll through my phone, I tilt my head and realize that I’m not even sure what app I’m on. A video takes up my entire screen. If I slide my finger down, another appears. The feeling is disorienting, so I search for small design cues at the margins of my screen. The thing I’m staring at could be TikTok, or it could be one of any number of other social apps that look exactly like it.

Although it was not the first app to offer an endless feed, and it was certainly not the first to use algorithms to better understand and target its users, TikTok put these ingredients together like nothing else before it. It amassed what every app wants: many users who spend hours and hours scrolling, scrolling, scrolling (ideally past ads and products that they’ll buy). Every other major social platform—Instagram, Facebook, Snapchat, YouTube, X, even LinkedIn—has copied TikTok’s format in recent years. The app might get banned in the United States, but we’ll still be living in TikTok’s world.

I recently made a game out of counting how many swipes it takes for each of my apps to try to funnel me into a bottomless video feed. From the default screen on the YouTube app, I swiped only once, past a long (five-minute) video, before it showed me a split screen of four “Shorts,” the first of which tried baiting me with a few seconds of looping, silent footage. Tapping any would have led me down the app’s vertical-video pipeline. I’m confronted with an array of “Reels” almost immediately upon opening Facebook, and need to swipe only once or twice before hitting similar “Videos for you” on LinkedIn. Both of these apps also have dedicated video tabs; Snapchat and Instagram do too. X eschews the carousel, but clicking any video leads to the entry point of something common to all these platforms: the wormhole. The app expands into full-screen mode to serve me an infinite scroll of videos.

The new social media that TikTok ushered in isn’t really about your actual social circle anymore. Platforms such as Snapchat, Facebook, and Instagram were built on connections to people you’d met before; now using them feels more and more like scrolling through channels, or peeping into 1 million glass houses. In 2022, Kate Lindsay wrote for The Atlantic that this is the era of “performance” media, “in which we create online primarily to reach people we don’t know instead of the people we do.”

[Read: The age of social media is ending]

Not everyone has loved this transition. In the summer of 2022, hundreds of thousands of people signed a petition declaring that “We The People” wanted to return to the “dawn” of Instagram, when timelines were chronological and the algorithm favored photos. Kendall Jenner and Kim Kardashian each shared a plain graphic reading “MAKE INSTAGRAM INSTAGRAM AGAIN (stop trying to be tiktok i just want to see cute photos of my friends.)” The head of Instagram, Adam Mosseri, responded: “If you’re seeing a new, full-screen version of a feed or you’re hearing about it, know that this is a test,” he said. Instagram’s video feed clearly passed. Photos, which he called part of Instagram’s “heritage,” are still on the app, but they are being drowned out by vertical video. On a call with investors last year, Mark Zuckerberg shared that the videos account for half of the time people spend on Instagram.

Why this particular feature—new videos surfaced by the flick of a finger? “Every designer knows that retention for an app, how engaged users are, is directly correlated with how fast the next thing loads,” Aza Raskin, who purportedly invented infinite scrolling in 2006 and now speaks about the dangers of social media, told me. In other words, apps are harder to tear yourself away from when they quickly present you with more. The design exploits the human urge for a visual cue that a task is through—an empty plate, say, or the bottom of a page—and hooks us because it never delivers. “It hits below the belt,” Raskin said.

The unpredictable and immediate reward of a post you like encourages more hunting. Marrying short videos with rapid context-switching, research suggests, interferes with our ability to act on our prior intentions. We struggle to even remember them. TikTok is especially good at lulling users into a flow state where they are so engrossed that “little else seems to matter to them,” researchers at Baylor University, in Texas, have found. Genuine delight drives that feeling. People report having more fun on TikTok than on Instagram, and experiencing more serendipity than what they find on Shorts or Reels: The app, the researchers found, erodes our self-control in a way those competitors just don’t.

[Read: The government’s disturbing rationale for banning TikTok]

Some users get so hooked on TikTok in particular that they seem to welcome the possible ban: “​​I have an addiction to this app. There’s nothing that could stop me. They need to take it away,”  one recently posted. “I might actually get my life back,” another said. “I average 14 to 15 hours a day … It’s not just like screen time; it’s the constant doomscrolling.” Similarly: “yesss phone detox.” Last year, Fast Company ran a piece with the headline “I’m Addicted to TikTok. I'm Begging the Government to Ban It.” A recent poll found that 44 percent of American adults support a TikTok ban, but only 34 percent view the app as a national-security threat; maybe the rest just want to be saved from themselves.

TikTok’s secret sauce is its famously—even uncannily—smart algorithm, which none of the copycats have totally been able to replicate. Much of the app’s success might also come from the less professionalized, more unhinged culture that its users have cultivated: I’m just more likely to stumble upon someone doing an impression of how a prepubescent Justin Bieber would have performed the role of Glinda the Good Witch, or covering their head with Nair, than I am anywhere else. If the app goes, I’ll have to find another way to check up on a 20-something who has been learning to play the same song on the trumpet since Christmas. She’s bad, but she’s getting better.

TikTok’s ultimate legacy is convincing other major social-media apps that people aren’t interested in seeing just people they know. We also appreciate videos that, like little windows, let us peek briefly into the lives of strangers. FCC Commissioner Brendan Carr has said that this aspect of TikTok makes it “uniquely replaceable”—any app can show you a bunch of strangers. Still, those strangers need to actually like the app enough to use it.

Researchers have already pointed out that the motion we use to scroll past videos kind of resembles pulling the lever of a slot machine. That rhetoric can fuel loose language around social-media addiction, confusing unhealthy use with genuine, debilitating craving. But it does seem very possible that, if TikTok ends up banned, people who have developed the impulse to scroll will continue to pull the lever in search of a dopamine rush, or a video you’d actually send to a friend. Without TikTok, we might just hit the jackpot less.

It took my father nearly 70 years to become a social butterfly. After decades of tinkering with Photoshop on a decrepit Macintosh, he upgraded to an iPad and began uploading collages of photos he took on nighttime walks around London to Flickr and then to Instagram. The likes came rolling in. A photographer from Venezuela applauded his composition. A violinist in Italy struck up a conversation about creativity.  

And then, as quickly as he had made his new friends, he lost them. One night in 2020, he had a seizure. Then he began forgetting things that he’d just been told and sleeping most of the day. When he picked up his iPad again, it was incomprehensible to him. A year or so later, he put an electric kettle on the gas stove. Not long after, he was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.

An estimated 7 million Americans age 65 and older are currently living with Alzheimer’s; by 2050, that number is expected to rise to nearly 13 million. Millions more have another form of dementia or cognitive decline. These diseases can make simple tasks confusing, language hard to understand, and memory fleeting, none of which is conducive to social connection. And because apps and websites constantly update, they pose a particular challenge for patients who cannot learn or remember, which means that people like my father, who rely heavily on social media to stay in touch, may face an even higher barrier to communication.  

When my father turned on his iPad again about a year after his seizure, he couldn’t find the Photoshop app because the logo had changed. Instagram, which now had Reels and a shopping tab, was unnavigable. Some of his followers from Instagram and Flickr had moved on to a new app—TikTok—that he had no hope of operating. Whenever we speak, he asks me where his former life has disappeared to: “Where are all my photos?” “Why did you delete your profile?” “I wrote a reply to a message; where has it gone?” Of all the losses caused by Alzheimer’s, the one that seems to have brought him the most angst is that of the digital world he had once mastered, and the abilities to create and connect that it had afforded him.

[Read: My dad had dementia. He also had Facebook.]

In online support forums, caretakers of Alzheimer’s and dementia patients describe how their loved ones struggle to navigate the platforms they were once familiar with. One member of the r/dementia Subreddit, who requested not to be identified out of respect for her father’s privacy, told me that, about a decade ago, her father had been an avid emailer and used a site called Friends Reunited to recall the past and reconnect with old acquaintances. Then he received his dementia diagnosis after back-to-back strokes; his PC now sits unused. Amy Evans, a 62-year-old in Sacramento, told me that her father, who passed away in May at the age of 92, started behaving erratically online at the onset of Alzheimer’s. He posted on Facebook that he was looking for a sex partner. Then he began responding to scam emails and ordering, among other things, Xanax from India. Evans eventually installed child-protection software on his computer and gave him a GrandPad to connect with family and friends. But he kept forgetting how to use it. Nasrin Chowdhury, a former public-school teacher’s aide who lives in New York City, once used Facebook to communicate daily with family and friends, but now, after a stroke and subsequent Alzheimer’s diagnosis at 55, she will sit for hours tapping the screen with her finger—even if nothing is there, her daughter Eshita Nusrat told me. “I’ll come home from work, and she’ll say she texted me and I never replied, but then I’ll look at her phone and she tried to type it out in YouTube and post it as a video,” Chowdhury’s other daughter, Salowa Jessica, said. Now Chowdhury takes calls with the aid of her family, but she told me that, because she can’t use social media, she feels she has no control of her own life.

Many patients with dementia and related cognitive disorders lose the ability to communicate, regardless of whether they use technology to do it. It’s a vicious cycle, Joel Salinas, a clinical assistant professor of neurology at NYU Grossman School of Medicine, told me, because social disconnect can, in turn, hasten the cognitive degeneration caused by Alzheimer’s and dementia. Social media, by its very nature, is an especially acute challenge for people with dementia. The online world is a largely visual medium with a complex array of workflows, and dementia commonly causes visual processing to be interrupted or delayed. And unlike face-to-face conversation, landlines, or even flip phones, social media is always evolving. Every few months on a given platform, buttons might be changed, icons reconfigured, or new features released. Tech companies say that such changes make the user experience more seamless, but those with short-term memory loss can find the user experience downright impossible.

On the whole, social-media companies have not yet found good solutions for users with dementia, JoAnne Juett, Meta’s enterprise product manager for accessibility, told me. “I would say that we’re tackling more the loss of vision, the loss of hearing, mobility issues,” she said. Design changes that address such disabilities might help many dementia patients who, thanks to their advanced age, have limited mobility. But to accommodate the unique needs of an aging or cognitively disabled user, Juett believes that AI might be crucial. “If, let’s say, Windows 7 is gone, AI could identify my patterns of use, and adapt Windows 11 for me,” she said. Juett also told me her 97-year-old mother now uses Siri to make calls. It allows her to maintain social ties even when she can’t keep track of where the Phone app lives on her iPhone’s screen.

[Read: How people with dementia make sense of the world]

The idea of a voice assistant that could reconnect my father to his online world is enticing. I wish he had a tool that would allow him to connect in the ways that once gave him joy. Such solutions will become only more necessary: Americans are, on average, getting both older and more reliant on technology to communicate. The oldest Americans, who are most likely to experience cognitive decline, came to social media later in life—and still, nearly half of the population over 65 uses it. Social media is an inextricable part of how younger generations connect. If the particular loneliness of forgetting how to use social media is already becoming apparent, what will happen when an entire generation of power users comes of age?