Forget engagement announcements, 2025 was the year of the breakup post.

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I'm not sure when it started exactly, but lately, my Instagram feed has become a digital cemetery of former relationships.

I'll be innocently scrolling, on the toilet, mid-commute, somewhere between three and seventeen minutes late for something, and BAM: I spy another one.

A breakup announcement. From a complete and total stranger.

Not a celebrity. Not a friend. Not even a second-tier mutual acquaintance. Just a heartfelt message of heartbreak from some random woman I've never met and don't follow but who Instagram insists on suggesting to me every week like it's absolutely certain we shared a womb in a past life.

Watch: Do we need a 'Happy Ever After' more than ever? Post continues below.

The announcement is always in the same format. There's a selfie in soft lighting. A moody beach pic. An artsy snap of a morning latte. Their ex's hand is strategically cropped out in slide three.

The caption is a poetic haiku that blends heartbreak and healing. Something like: "We've chosen love, just not with each other. We'll always be grateful. We'll always have Paris."

I used to find these posts jarring. Like, who are you and why are you telling me this? Did we go to primary school together? Were we in the same Pilates class last Saturday? 

But after the third or fourth surprise breakup announcement from a person I have absolutely zero parasocial connection to, I had a revelation:

I love this for us. In fact, I respect it.

Because while it might seem unhinged to publicly announce the end of your relationship to 3,248 people (half of whom are acquaintances, coworkers, or your ex's weird cousin Jared), I also believe it's… kind of genius?

Please allow me to explain.

We already post our engagements. Our pregnancies. Our weddings. Our babies in aesthetically pleasing rompers staring pensively at the ocean. We even do soft launches of new partners — a beer glass across the table, a side profile in a group shot, a blurry reflection in a café window like it's a Taylor Swift Easter egg.

And yet when the love story fizzles or explodes or simply disappears into an awkward text exchange and the shared custody of an air fryer, we go silent.

We start deleting evidence. We archive old posts of us kissing and remove surnames from bios. We pretend nothing happened. Pretend we didn't post "my person" on Valentine's Day only six months ago. 

But you know what happens when we go silent? People notice. They stalk. They start combing through your feed like investigators on a true-crime podcast.

"She posted him on June 17 with the caption 'Saturdays with this one' and multiple love hearts, but then there's nothing. Interesting. Interesting."

And if the feed isn't giving answers, the Instagram story sure is. Once upon a time, that was the real giveaway — not the grid edits, but the sudden, glowing reemergence of the 24-hour thirst trap.

The cute mirror selfie. The bikini throwback. The full-face glam captioned "felt cute." We all knew what it meant. A breakup had happened and the phoenix was now rising… wearing activewear and too much lip gloss.

And then it's off to the group chat:"Guys I think Emily broke up with Marcus??""OMG why??""She deleted their Bali pics and she posted a quote about healing and divine feminine power.""And she just uploaded a lingerie mirror pic.""Say no more."

This is not niche behaviour. We all do it. We all have too much time on our hands and a weird vested interest in the romantic lives of people we haven't spoken to since Year 10 biology.

So if people are going to stalk anyway — if they're going to analyse and theorise and dissect your socials like it's their full-time job — why not just beat them to it?

Own the narrative. Write the press release and call the media to say, "Hi, yes. The breakup rumours are true. It's been a big week. Thank you for your concern. I won't be available for further questions at this time."

Honestly? It might just be the most emotionally intelligent move a person can make in 2025.

When someone cuts through the noise and says, "Hey, just FYI, that chapter of my life is over. I'm grieving and growing and also, yes, my ex took the Dyson," I'm all in. I'm invested. I'm clapping from behind my phone screen. Because that takes guts.

Also, just for transparency — for all those playing along at home and quietly noticing my own grid cleanse this year— YES. WE BROKE UP.

(Slide one: me drinking wine on the floor. Slide two: the dog that I lost custody of. Slide three: a blurry photo of my friends cheering me on as I drunkenly text "I just think it's funny how… ".)

There. I said it. You can stop whispering in your WhatsApp threads now.

I'm not embarrassed. I'm not hiding. And no, I will not be removing the photos of us at that wedding because I looked pretty hot that day, actually.

Breakup announcements aren't self-indulgent. They're just... fair. They're real. In this social media age, they are a necessary act of emotional admin.

If a baby announcements get a feed post and 116 comments that read "so happy for you!!" then surely a breakup deserves at least a carousel and a few fire emojis from your besties.

Because what is a breakup if not the birth of a whole new era?

You're single. You're spiralling. You're downloading Hinge, deleting Hinge, re-downloading Hinge. You're making a questionable hair colour decision. You're wearing red lipstick on a weeknight to take the bins out. You're crying at car commercials and eating cereal for dinner. You're being reborn.

And don't we deserve to document that too?

So post the announcement. Make it cryptic. Make it dramatic. Make it empowering. Make it chaotic. You don't owe anyone context, but you do owe yourself the freedom of saying: "This happened. This ended. I'm in the in-between now and it's kind of beautiful."

Breakups aren't the end of the story. They're the plot twist. And they belong on the grid.

Feature image: Supplied.