I woke up with a fire in my belly.
So I did what I often do when I have something to say - I opened the Instagram app on my phone. (I was going to add ‘what many do’ but as that’s just a hunch and not based in an scientific research let me just talk about me for now)
This is likely to become a stream of consciousness* that I will come back and tweak for spellings and grammar later so forgive me if I’ve missed a bit.
*Update: It absolutely was a stream of consciousness at first but, two weeks later, I’m now much calmer, so after the screenshots you may be relieved to know that my writing becomes more measured.
Because I’m angry. I’m so f*cking ANGRY.
What happened:
On Tuesday 21st March I went to open my Instagram app (whilst my dinner cooked or something like that…it may have been the kettle boiling I can’t honestly remember because that week was a LOT) and I couldn’t see my @thekarenarthur page. I have four accounts. This one, @menopausewhilstblack and two private ones for family and close friends. Or should I say I HAD three accounts.
Because, dear reader, I couldn’t get into my main account at all.
At first I thought it was my wi-fi playing up. I now live in a small seaside town and, to be honest, this wouldn’t be unusual. Actually that’s not fair. It used to happen in the metropolis too. My point is that I wasn’t yet worried. Something in the pit of my stomach told me that this wasn’t the usual refresh and reappear situation. It FELT wrong.
Let me explain.
I noticed an email from Instagram reporting suspicious activity. It had been sent moments before.
Tuesday 19.19pm
Three minutes later this email had arrived. Also from instagram. At this point I’m alerted and none the wiser so I’m doing as I’m told…
Tuesday 19:22pm
…so when THIS email arrived I duly clicked on the bottom blue button. I changed my password.
At least I thought I had changed my password…
Tuesday 19:24pm
This is when it started to get weird. Look at the time by the way. Only five minutes had passed since the first email. I was expecting a text to arrive but so far nothing. Nada. Zilch. And now it seemed I was logging in from Turkey?
Tuesday 19.24pm
I did not know this person. What was happening?? Now the world started to become blurry. I started to feel like this was happening to someone else and that my eyes were failing me. Perhaps I was just tired, I thought to myself. Perhaps this was just another one of those silly emails that have somehow managed to bypass my junk folder. Perhaps…
Tuesday 19:25pm
And then…BOOM.
Here it was. ‘Antalya records’ had seized my account. Now I felt truly sick. Was this some kind of cruel joke??
Tuesday 19:31pm
A mere twelve minutes had passed.
WTAF!
This ‘person’ sent me screenshots to prove they were a ‘legitimate h*cker’ with experience at extorting money from random strangers. A Hackers Curriculum vitae if you will.
Of course these weren’t the thoughts that were going through my head.
Six emails over a twelve minute period. Account GONE.
I ran to Instagram on my laptop. This is where it really became complicated.
I don’t know if you’ve ever had your account hacked or impersonated or if you’ve ever contacted Instagram ‘help’. Let’s call it Instagram YELP or IGYelp from here on in, shall we? Because that’s all I did! How exactly are they helping? I don’t know the ins and outs of this massive billion dollar entity. I do know that Farcebook and Insta-crack are owned by the same human and I figure that the gatrillions of dollars that Zark Muckerberg makes every day would give him enough left over to employ actual humans to run a half decent customer service. Turns out I’m wrong.
Oh so wrong.
IGYelp is run by bots. So my search for help sent me in a vicious confusing circle of clicks and links. I tried every single avenue I could think of. Youtube videos, blog posts, Farcebook help, none of these were successful.
I messaged my dear friend in a panic. Moments before we’d been messaging about intentional rest happily oblivious to what was coming and how the mood would switch instantly. She called me back instantly (don’t you love friends who just know a message won’t cut it? My cup overfloweth)
Every time I checked my main account it seemed to hold less information. My friend checked on her phone and sent me a screenshot of what she could see. I noted that her view showed a version of @thekarenarthur that was at least a month old with much less followers and, crucially, my previous bio. Only a week prior to this I had changed my description from ‘Big Sixty Shift’ to “St Leonards-on-Sea’. (I guess I really had left London).
All the time we were on the phone I was hoping that I was imagining what was happening. That feeling of nausea tinged with incredulity growing. I hoped against hope that this wasn’t an actual reality. The enormity of losing this online space hadn’t even begun to sink in. An account I’d nurtured from 1 follower to fifteen thousand over 13+ years. I wasn’t ready for that reality.
So did what I do best in a crisis. I took control of the stuff I could control and I took action.
I was worried that my friends and family would be targeted for money. So I whatsapped my contact list to let them know what had happened. At this point I didn’t know whether my podcast account @menopausewhilstblack had also been compromised. I could still access this one but I was so confused about my password status at this time I couldn’t be certain. I wasn’t able to think straight. I was checking every so often with my heart in my mouth!
As I STILL have no earthly clue how to send a WhatsApp broadcast message, this involved cut and pasting the same message several times. (Do you know how to do this? Teach me your ways!) Who knew I had so many contacts? Then I did the same thing for contacts who aren’t on WhatsApp. Repeated again in Farcebook messenger.
I made a ‘quick’ reel (two words that don’t belong in the same phrase imo) to share on all my social media platforms.
I wrote a newsletter for my subscribers and repeated it for a second mailing list (I know. Shush).
Then I took to my bed… and stayed awake most of the night.
When I awoke on Wednesday morning my phone was alight with messages from concerned friends and family. I scanned them for concrete ideas on what to do but most were the ‘Oh no’ kind with a smattering asking for details. In my state at that time there was no chance that I would be able to form a cohesive sentence to describe what I’d already spent my evening going over and over to the bots at IG Yelp. Not to mention the scenarios that I’d revisited in my head that kept me from getting a decent amount of sleep. No sah! I’m not sorry about this. I figured that anyone who felt some kind of a way about my unresponsiveness during my crisis…well… #thatsyoshit
Wednesday was a blur.
I travelled into London to Parliament to give evidence for the Women and Equalities Committee on the governments response to their Menopause care recommendations. It was a welcome distraction. I felt like I was making a difference. I sat with fellow menopause activists tv host Carol Vorderman (Countdown fans stand UUPPP!), journalist and author Mariella Frostrup and director, journalist and author Kate Muir (the same Kate Muir of Davina McCalls ground shifting documentary Sex, Myths and the Menopause fame that I’d appeared in back in 2021) We formidable crew (what do you call a group of menopausal women?) answered questions from Rt Hon Caroline Noakes MP, Carolyn Harris MP and others for almost two hours. I did it wearing a liquorice allsorts hat made from an old bra decorated with rainbow ric-rac. My quilted coat of wonder casually languished happily on a seat in the background of the committee room for all to admire on camera. Plus a F*ck the Tories necklace nestled underneath my shirt close to my heart lending me determination. History making stuff. (You can catch it all on Parliament TV)
And then I ended up on Channel 5 News with Mariella. As you do.
All this to say I didn’t have time or space to think about my IG situation. In the moment it was all forgotten. Until I reached home.
Menopause whilst Black was created in 2020. In a direct response to the murder of George Floyd. Rage and frustration sent me online. I wanted to connect with other Black menopausal women at the time, women who were feeling like me, knowing full well that the stress of this event and the bigger sea of racism could exacerbating their menopause symptoms. I ranted about the lack of diversity and representation within the menopause space. It resonated with many. One thing led to another and months later Menopause Whilst Black the podcast was born. This rapidly growing account became a way to publicise each episode. It was groundbreaking - two menopausal Black folks chatting menopause - and gained traction. I appeared in a Vogue feature. The menopause space looked up and started to name check my podcast. The BMJ added MWB to a list of resources on menopause. I was quoted in a news articles and asked to give evidence to the governments menopause policy-making for the Women’s Equality Committee. Lots more has happened and I can’t remember it all off the top of my head plus I’m trying to stick to the point. (Also you can google it all) Had I not had this account I wouldn’t have been able to reach as widely to make some noise. I’m grateful for that. I will also say that, because of the kind of accounts I follow, it can get a bit heavy going (thats an understatement). Racism doesn’t take days off. Menopausal women are rant-y because we have a lot to go on about but also because the space is, whether we like it or not, populated primarily by middle class white women AND they’re who the media choose to amplify. Having somewhere to go and chill, to seek joy, was a blessing.
This is where @TheKarenArthur account comes in. She is my teenage baby. The OG. Started in 2013 when my real eldest baby went to university and my youngest moved into her big sisters room. My first post was of some Mondrian-esque curtains designed by my youngest and brought to life by me. I grew this account in between falling in and out of love with the platform (agonising over when to post and how often. Ugh) to finally finding peace by only posting when I felt like it and always, always being truthful. Wear Your Happy (choosing clothes to lift your mood) found it’s home here as a more satisfying way to visually share the message. My feed is full of joy and friendship and creativity and art. I went from a full time teacher to a fashion designer to an artist to a model to a content creator on this page. I moved through Anxiety and Depression and shared my mental wellness downs and ups there. I celebrate ageing on IG and I’ve made and met so many inspirational friends along the way. Slowly I learned to grow into my full true self. And I’m still doing it.
I’ve paused FB, locked off Linkedin and finally left Twitter but, despite temptations, IG has always remained constant.
Losing it was a deep blow. It winded me. And I felt guilty about having such all encompassing feelings for what I decided was a ‘frivolous’ app.
On Thursday I took to my bed.
That mornings diary entry.
“Thursday 23rd March 2023
I feel so sad. I did such a brave and history making thing yesterday. But today I feel lonely + sad and down. My main instagram account still hasn’t been recovered. I still have no way of knowing or finding out what happened. This b**** demanded a measly 300usd! I dont even know if ‘she’ still has control of it.
Apparently I need to keep reporting. So when i’ve finished wallowing + feeling sorry for myself I shall do just that. I’m tired. I’m also coming down from a massive high after speaking in parliament yesterday whilst wearing my bra hat and my F*ck the Tpories necklace.
Helpless. Sad. Teary. It’s sunny outside. Lonely.
Going back into London today. can I be bothered? Yes it’ll be fine. It’ll cheer me up.
But this feels like sh*t.”
By now I don’t remember when I posted this selection of videos. I think this was two days after the incident. I’d been out to an event and it was late. I was tired and you can see it on my face and hear it in my voice.
Whilst many friends shared my original reel all over Instagram I’d been thinking about next step forward. I noted that people started to come over to my MWB podcast account as they couldn’t find me. I received so many messages. The outpouring of love and care was incredible and I am still floored and very grateful.
There were a few options running around in my brain. I asked my @menopausewhilstblack hive for their thoughts on which direction to go and this is what they said.
I need you to know that writing and reading this all back now I feel a tangible pang of doubt. I remember a strong feeling of shame around my thoughts at the time. I’m not sure where it came from. You may have some thoughts on this but at the time I do know that this shame kept me stuck in the same destructive thought pattern. Whilst I was initially reluctant to write this I do think that shame is an important emotion to honour and own. Shame cannot live in the light. So let’s set it on fire!
Friday 24th March.
Hah.
Have you ever woken groggily and wondered what day it is then as the thoughts come flooding in and reality hits you start to feel very VERY down. Well let’s just say that when I opened my eyes and realised that nothing had changed I burst into tears. Crazy right? This was grief. I stopped trying to think. I simply let it all go. But it was so hard. This felt like all the past grief I’d ever experienced - an two decade long abusive relationship, leaving my decades old career, my Aunt Monica passing unexpectedly, even debilitating health that affected my ability to walk unaided. These all rolled up together and climbed right into bed beside me.
How was this even possible?
My phone rang. I stared at it for ages. I’m the queen of phone screening but for some reason I picked up. It was my friend Donna. I think I said something like ‘Sorry but I’m crying’. Now I don’t remember exactly what she said but I know that her words soothed me. So understanding. So kind. So absolutely necessary in that moment.
Once we had said our goodbyes I listened to a check-in voice note from my homie Nat. I must admit that my return voice note was mostly incomprehensible. I won’t repeat it here. Poor Nat. She rang back immediately. Nat continued where Donna had left off. Further validating my feelings of grief and handing me permission to let it move through me.
I turned a corner.
On Saturday I went for a run. First one in a good month. It was much more brisk walk than a run but Oh the endorphin rush afterwards!
On Sunday I did a live on Instagram. I was feeling determined and chatty and I needed connection. It’s HERE if you want to watch back.
By Monday a decision had been made. I let go of fear and decided that, whether I got my main account back or not I was going to keep on keeping on. I still had sh*t to say and do! The Wear Your Happy message is a powerful one. More and more people are realising that they need help understanding their perimenopause/menopause symptoms and crave a like minded community.
So what if I’d lost 15k account overnight?
So what if brands seemed to be more interested in the numbers first and engagement second. I was alive, loved, healthy and vibrant. I would continue to thrive.
Instagram got the full thrust of my excitement, can you see?!
The universe watches everything. Once the lesson has been learned and you surrender your control, things shift in your favour. This is my belief borne from experience.
The next morning, @theKarenArthur IG account returned in full.
I know from the off that you’re not going to like how it happened. But I’m going to tell you anyway.
But first….
Before this incident I’d heard of three people who had lost their accounts. Only one was a good friend. The rest were more high profile accounts who were shadow banned or placed in IG jail. (IG are proactive banning women’s perfectly natural body parts (free the nipple!) but when it comes to sharing truths on injustice, THAT’S when they practically sprint into action). I’d had the odd DM from followers asking me to click a link but savvy, alert Karen had double checked via WhatsApp.
Anyhoo…When I started to share that this was happening to me my DMs and messages filled with people who had either had it happen to them or knew someone who’d fallen victim. It seemed like I’d stumbled across a secret club or opened a pandoras box of victims. Some had their accounts reappear but this was months later. Some lost everything and started again. All grieved when it happened. Many grappled with the same shame and told no-one. Instagram were silent throughout.
The other thing I, and others, noted was that the word h a c k e d or h a c k lifted up a huge dark rock out of which an entire hidden industry of people ready and willing to break back into my account…for a fee. They sprang up in DMs and on comment threads on IG, FB and even Linkedin when a close friend shared there. I didn’t even know this was a thing! The word on the street was that you had to know someone who worked at FB, that IG job security was a myth or a revolving door. A simple path back in remained shrouded in mystery.
So in the end I got my account back because someone I knew, knew someone who worked in the belly of the beast. ‘Instagram help’ was no help whatsoever.
I have thoughts (as per).
IG are about to roll out a subscription system similar to Twitter. You can read more here but in essence a monthly payment will give potential blue tickers access to enhanced help and security and new ‘subscriptions will also "include proactive monitoring for account impersonation"‘. It is currently only for content creators and individuals. So far small businesses don’t get a look in.
Hmmmm. * strokes imaginary beard *
Is IG Yelp’s silence deliberate. Planned? Is their apparent inaction a way to fuel fear and keep the client quiet? Is the public actually the client, or do IG only answer to those bringing in the Big Bucks? Answers on a postcard.
Onwards.
So how do you prevent your account from being h - a - c - k - e - d? You must remember that these organisations/people are slick. They’re clocking u their ten thousand expert hours as I type. I have no hard and fast answers for you. I wish I did. But here are a few:
Change your passwords every six months. Put a reminder alarm in your phone. This is common wisdom but how often do people do this really? We (me) become complacent and lazy. And that’s SO MANY PASSWORDS! * cries into the abyss *
Activate two step authentication in the apps. This didn’t work for me because I seem to have clicked an email but it’s better than not having it. Again this is common, oft ignored, wisdom
Download an authenticator app. This will generate a passcode instead of sending a text.
Use your Instagram app to check that emails are actually verified and from Instagram. Read how here. Of course I found this out after being h a c k e d. Sods law.
If your account doesn’t show any pictures of your face (not everyone loves selfies I know) then bite the bullet and post at least one. IG/FB ask for video/photos of you for validation in some cases (I never got that far but others have) so give them a reference point.
There are more tips on how to protect your social media accounts HERE.
I’m back in action on @thekarenarthur . Hallelujah. I’m still a little shaken. Every time the wifi wobbles and my app takes a little longer to reload I brace myself in case it happens again. I’m much better at properly checking my emails. And my passwords are new and saved. Six month alarm set.
I no longer feel guilty about loving social media. These are my connections, my community and my friends. But ultimately, if I lose it all again I’ll still have me. And I am more than enough.
Shout out to YOU, dear reader, if you made it this far.
Does anyone comment on blogs any more? If so I’d LOVE to hear your tips and tricks or simply for you to share your stories. Just don’t write the word * whispers * h - a - c - k, ok?
Peace x