Chapter 5 — Losing Everything: The IG Crisis That Reshaped Me

Or: the month I truly thought I lost everyone.

This happened during my first year back home. I had just started rebuilding my life, and I was still learning what it meant to show up online—day after day—without knowing if anyone would notice.

That night, I had just finished working. I remember it clearly because I had just made a Aurora Necklace. I filmed a short video for Instagram, feeling proud and a little tired in that quiet, satisfied way you feel before sleep.

Before bed, I opened my email—because at the time, my account was growing fast, and my DMs were filling up. That’s when I saw it: an email saying I was eligible for a Meta badge.

I was honestly thrilled. I thought, “Maybe Instagram noticed me.” The page looked exactly like the Instagram login screen. Without thinking twice, I typed in my password… and went to sleep feeling happy.

The Morning Everything Disappeared

When I woke up, I couldn’t find my account. I had been logged out on my phone. My password showed as incorrect again and again.

And the timing made it feel even crueler. After months of darkness and doubt, my videos had finally started to travel—suddenly, they were growing, spreading, being shared. I had been waking up every day full of energy, grateful and excited.

Then overnight… it was gone.

I’m not exaggerating when I say I felt hollow. I couldn’t taste food. I couldn’t focus. It wasn’t just a “bad day”—it felt like the floor dropped out from under me.

I watched every “how to recover your Instagram” video I could find. But the hacker didn’t only change my password—somehow, they changed the phone number and email tied to the account too. And once those were changed, every common solution I found online simply stopped working.

When You’re the Victim… But You Can’t Prove You’re You

I contacted Meta support through every channel I could. I tried forms, tickets, business tools—everything. Most responses were polite, automated, and circular:

“We’ll reply in a few days.”
“We’ll escalate your case.”
“We’ll forward you to a specialized team.”

But nothing truly moved forward.

The system kept asking me to prove my identity. And the terrifying part was this: I was the person who lost everything… but in that moment, I couldn’t “prove” I was myself.

Can you imagine that kind of helplessness?

What I Was Really Afraid of Losing

People often assume the worst part is losing an account. But honestly—an account is an account. The skills live in my head. If I had to, I could start again.

What I was truly afraid of losing was people.

All the conversations. All the preferences I remembered—who loved big pearls, who always chose lavender tones, who was drawn to meteor-shaped baroques, to stars and moons. All the quiet friendships built one message at a time.

I made a new small account and tried searching for names— but I could only remember a few. How do you find your way back to tens of thousands of people when the map disappears?

During that time, I started receiving messages through email and my website. Some customers wrote:

“Why can’t I find you?”
“Your account looks strange now—what happened?”

Even while my account was gone, a few past customers still placed orders on my website. That moved me more than I can explain. It made one thing very clear: what we had built wasn’t just “content.” It was trust. It was connection. It was a real, shared story.

And that’s the moment I told myself: I can’t let them disappear. I have to try everything.

Try to use all the content I posted to prove I am myself

The Long Month of Dead Ends

For weeks, I tried every official method. Every day, I submitted appeals. I sent messages. I tried calling. The phone never connected.

Some nights I felt numb enough to pour a drink—just to quiet my body. I wasn’t even “sad” in a dramatic way. I felt like a machine that had run out of purpose.

And still, I kept trying—because I couldn’t accept losing everyone without a fight.

The Last Door I Knocked On

I found a post that suggested something I hadn’t considered before: not another Instagram form, not another help page— but a more official route.

It said: try filing a formal complaint through a state Attorney General’s website. The kind of channel people use when they’re submitting a real report—almost like a legal notice— something that might actually reach the right desk.

It sounded almost impossible. I remember thinking, “This is Meta. Would anyone serious ever read my words?”

But I had reached the edge of hope—so I did it anyway. With help from friends, I sent formal complaints through official channels in more than one place.

I didn’t get a real response for a long time. Just automated confirmations. And then… silence again.

But even in that silence, I wasn’t completely alone. One friend in particular—Coco, a bright and optimistic girl from Morocco—immediately said: “I’ll support you. I’ll testify if you need me to.”

That kind of loyalty is rare. I’ll never forget it.

November 23: The Email That Brought Me Back

My account was stolen in late August. And then on November 23, with no warning at all, something changed.

That day, I opened my email like I always did—ready to submit yet another appeal. And there it was: an email asking me to reset my password.

The message said they had received my case through the Illinois Attorney General’s office, and that they would restore my account and recover my data.

I felt dizzy. And for one second, I wondered: “Is this another trap?”

But then I thought—my account was already gone. What else was there to lose?

So I reset the password. And the next day… everything returned. Followers. Messages. History. My people.

I remember feeling like someone handed me my life back. That night, I drank two small glasses, took a long hot bath, and slept—deeply, peacefully—for the first time in over two months.

Learn from That Loss

After that, something in me changed.

I became even more protective of the fragile things that matter: connection, trust, the stories people share with me. Because once you lose them, you realize how delicate they really are.

And that experience reshaped my purpose. It’s part of why I began building Alya Pearls more seriously— not just as a shop, but as a place where something good can move outward.

It’s also part of why I started donating earrings through CAMFED: to return beauty to places where it’s most needed, and to thank the world—quietly—for the people who stayed.

I lost my account once. I don’t ever want to lose what it represents again.

One gentle note: If you ever receive a message that looks “official” and asks you to log in or share details, please pause and double-check. I learned this the hard way.

Thank you for being here. Thank you for being part of Alya Family.
I don’t take it for granted—not anymore.