The scene is so everyday that it barely attracts attention: a young woman from Las Palmas, her skin shining from sunscreen, one of that gang of experts recommending small bars on the island, charging for food as a new system of digital begging disguised as commercial promotion, walks alone into the heart of the Maspalomas Dunes. She walks determinedly toward the highest ridge of sand, stopping at every undulation in the terrain to turn around, pose, check the frame, adjust her hair to blow through the wind, and repeat the process. In barely half an hour, she has taken six selfies. None of them completely convince her.
We're in the south of Gran Canaria, one of the most photographed places on the planet, where the natural and the digital intersect in an almost liturgical ritual. And yet, beneath this seemingly banal choreography lies a condition that science is beginning to take seriously: borderline selfieitis. The DSM-5, the reference manual in psychiatry, does not yet recognize selfieitis as a disorder, but many professionals already address it as a symptomatic component of anxiety, impulsivity, or narcissistic personality disorders. According to the American Psychological Association, more than 40% of adolescents feel distressed if their content doesn't receive enough likes—a fact that can be extrapolated to tourists who seek approval even in their leisure time.
The term selfitis first appeared as a viral satire in 2014, but was scientifically validated by Mark D. Griffiths and Jayaraman Balakrishnan, researchers at Nottingham Trent University, in a pioneering study published in the International Journal of Mental Health and Addiction (2018). It was defined as a compulsive obsession with taking photographs of oneself and posting them on social media as a way to fill an emotional void, categorized into three levels: borderline, acute, and chronic.
The borderline variant, the most common, involves taking one to three selfies a day without posting them all. In theory, this is a harmless behavior. In practice, it may be a symptom of a deeper tendency: the incessant search for external validation in a world that rewards visibility over well-being.
In places like the Maspalomas Dunes—a natural setting that demands silence, respect, and mindfulness—the phenomenon takes on an almost tragicomic tone. Dozens of visitors each day turn the reserve into a fleeting catwalk, often ignoring the regulations prohibiting straying off the designated paths. All for "the perfect photo," that moment of digital glory whose lifespan doesn't exceed the 24 hours of an Instagram story. Social psychology has been warning for years about the impact social media has on shaping identity. A study by Mehdizadeh (2010) in CyberPsychology, Behavior, and Social Networking observed that frequent use of Facebook for posting self-portraits correlates with higher scores on narcissism and lower self-esteem.
Borderline selfieitis, although milder than its chronic form, tends to reinforce a logic of constant comparison. Those who wander through the dunes and take photos don't do so to remember, but to say: "I was here and I was happy (or at least that's what it seemed like)." The body becomes a billboard; the landscape, a backdrop. And in this process, the here and now is lost. As studies by Tiggemann & Slater (2014) point out, intensive Instagram use is associated with greater body dissatisfaction and less connection to the present. In other words, the more we pose, the less we are.
The Gran Canaria Island Council and the San Bartolomé de Tirajana Town Council have been fighting for years against the effects of visually impactful tourism, which transforms fragile areas into soulless landscapes. The constant passage of people through restricted areas of the dunes—driven, among other factors, by the desire to capture an "exclusive" image—is altering the morphology of this ecosystem protected by the Natura 2000 Network. It's the paradox of our times: in trying to capture the beauty of a place, we contribute to its erosion. And not just of the environment. Also of mental balance.
The answer isn't to ban selfies, but to rethink their meaning. Promote an emotional education that reminds us that experience doesn't need digital proof to be valid, that there is beauty in what isn't shared, that sometimes the best memory is the one we save, not the one we upload. Perhaps the next time someone from Las Palmas wants to walk through the Maspalomas Dunes and stay still without moving through them, they'll choose to leave their phone in their pocket. Not forever, but at least for a few minutes. To listen to the silence of the wind on the sand. To observe how the sun casts golden shadows on the reliefs. To inhabit the moment, without witnesses. Because perhaps the greatest act of rebellion in the age of self-image is not to take photos.
