I was swiping through someone's Instagram 'photo dump' recently (what a horrendous term, right?) when I found myself judging their lack of... filter.

Each photo was either blurry, awkwardly angled or just a downright ugly image of a dirty Sydney street. In hindsight, I can see how it looked like real life. Chaotic. Messy. Completely and utterly unphotogenic.

The fact that I was initially judgemental of it says a lot about me, but also about Instagram. Over 12 years, the app has grown to roughly one billion monthly active users, most drawn in years ago by the picture-perfect, carefully curated aesthetic of lattes, avocados and neon signs. Things were designed and created 'for the gram'. Floral walls, pancakes with fairy floss, photo booths, cutesy product packaging.

It was obviously manufactured, and we bought it. Because for a long time, Instagram was about trying to fit in. It was about showing off a 'highlights reel' of beaches and brunches, just like everyone else, and at its most extreme, about looking like everyone else too: with plump lips, high cheekbones and thick brows.

There were Instagram rules, but scrolling through a feed featuring Cara Delevingne's blurry selfies, Rita Ora's stripy socks and a weird chalk message an acquaintance saw on the footpath, it feels like they've been done away with.

I would argue there's an element to the pandemic in this shift. As cliche as it has become to attribute cultural changes to COVID-19, it's also hard to argue that it wasn't difficult to keep up the traditional, over-thought, staged Instagram aesthetic when cafes were closed and the only events taking place were on our couches.

The pandemic gave birth to the 'photo dump', a way for us to share the mundane happenings of early pandemic life in a carousel. They were like dipping our toes into the anti-aesthetic waters. Now we're neck deep and being thrown about by the waves, which have definitely not had their saturation levels turned up in Lightroom to turn them a picture-perfect shade of turquoise.

There has also been the rise of TikTok, where users typically elevate content based on individualism, humour and self-deprecation over looks and aesthetic. When the biggest videos on the app are young people sharing their most embarrassing stories, fails and mistakes, it makes sense for that authenticity and carefree attitude to jump to other forms of social media.

In the past, users would pre-plan posts, spend an hour playing around with filters and presets and then save it a draft until came the opportune time for posting. This fresh approach to Instagram prides itself on putting much less effort into it.

Mamamiawriter Emma Gillman explains the shift offers "a more fulfilling social approval", where users are being validated for content that feels authentically 'them'.

"I think the unfiltered silly posting could be a result of that. People want to show off their personality a little more. It's a bit fun, cheeky and shows that you don't take anything too seriously," she says.

It's not just a fun new way to present yourself, though. It's a pushback and display of differentiation on an app that has been full of homogenous content. It was started by teens and young adults, but is slowly being adopting by older users too.

The appetite for this approach is clear in a newer crop of influencers, who have built platforms off their seemingly spontaneous, unfiltered, Lo-Fi feeds.

While millennial influencers of 2017 would drag a DSLR camera everywhere they went, then curate and edit an entire photoshoot just for one shot, the Emma Chamberlains of the world have amassed 15 million followers by snapping candid moments and sharing directly from their phones.