In the second half of 2019, I hardly wrote anything. I worried I had nothing to say. I convinced myself that if I shrunk the size and volume of my thoughts, I’d be a more palatable person. That’s what the world entering 2020 appears to center around – not only curating the most appetizing persona, but the most delicious one imaginable, even if mostly imagined.
I regularly experience a rising acidity witnessing the world of hot takes and flawlessly filtered photos unfolding across Twitter and Instagram (and Facebook for those still into that). Frequently, the internet feels like one big lie, where everyone is trying to be something, at the cost of so much else. My stomach churns when I see someone I otherwise consider kind say something shockingly uncompassionate, where people paint other points of view with a boundlessly broad brush, and everything else is portrayed as perfect. Often, I wonder if immersing myself in the digital pool has made me internet-illiterate. I don’t know if I still understand the difference between bragging and celebration, between criticism and cruelty.
By mid-2019, Twitter and Instagram bestowed the same level of irritation I struggle to stifle during my morning commute, walking through Times Square dodging businessmen and tourists like a nightmarish version of Frogger. In those moments, I tell myself, “This stress hurts you more than it hurts them.” That’s how I feel about social media. The frustration, stress, and hurt I feel at unempathetic, fake, and too-carefully-curated posts hurts me more than anyone else, and I have to control my exposure to it.
In partial truth, curating an interesting Instagram did appear important as someone with a master’s degree in communications – having a pleasant presence was key to showing potential employers that I knew what I was doing with relevant media. Under that translucent cover, what I really would’ve liked was for some level of recognition – some way to monetize because it would make life easier to quickly snag the dream job of feeling like I didn’t have a job at all.
For years, I sunk deep into Instagram, tying down fanciful thoughts about becoming an influencer with a glamorous life funded by free stuff. I’d rather say, “I never wanted to be an influencer,” but of course I wanted brands to take me on vacation, an entire internet of friends, and to work in a way that embraced what I enjoy. Now, I scroll wondering what people really think and experience aside from sunny thoughts doused in material wealth and style. I can’t imagine the exhausting routine of constantly creating content from my real life, because the last few years of controlled posting feels like more than enough.
I’ve followed Aimee Song (5.5m followers) for years – I delight in her style and persona. Last year, I listened to her on Girlboss Radio, a podcast hosted by Sophia Amoruso, founder of Nasty Gal (which I’ve since stopped listening to for various reasons). Song talked openly about her early influencing experiences, when she’d rise with the sun to capture “the shot” to post that day. She essentially explained that it sucked the life out of her love for creating content. I appreciated her candor and in time, realized it helped me understand that I don’t need to commodify the one thing uniquely mine – my life. Influencers aren’t peddling ether. Before they have sponsored posts and products to advertise, they sell the minutes of their lives. As one of my grad school professors constantly reminded us, “Social media’s product is you.” Social media fulfilled me less after I noticed the endless “work” of promoting the minutiae of each day. Posting as inspiration had pixelated into obligation.
Last summer, I started questioning how social platforms make me feel after noticing a negative shift in my mood after scrolling. I used to habitually check my channels. Instagram, Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, repeat. For years, I silently repeated the mantra, “comparison is the thief of joy.” Comparing myself to the lives of others on social media always made me feel sad and inferior (why don’t I take more trips to exotic beaches? Why is my life so boring? Why don’t I have better clothes? Why can’t I do make up? And the saddest of all: Why don’t I look like that?). On Valentine’s Day in 2016, after a brief look through Instagram, I even burst into tears waiting for a brunch table with my boyfriend worrying I’d never become anything.
The same way I assume people used to feel about first impressions, I worry about the people I like and love liking me less because of what they see on social media – what I choose to post and talk about. I frequently comment on things and immediately delete them. Because, while I have partial control over what people see in the age of social media, I have no control over how it’s interpreted. I don’t know how to interpret a lot of what I’m seeing either. I worry about people I care about hiding behind a ramshackle representation of real life. I worry about making other people feel judged when I express my thoughts, and, of course I worry about “authenticity” which I’m not even sure is possible to achieve the way we currently use social media. Are authenticity and transparency the same? Are authentic and genuine the same? What does an “authentic” internet presence look and feel like? An account that doesn’t use FaceTune? Does that set the bar high enough?
I don’t know if it helps, but I’ve officially sworn off using ridiculous captions that I would never ever utter or think in “real life.” Social media breeds a cloying confusion about who I am, what I think, what I should think, and who I should be.
That changed a bit when I stopped letting myself check social media first thing in the morning. I read, journaled, caught up on music and TV, trying to indulge in culture instead of constant commentary, and slowly stopped posting on Instagram with the same amount of regularity or rigor.
I started following “influencers,” who would really rather not be called one – people who use their platform to promote the causes, passions, and hobbies that actually define them. I notice more people (both the influential and the “average” and full of potential) rejoicing in themselves, posting hilarious selfies, happy moments, and important topics.
Refocusing on actively participating in my life instead of strategically capturing some semblance of it helped me relax, accepting that maybe I have a few things to say after all, and it’s okay to share. I’ve also read a lot of Jia Tolentino’s work (read Trick Mirror), including a recent piece on Instagram Face for “The New Yorker”, which discusses the sameness that’s resulted from Instagram, especially the inclination to adjust one’s facial features. Tolentino recounts saying to celebrity make-up artist Colby Smith, “...I couldn’t shake the feeling that technology is rewriting our bodies to correspond to its own interests—rearranging our faces according to whatever increases engagement and likes.”
That pressure, or willingness, to rearrange parts of ourselves to best suit the aesthetic preferences of a constantly logged-on-world pinches me. Within an invention praised for its ability to amplify the voices of everyone, increasingly, the internet breeds and incubates group-think, where conformity is king. I watch people on Twitter lament that users aren’t as original or “funny” anymore, and political sides paint entire swaths of users as one-in-the-same. Some of the most interesting people I know post the same style photos as the most avid influencers I’ve followed. British Vogue wrapped up the decade with a piece about how social media dominated the 2010s, turning nearly everyone into scroll-fiends devoid of any attention span, but I think that some people are feverishly scrolling for content worth consuming – and it’s out there, being made by under-resourced, under-funded, highly-clever people tired of seeing the same kind of sameness that bums me out.
I enjoy seeing pieces of existence through the eyes of everyone I know and aspire to emulate. But I plan on engaging with social media in the 2020s with less blind enthusiasm and a heaping sprinkle of skepticism. Instead of allowing an overwhelming online world to define the nature of my thoughts, I’m measuring the dosage of my social media intake. There’s a reason why most people I respect and many people I know are using apps to track and restrict the amount of time they’re spending on social media (whether or not that works,TBD), and maybe it’s because while it’s an imaginative source seeping with information, social media doesn’t need to punctuate every moment. Social media is not our friend, nor our future, and we decide how much or how little we need it.