Over the holidays, I sat on my parent’s sofa and drafted then discarded the same Instagram post about a hundred times. I changed the filter, rethought the caption, then, inevitably, deleted the whole thing.
When my sister asked what I was doing, I said, “Drafting and deleting an Instagram post, over and over.”
“Just post it!” she said. “Who cares?”
If you know my sister, and/or follow her on Insta, you know that she has absolutely zero qualms about posting anything. But I thought about it.
Who cares? Me.
But why? And since when?
I used to post anything, as my 632 posts on Instagram will prove.
I would share thoughts (political and otherwise), little moments, things that made me laugh, or cry, or think.
But something shifted, and I worried about posting too much, or being too political – or not political enough! I started worrying about “being annoying” and overposting, or not being “real” because I only posted the good things, or not having the perfect caption, or the best picture, or some tiny stupid thing until I talked myself out of posting anything at all.
And this hyper-fixation on perfection didn’t just extend to Instagram.
I started stressing about my outfit not being right, whether I was grabbing a bite with friends at a neighborhood spot or going to an epic birthday dinner in Tribeca. I would almost be late to a barre class because I would be trying on every pair of leggings I own. I couldn’t run to the bodega for toothpaste without worrying about what I looked like.
I distinctly remember one night running for the subway, heading to dinner with my closest friends, and honestly thinking about canceling last minute because I thought my jeans looked stupid. MY JEANS! I am 33 years old!
I worried that I was trying too hard to look like the 20-somethings I was watching on TikTok, or conversely, that I was wearing something that outed me as being in my early 30s. I was worried that I wasn’t wearing the right shoes, or that my jeans were the wrong style, or that my hair was parted the wrong way. Don’t get me started on my hair.
I was worried about all kinds of superficial shit that, in the grand scheme of things, doesn’t matter!
I think it’s deeper than just that, though, if I’m being honest with myself.
The majority of my friends from home are married with children, and my social media feeds are full of their sweet-cheeked babies. I see my high school friends getting together for playdates with their multiple children, and suddenly my pictures from wine night don’t feel that interesting.
I was home recently, and a friend’s mom said, “I see all your posts of you out partying.”
That really stuck with me. Because – partying? Sure, I’ve been known to party.
But most things I share on my Insta Stories are with my friends at birthday dinners, holiday get togethers, something like that. Hardly the hardcore partying she made it sound like. I started to question myself, thinking my life wasn’t as important or interesting as my friends with husbands and babies. That sharing it was actually kind of embarrassing.
But it’s not embarrassing! It’s MY LIFE! My life is not their life - it’s not any better and it’s not any worse. It’s different.
I’m also not the 25-year-old I once was, and now instead of appreciating a candid, laughing photo of myself I zoom in on my crows feet, or the rogue grey hairs at my roots, or the double chin I sometimes (always) have when I’m laughing deeply.
But what a privilege getting older is! I must remind myself.
What a privilege to have people in my life that make me laugh that hard! What a privilege to have that joy captured!
What a privilege.
Living in New York, you’re constantly affronted by the most gorgeous people you’ve ever seen, wearing grey sweatsuits and somehow, impossibly, looking chic. How do they do it? Couldn’t be me.
Being chronically online, I spend hours mindlessly scrolling from app to app, comparing myself – consciously and subconsciously – to every person I see there. I’ve been down more than one rabbit hole, and through multiple Sephora carts, trying to copy the lifestyles with the most likes.
But being asked, “Who cares?” really got me.
Who cares? I do! Doesn’t everyone?
Well, I did.
But I’ve decided to stop.
Stop caring what others think and start trusting in what I think.
Stop comparing myself to others and start becoming the person that I want to be.
Stop zooming in on my double chin and start laughing that hard more often.
Stop worrying and start living.
2023. Let’s fucking go.