Since the beginning of high school, my friends have had “finstas”—Instagram accounts strictly designed for the eyes of your closest friends.
Back home, tucked between the vineyards of Northern California, the photos and videos on these accounts captured everything that felt important at the time: blurry photos from house parties, videos of my friends leaning out of my car’s sunroof, weekends spent in the city or by the river. The captions were usually just a nonsensical string of emojis or whatever joke defined that week, yet together, they became a kind of time capsule—a record of who we were and how we felt.
Today, the posts look a bit different and appear less frequently. Instead of getting glimpses of the peaks and backroads of my town, I’m faced with entirely unfamiliar environments. From Boulder and Pittsburgh to Westwood and Berkeley, I know these places only through the lenses of those who mean most to me—a bittersweet mix of excitement and awe.
My friend Lauren’s posts have been among my favorites lately. After graduating last June, she decided to take a year off and stay with a host family in Belgium—an alternate path compared to other students at my school. Her account now consists of foreign landscapes and walks along the Prague canal, while her captions have shifted into paragraph-long reflections.Â
She’s reflected on her first, 44th, and 108th day abroad, but her most recent update remains my favorite. The final line reads:
“The world feels so large, and I feel so small, but I am so happy, and everything feels possible.”
Reading this made me think of a video I saw a few years ago, one I’ve never forgotten. The camera initially focuses on a woman’s face, before panning out to her house, her town, the entire Earth, and eventually the vastness beyond—stretching farther than we can comprehend.
What if we found significance and inspiration in the idea that we are a mere speck of life in the grand scheme of things, while still being capable of creating meaningful change?
Maybe that’s what these accounts have been showing me all along.
Not just where my friends are, but how wide the world really is—and how, despite that vastness, each of us is still experiencing something that is entirely our own. Small, yes, but significant.
Because even as a speck, we are still here—feeling deeply, choosing boldly, and leaving behind our own quiet proof that we existed at all.