Picture an eccentric, introverted high schooler.
The type of person who didn’t fit in, but didn’t seem to mind, at least in public. The girl who wore Lilly Pulitzer frequently, not out of preppy convention, but out of a genuine love for color and wearable art. The straight-A student who never went to parties or sports games, but loved talking about books and culture. The quiet kid with a few friends, but always more preoccupied with their passions.
That was me.
I grew up in a town just north of New York City, and for such a major metropolitan area, the community was small. I had known many of my classmates since pre-K. Some of our families had known each other for generations. Despite our mutual respect, I rarely felt like I belonged. Granted, it didn’t help that I spent nearly every minute outside of school at a ballet studio a few towns over. And even at ballet, I identified more with the smaller outsider group, with whom I had few classes.
I knew I wasn’t destined to be an outsider, though. The concept of social media personalities who weren’t celebrities had just started to emerge, and I found a number of accounts I loved to follow. My Instagram and Pinterest feeds were almost entirely dedicated to Disney Parks-inspired outfits, book recommendations and news about live entertainment. Despite being physically and socially distant, I felt so connected to worlds of multi-color photo walls and trendy filters. A little while later, I fell in love with writing for my school newspaper.
At this point, early conversations about college made me think not just about what I wanted to study, but about what I really wanted out of my life. What would make me happy? How would I feel fulfilled? Could I really shake this nagging feeling that I didn’t belong?
So I decided to start a personal blog. I made WordPress and Instagram accounts, where I could post about my affinity for fun outfits, makeup, theme parks and whatever else brought me joy. I thought it would be an exercise in honing my writing and photography skills that could become portfolio samples for applying to communications programs, but it turned out to be one of the most formative developments of my young adult life.
At first, I approached it like a producer—obsessing over color palettes, planning posts around upcoming holidays and curating an aesthetic. But as I dedicated more time to this hobby, I delved deeper into the ‘social’ aspect of social media. At last, I was surrounded by people with the same interests and creative inclinations! Beyond the feeds, interest-oriented group chats gave way to lively discussions on even the most niche of subjects. Imagine my delight in getting daily notifications about Disney Park news and fashion trends! My genuine support for peer creators grew into budding friendships, with a few eventually becoming my most trusted confidantes.
As my sense of community strengthened, so did my content. Over the years, I developed a more distinct voice and picked up fun editing hacks from aspirational accounts. Many of the skills I developed through content creation carried over into my academic and professional work. I’d often experiment with trends on my personal pages to master them the night before pitching at work or embedding them into a project. I also had the opportunity to participate in a few student brand campaigns, which gave me experience in brand partnerships and influencer marketing.
By industry standards, I fall squarely into the ‘nanoinfluencer’ bracket—typically defined by a tight-knit following of under 10,000. But day-to-day, I hardly think of myself as an influencer in the traditional sense. I’m merely a young woman with a public social media account and a well-designed, self-hosted WordPress blog. I keep my following intentionally small and rarely post to attract a large audience. Rather, I share what’s brought me joy. I often break the cardinal rule of posting consistently, and there are more drafts on my phone than I know what to do with. Still, I’ve developed a small audience that I consider my community. I care far more about the stories exchanged in comments and direct messages than any traditional media metric. Most importantly, I’ve curated a dedicated outlet to explore my interests, empowered by a community of like-minded peers.
I may not aspire to sell products, but if I can influence you to do anything, it’s to take that leap. The risk of never being seen far outweighs the temporary discomfort of putting yourself out there.