Edited by: Aashi Galriya
A girl crying in her car while narrating her breakup—complete with tears, dramatic background music, and text overlays, or the very famous “who the f did I marry” TikTok thread are very common scenes when scrolling through any social media platform. The comments range from “you’re so strong for sharing this” to “some things are better left offline.” And it got me thinking: at what point does being open on the internet stop being empowering and healthy and start feeling… intrusive (especially as an audience)?
We’re living in the age where people don’t shy away from being vulnerable online. From finsta rants and confessionals to multi-slide Instagram stories airing out trauma, oversharing isn’t just accepted—it’s rewarded. Algorithms tend to favor content that sparks emotion, and nothing is more emotionally charged than someone laying bare their heartbreak, mental health struggle, or family drama for the internet to consume. And let’s be honest: watching these raw, unfiltered moments feels human.These reels often show up right after someone’s extremely productive day in their life. And I get it, it feels cathartic — knowing others have problems too.
But we have normalised something that just isn’t healthy.
Social media has made it such that people feel pressure to turn their personal lives into content that is engaging and dramatic. We joke about “main character energy,” but when every setback is edited into a dramatic montage, it becomes easy to lose perspective. Vulnerability, when constantly broadcasted, can morph into performance. And sometimes, the rush of likes and comments feels like validation—but it doesn’t always last.
What’s tricky is that the internet encourages us to reduce ourselves to digestible narratives. You become “the girl who got cheated on,” or “the guy who lost 50 pounds,” or “the student who failed out and bounced back.” But people are more complex than a single post. Oversharing, in this context, can flatten people’s identity and reduce them to that one “viral” moment, tying their worth to the response their story gets. Worse, when you post something deeply personal in a moment of vulnerability, you’re handing it over to an audience that may not always be kind—or even empathetic.
This isn’t to say we should all go silent and start curating perfectly polished online personas. That’s just another flavor of inauthenticity. Sharing issues, awkward mistakes, and even small personal victories can help be connective. It reminds us that no one’s life is as perfect as it looks. But the key is intent. Are you sharing because you want to connect and be honest—or because you want attention, or feel pressured to prove your life is “relatable”?
The most grounding rule I’ve found is to give emotions a buffer. If something feels too raw, it probably is. Sit with it. Let it breathe offline. Not every fight with a friend needs a cryptic story post. Not every breakup requires a public timeline of healing. There’s value in privacy, in healing quietly, in not performing your pain for public approval.
And let’s not forget the impact this constant sharing has on our friendships. When you learn intimate details of someone’s life through a story instead of a call, it blurs the boundaries of real connection. The internet makes us feel close to people we’ve never met, but alienated from the ones we actually know. We have to ask ourselves: Are we leaving space for the people who matter to hear it first before we make a post?
Ultimately, there’s nothing inherently wrong with sharing your story online. But we owe it to ourselves to pause and ask: is this for me, or for the algorithm? Oversharing might feel validating in the moment, but it’s not a substitute for real reflection or real connection. Vulnerability is powerful—but only when it’s intentional, grounded, and, above all, respectful to the parts of us that are still healing.
So next time you feel the urge to post a mid-breakdown rant or a trauma dump disguised as a photo dump, take a breath. Maybe journal it. Maybe call a friend.