I post a lot online. Across my TikTok, Snapchat and Instagram profiles, you will find plenty of content on my main and even on my secondary accounts, which are lovingly referred to as a “finsta” (fake Instagram) or a spam TikTok account. I shy away from posting political or vulnerable content, gearing my posts more toward polished photos, celebrations and big smiles. I try to curate the joys of my life. One quick scroll through my Instagram grid, and you would think my life is exciting and maybe even perfect.
But on the other side of the screen, there is me. I feel like I am hiding behind the glow of my own posts. I often find myself stalking my own profiles, wondering if I have built a version of myself that even I can not live up to. My online presence is full, but offline, I can feel empty. The disconnect between who I post and who I am sometimes feels stark. And while I know I am not alone in thinking this, it does not seem to make the weight any lighter.
The curated version of me is not all fake; she is simply incomplete. What you do not see online are the late nights spent overthinking, the tears after a hard conversation and the buildup of stress on my plate. Those moments are not nearly as fun to share online, but they are just as real as the smiles you see in every picture.
If I were to post how I feel offline, would my friends still recognize me? Or pause long enough to care? Would it make me feel better to share those parts of me online? I know that sharing alone will not dissolve the heavy feelings I am carrying, but it does serve as a reminder that vulnerability is just as real as joy. The darker moments may never make it onto my feed, but they are still there. Writing this is my way of acknowledging them, and if sharing this truth helps even one person to feel less alone, then that is enough.
These thoughts also make me think about my friends who do share more openly online — their willingness to be seen in their entirety instead of just the happy feelings. I find myself curious about whether that sort of transparency brings them closer to who they are, and what it would mean to me if I did the same.
We hear this saying a lot, especially now: the shiny highlight reel is not the whole story. And if comparison is the thief of joy — what happens when I am comparing my real self to my online persona, instead of comparing myself to celebrities, models and influencers? It feels like I have created this mirror that reflects only the brightest pieces of me, and then I stand in front of it every time I open my phone just to wonder why the real me does not measure up.
That kind of comparison weighs heavily on me. Social media became a competition between me, myself and I: Who I think I should be; who I am online; and who I really am. When those three start to collide, it feels like I am losing to myself.
I often think about what it would mean to step back from posting altogether. Not in a dramatic, delete all my profiles kind of way, but I want to see what life would feel like when I no longer feel the need to post something to show I am doing well. Perhaps I would lean more into living in the moment, or, conversely, I might miss the sense of connection that comes from sharing it.
Truthfully, social media has given me more than just these constant thoughts of self-competition. It has given me unique ways to connect with others: the girls who are always liking my Instagram stories, sweet comments from members in my sorority and the occasional friend from the past sending me a message to reconnect. That is what drives me to keep coming back to the apps: community.
Even with that community, I struggle with the fact that I am not sharing the truest version of me with them. With all the things that come with being over-involved on my college campus, I rarely find spare time to see many of my friends in person. This is where social media fills that gap.
But the gap is not always filled in the way I hope. A quick story post takes seconds to upload, whereas in reality, I am posting it on my way to my next meeting or right before I fall asleep after a long day. Social media becomes a stand-in for real interaction, and while I remain visible, I do not always feel seen.
The hardest comparisons are not with strangers or parasocial relationships online, but with the expectations I have set for myself. I measure my real life against the image of who I think I should be. More than anything, who I am is not something that I can edit or filter. It is in the way I show up for those I love and the choices I make when no one else is looking. The girl online may be sparkly and bright like a disco ball, but the real me, who stumbles, learns and keeps going, is the one who matters most.