“Climb the mountain so that you can see the world, not so the world can see you.”
David McCullough Jr
Recently, I’ve been seeing a lot of content about Mount Everest, clips of climbers battling brutal winds, TikToks about the infamous “death zone,” and long comment threads about the massive cost and risk involved in reaching the world’s highest peak. I’ve found myself deep into this rabbit hole, fascinated by what drives people to attempt something so extreme.
People spend tens of thousands of dollars to climb this single famous mountain. They trek through dangerous weather and unpredictable terrain, push their bodies through low oxygen levels, and rely on Sherpas who risk their own lives helping them carry gear. The mental and physical strength it takes seems absolutely unreal.
On the way up, climbers literally pass those who didn’t make it. And yet, for many, reaching the summit becomes one of the greatest accomplishments of their lives. They return home with breathtaking photos, a massive sense of achievement, and the bragging rights to say, “I climbed the biggest mountain in the world.”
But then I saw a comment under one TikTok that stopped me in my tracks:
“Would any of these people actually climb Mount Everest if they couldn’t tell anyone?”
It hit harder than I expected. I found myself sitting with the question. Would I?
Would I put in all that time, money, exhaustion, and suffering only for myself? Would the accomplishment still feel the same if no one could ever know it happened? Would I value the experience without the validation?
And honestly, I’m not sure. However, I don’t think I’m alone in that uncertainty.
Because the Everest question isn’t just about Everest. It applies to almost everything we do, especially in a world where almost every moment can become content. Content that builds our online identity and the stories we tell others.
Social media hasn’t just documented our lives. It has reshaped our motivations. There’s this constant pressure to stand out, to prove we’re interesting or successful or adventurous. It’s like we’re always performing, even when we don’t realize it.
And here at UCSB, in the middle of Isla Vista, the line between living life and performing can get blurry.
IV culture runs on sunsets, concerts, beach days, biking, dayge fit checks, and coastal aesthetics. It’s so easy to go from experiencing something to documenting it.
How many more Sands sunsets can we post before we ask whether the moment felt special to us, or just “story-worthy”?
Are we running the Downtown Santa Barbara Half Marathon because we want the challenge and the rush, or because the finisher photo would look cool on Instagram?
Are we going to Halloweekend events because we genuinely want to be there, or because the costumes and crowds make good content?
Are we paying for that trendy pilates studio in Montecito because the workout makes us feel strong, or because the setup looks aesthetic and everyone else is posting about it?
When you start noticing it, you realize how many of our choices may have a second motive underneath.
This doesn’t mean we’re shallow. It doesn’t even mean we’re doing anything “wrong.”
Sharing isn’t inherently bad. In fact, many of these things, races, hikes, accomplishments, art, travel are meaningful. They take time, discipline, money, sweat, and sometimes pain. Wanting to share the journey is human. After all that hard work, it’s natural to want someone to see you, to say, “Wow, you did that.”
But the problem is when the sharing becomes the reason.
When the post becomes the motivation.
When the performance slowly replaces the genuine passion and motivation of the action.
We’re a generation raised on the cliche “if it’s not documented, it didn’t really happen”. And UCSB, with its scenery and effortlessly picturesque moments, makes documenting our experiences feel almost automatic. We’re surrounded by people who seem to be doing a lot, big events, big accomplishments, big fun. It’s hard not to wonder whether you’re supposed to be doing the same.
But noticing this pattern is the first step. Once you recognize that little voice in your head. Would this look good online? Would people think this is cool? We can then start separating what you actually enjoy from what you feel you’re supposed to enjoy.
Maybe you truly love running. Maybe you love surfing. Maybe you love waking up early for sunrise swims. Maybe you hate all those things, and that’s okay too. You don’t have to do what everyone else is doing just because it photographs well.
We’re all trying to find meaning in a world designed to be watched.
So maybe the Everest question is really a UCSB question, or a Santa Barbara question, or just a universal question for our generation. Maybe it’s about pausing every once in a while and asking:
If I couldn’t post about this, tell anyone about it, or get any validation for it…
Would I still want to do it?
And if the answer is yes, that’s where realness begins. Where your life stops being a performance and starts becoming your own.