Did it happen if it wasn’t Instagrammed?
One of my oldest friends sent me a postcard the other day. I’ve sent her postcards from around the world, but this was the first time I’d ever received something in return: she cheekily wrote to save it, because it was the first and likely the last postcard she’d ever send. I texted her to tell her I’d received it, and she joked that if I didn’t Instagram it: had it really happened? It made me laugh, but it also made me wonder about what I share with strangers and what I share with friends and what I save for myself.
This month, I’ve been working on social media free socializing: on enjoying whoever’s company I’m in instead of trying halfheartedly to keep up to date via photos and check-ins and status updates of friends scattered across the world. So this post struck a chord with me: when everything needs to be shared, what moments are left to be sacred? Kyle writes: “The next time you’re out with your friends or family and the moment is happening right in front of your face, don’t reach for that little black brick in your pocket. Instead, let the magic of life unfold before your eyes. Think about the millions of tiny electrical signals firing back and forth in your brain that give you your senses to see and hear and touch and feel. Then realize that those people around you are worth more than any number on any social network ever.”
I’m definitely guilty of oversharing, of pulling out my phone at moments when I shouldn’t, of feeling an almost subconscious compulsion to check my social media accounts. I’ve read studies of how being “liked” on social media provides the same little hit of happiness chemicals in the brain that drugs or alcohol can, of how we can get addicted to the reinforcement of those positive notifications. People like me! People like what I’m sharing! And, then, of course, the reverse: how we feel when the photos we post aren’t liked or shared or commented on. We wonder if there’s a reason: do I look ugly? Is it because I’m humble bragging? Do people just not like me anymore?
I feel a weird pressure because of this blog: to share things, to do things worth sharing. And then I struggle between feeling guilty for not sharing enough (Liz’s recent post on how to suck at social media reminded me of all of the things I DON’T do in terms of algorithms and posting times) and justifying that it’s my life and if I just want to sit on my bed and turn off my phone and read a book, then I can because I’m a grown-ass woman and I DO WHAT I WANT. Right? I waver between being validated by the numbers: my mom reads my blog and my friends read my blog AND my mom’s friends and the moms of my friends, and maybe some strangers who found it on Google and come back because they like what they read. Which is nuts! Strangers reading and caring about what I have to say. But then, you know, you compare (as always, comparison is the thief of joy) to other bigger, better blogs and I think: I must not be as good of a writer or have as compelling a life, or maybe I’m just doing it all wrong, because other people have so many MORE readers, and book deals, and things worth saying.
Even as I write this post, I’ve checked my Facebook dozens of times–not because of anything important or because I need to but just because I do it practically on auto-pilot whenever I write. I’ve pulled out my phone to scroll through Instagram and to text my boyfriend and see if anything interesting has happened, but mostly, to procrastinate and to distract myself from what I really want to say. It’s nuts, mostly because I walked to a coffee shop a few blocks from my house simply so that I could sit and write and NOT be distracted by doing the laundry or walking the dog or the myriad other things that I find to do at home instead of write.
I love social media: it’s something I’m passionate about personally and professionally, that I use to record my own joyful memories as well as build traction and determine ROI for brands. I like capturing moments and making them beautiful, scrolling through my own Instagram feed to remember everything from the splash-out vacations to the quiet yet lovely lunchtime walk. But I’m trying to remember what Kyle wrote, to breathe in the magic of the people around me and soak up the feeling of the sun on my skin, to laugh around the picnic table with the smell of barbecue in the air. I want to savor how a delicious meal tastes, not how it looks in a square with a filter on it.
I want to know that not only does something happen if it’s not Instagrammed, but maybe it’s worth even more when all I have to enjoy it is a mental image that’s taken with my own eyes and ears and fingers instead of my iPhone.
