Digital Walk of Shame

Why is posting on Instagram embarrassing all of a sudden?

Instagram has become a stage and every post is a new scene in an unwitting performance. None of us signed up to be influencers, but it sure does feel like all of us are trying. And maybe that’s what makes it cringe. We can’t trust the authenticity of a post anymore. How am I supposed to know if you’re not trying to sell me something, or if you want to arouse jealousy or envy from your third trip out of the country in three months?

Everything feels highly curated, stylized, and planned out. I’m not buying the taking a photo of a coffee just to take one, I know you want me to ask about the cafe you bought it at, (perhaps you have an affiliate code that I can use at the checkout). And suddenly without a second scroll or thought, I’m frustrated looking at a face that has been highly edited, tweaked, twitched, and touched. I’m wondering if I need fillers, judging if your fillers look bad. Do I get a sew in or do I settle for the boho knotless braids because I like the way you wear them and i want to slip your scalp over mine? How can I post a bikini pic when I just watched an influencer with a skinny bbl post one before me? How can I show I feel sexy without it coming across as a thirst trap? Will people perceive me as an attention whore for posting a thirst trap?

How do we shake the embarrassment of knowing a thousand or so eyes are watching and scrutinizing our every move? That little share button is the bane of my existence. WHO are you sending my post to and what the FUCK are you saying about me?

It’s embarrassing to post on Instagram now because we know, as both audience and performer, that we cannot trust the audience not to be cruel and unforgiving.

When I first got Instagram at 10yrs old it was a place to post thigh-high grey Converse, deep-fried quotes, photobooth selfies with friends, and eventually like for a TBH so I could confess to my crush that I needed them or my enemies that I thought they couldn’t dress.

I’d always taken Instagram kinda seriously…as seriously as any other unsupervised creative outlet for a child. My pictures were color-coded, my feed was cohesive and carefully planned out, and it was full of my friends, my art, and things I loved. That early spirit stayed with me until 2020 when something shifted in the social media plane. And I guess the shift was the collective realization that we could all be paid to have an opinion and a preference.

Now, as a micro-influencer myself, I am tired of performing for you. I am tired of altering editing and honing myself into what I think you want to see me become. I want to become authentic again. I want to show the sipped chai latte I had this morning, the sunrise over the Arc de Triomphe, and the note I found in the coat pocket of a newly thrifted jacket. But will you believe me? Will you trust that these are all things that interest me truly and that I’m not curating an existence for your viewing pleasure?

I’m not even sure that I expect you to. How can I expect that of you when I barely believe myself? Am I posting this song to share genuinely, or am I signaling a musical superiority I believe myself to have? I have grown exhausted with curating my life and pretending I’m not waiting for the validation that I swore I didn’t need.

Posting on Instagram now feels like being caught outside wearing the same outfit you left the club in. Mascara smeared, stockings ripped, panties missing (somewhere under the bed? But hopefully just tucked deep in your purse), and being forced to grin and bear it at 10 am on a crowded train with some people silently applauding you for having a well-rounded night, or others snubbing you for being a whore with poor time management and no Uber money.

Instagram has bred an insecurity that I had not foreseen for myself, and I’m sure many others did not either. The anxiety around being perceived is newfound territory. When did posting a simple photo become an emotional minefield? From confidently hitting “share” to spiraling re-reading your caption and hyper-analyzing your photo as if it’s the end all be all in your PopCrave exclusive. Every like has become some kind of nod of approval, and silence suddenly feels like a snub.

To be seen is to be measured and to be measured is to be labeled and given a name. The naming is where lies the concern. That joy, carefreeness, creativity, and light will be shrunk into a frame, a caption, a moment of borrowed attention. You place yourself atop an altar, awaiting some worship for a clean serve or a fire mug, but you brace for ruin. This look or brief scroll does not seek to know but hopes to decide for you what you are.

And now I must question who am I if you’re not watching me. If I am not able to live by your definition, then what am I to do?

Sometimes I’m able to rise above the cringe feeling of hitting post. But not without immediately turning my notifications off and busying myself with something else. As if to create an alibi if someone were to question my crime…if I actually intended to post that photo. Did I actually believe I looked cute there. And so what if I did? It is the overthinking, the hyper fixation, the double-checking that makes me want to peel back my fingernails and stick them into my eyes. But then I’ll miss passing my own judgment on the posts of people I knew from a lifetime before (high school) or people I don’t know at all (the algorithm is fucked).

Zuckerbergs’ stepchild is embarrassing and cringeworthy because now we are all in on the performance. We’re also now all aware that not everyone is a good performer. And perhaps if they are too good, we begin to covet their script and try to read the lines for ourselves. But we are no one’s understudy, even though plenty of catfish may try. Part of the beauty of the theater is the escapism it provides, the ability to immerse yourself in a new perspective, a different era, a foreign narrative. But the thing about the theater and more specifically about plays is that THEY END. The cast can leave the stage, take off their make-up and costumes, cleanse themselves of the hot blistering spotlights, and fantasize about the hot shower and warm tea that awaits just behind the curtain. Social media provides no such refuge. The spotlight is always on, we are always downstage front and center, and we have sweat through several quick changes.

This hyper-awareness of spotlight and attention did not hit me when my own social media channels blew up overnight -which caused its own set of anxieties and trepidations. This awareness occurred to me when I had left the U.S. and moved abroad and discovered that even in languages I did not speak, there were judgments to be made and scrutinies to be suffered.

I’m working on navigating these feelings now because I want Instagram to be fun again. I want to return to being normal, but now I must reframe what that looks like. I have to shake this feeling of being cringe or embarrassing or attention seeking and perhaps reframe it as creating a living visual digital archive of my life. Validation being carried in likes and comments is a weight I no longer wish myself carry. I want to be visible, but not solely in the way that others allow me to be, or loved only in the ways the audience deems acceptable.

I’m going to pull my big girl panties back on, wipe the smudged mascara off my face, pull my dress down enough to cover my juicy ass, and take the social media reins by force!

I am decidedly taking myself out of the hands of strangers and perhaps shifting more towards stage left, but only after I’ve had my own tea break.

See y’all after the intermission.