Puncturing the veneer of perfection on Instagram

or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Rip Off the Band-Aid

one of these things is not like the other

I’ve lived my life online since before “social media” was even a term. I grew up in the era of LiveJournal and Friendster and MySpace and Xanga, and have now been on Facebook and Twitter and Instagram each for over a decade. I have always been pretty comfortable sharing things about my life online.

But when I was surprised by a diagnosis of Type 1 diabetes at the beginning of the year, posting about it on social media was the last thing I wanted to do. For one, I couldn’t imagine documenting what was happening as I was still processing it, without having had the time to sit with my thoughts and formulate the right words. But partially, I wasn’t sure I was ready to puncture the veneer of perfection on Instagram.

People don’t post about hard things on Instagram; they only post the good things: weddings, pregnancy announcements, babies newly born, babies growing, professionally photographed engagement photoshoots in fields and meadows, professionally photographed maternity photoshoots in fields and meadows, professionally photographed family photos in fields and meadows, perfectly decorated new homes, perfectly cooked meals, new job announcements, and in pre-Covid times, blurry shots from nights out with friends and idyllic scenes from tropical vacations.

That’s what’s “heartable,” after all. People want to like happy developments, exciting life milestones in their friends’ lives. Generally, you’re only supposed to announce happy things. I am guilty of this too: my Instagram feed has also long been a curated highlight reel of restaurant meals, home cooking projects, and travel photos.

Even though I have long been someone who instinctively wants to document things on social media, I thought long and hard about whether I should post something about my diagnosis. It felt uncomfortable admitting to the hard, unglamorous, and messy parts of my life. I could just as easily not share it, keep it to myself, and maintain the facade.

There was also a tiny element of jealousy at play: I felt angry that other people were having happy milestones in their lives while I was instead spending all of my free time at doctor’s offices learning how to give myself insulin injections and count carbs.

Instagram can often feel competitive, like everyone’s competing to show off how great their lives are. I hesitated at the idea of admitting that something imperfect had happened in my life when everyone else’s Instagram lives were so perfect. I didn’t know if I wanted to admit that, for the moment, mine wasn’t as great. Then there was fear of pity: I didn’t want anyone to feel sorry for me or think I was a victim or fragile or weak or think I was having a hard time. There are far worse things to go through, far worse diseases.

But not posting about something that was taking up a significant chunk of my brain space and had changed my everyday life felt like I was keeping a major secret from almost everyone I knew. Posting also felt appealing in a utilitarian, efficient sort of way: I imagined the alternative of having to tell everyone I knew over the next few months or years individually every time I saw them. I felt overwhelmed at the thought of having to explain my new chronic illness a million times, having to figure out how to react when people tell you how sorry they are with a look of pity. (I never know what to say to that and just end up feeling awkward!) Why not get it all done in one fell swoop and never have to repeat The Conversation or get the Pity Look again?

While I was still debating this with myself, while scrolling through Instagram one day, I stopped when I saw a post from my friend Katie Hawkins-Gaar, who had recently given birth to a beautiful baby girl. On the surface, I thought Katie’s life as a new mom looked cozy and perfect. But in this post, she revealed that three and a half weeks after her daughter was born, she was admitted to the hospital for postpartum psychosis, and kept in a psychiatric ward for three days, living under tight restrictions. She talked about how she had kept silent about the experience out of shame, not sure where to start and what to say, and letting the shame of her experience keep her silent.

Katie is exceptionally good at talking openly about the hard stuff. (Her newsletter, My Sweet Dumb Brain, is excellent.) When I read her post, I was in awe of the bravery and strength and resilience it takes to get through something like that—and then be willing to talk about it publicly. I don’t have a fraction of the strength Katie does, but seeing her talking about an incredibly hard experience, one that comes with stigma and shame, inspired me. I had already been sitting on my diagnosis for a month. Aside from family and a few close friends who I had told, I was basically pretending everything was fine and normal (well, as fine and normal as you can be in a pandemic) to everyone else I knew.

So inspired by Katie, I decided to just rip the band-aid off.

I messaged Katie later to tell her how much I admired her, and we both agreed that after posting, we felt lighter. I no longer felt like I was carrying a huge secret around. And more importantly: hard things do happen in life. Hiding them away, not talking about them, and pretending they don’t happen does everyone a disservice. And you never know who else out there might dealing with the same thing and might benefit from hearing your story.

Good things to read

“I get better sleep”: the people who quit social media, The Guardian. Maybe I need to quit Instagram, actually.

I really can’t complain, The Cut. Jamilah Lemieux on feeling the effects of the pandemic but also feeling bad about complaining.

The joy and agony of being @deuxmoi, Instagram’s accidental gossip queen, Vanity Fair.

Should Justin Timberlake apologize?, BuzzFeed. Note: Justin Timberlake actually did apologize a few days after this piece was published. But it’s still worth reading; a great reconsideration of Timberlake’s role in what happened to Britney Spears (and Janet Jackson, too).

“Oh, we’re still in this.” The pandemic wall is here, Washington Post. I know there is sort of a light at the end of the tunnel now that vaccines are rolling out, but damn, this was relatable.

Stop telling women they have imposter syndrome, Harvard Business Review. Sometimes it’s not imposter syndrome… it’s systemic racism and misogyny.

The limits of the lunchbox moment, Eater. How pop culture convinced immigrant children to be embarassed of their food.

The secret, essential geography of offices, Wired. This actually made me miss the office.

Three American mothers, on the brink, New York Times. A powerful piece on how moms are struggling through the pandemic.

Megan Rapinoe and Sue Bird are goals, GQ. This profile of the most adorable sports power couple in existence will make even the biggest Valentine’s Day cynic feel warm and fuzzy.

Good things to cook

This week I made this cauliflower rice taco skillet, gochujang shrimp and green beans, and maple and miso salmon (one of my favorite ways to cook salmon, ever).

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