The Insta-Real

What a delight it is to write on a topic suggested by someone else. I can pretend I’m writing for a magazine! Writing for someone other than me. Is it a crime to pretend? I mean printing this shit off and Pritt-sticking into Readers Digest would be a problem, but I challenge the notion that pretence is all bad. The good lighting, the moment the baby isn’t crying and the angle that doesn’t show the background mess. A slice of what life could be. I’m not condoning lying, but there’s a middle ground between the real and the fake. The Insta-Real. But is it OK to indulge in it?

People want ownership of their own stories. By letting someone into your “real” life you offer them your truth. And that sometimes becomes a contract of exchange. I give you my truth if you buy my shit/support my cause/be my friend/read my blog (jokes)... But out with the court room no one expects the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. We are not on trial on Instagram. We know that real life is fragmented, even edited. I did not wake up like this. There was a process where I edited my own face with make up. And you don’t invite someone over for coffee, hoover the bits they can see and then confess:

“In the sake of all honesty I want you to know that I haven’t tidied out my bedside cabinet. It is important that I am 100% true, real and honest for the sake of this friendship so here I let you browse the contents.”

In motherhood there are accusations of fakery if we don’t document every passing emotion online. It has become a trend to show off how miserable the whole thing is. Of course there has to be space for what makes us sad or angry. A moment in time which moves someone to reach out should be respected and is worth checking in with. But in that slice of sadness, it is worth remembering that tomorrow might be worse or it might be better. Some people like to show off. Others are naturally more closed. That’s true in real life and online but so long as your online profile is an extension of the real life you, I’d say that’s OK. Instagram is my place to show off the bits that I don’t mind people seeing. But it’s unlikely I’ll be posting my bedside drawers anytime soon.

I was gobsmacked when my oldest friend told me that until I was pregnant she didn’t know I wanted to be a mum. I was convinced that my online habits were a reflection of the real life me. Online, I devour everything I can find about parenthood. I follow, like and comment with reckless abandon and I thought that meant I walk around with a massive sign around my neck that screamed, “wants to have a baby”. But after hearing that huge part of me was missing from our friendship I wondered if my online habits had diluted my real life connection? Had the steady stream of consciousness that I engaged with online stopped me from saying anything out loud? Now, I think that real life just wasn’t the right time or place to have those conversations. It’s OK to keep some things back. Not everything is for everyone and that doesn’t mean there is a flaw. Instagram lets me start conversations that I’m not sure where to direct in real life. Before I became a parent it provided me with an outlet for so many of my fears and allowed me to talk about what I found difficult.

Many people find it difficult to talk about what they care about. Posting it into the void offers the possibility of validation or connection. And it also allows for anonymity. If no-one picks it up it can go unnoticed. That can be a good or a bad thing. I was probably a

bit embarrassed to admit this but when I do stuff online it’s because I want a reaction. I do get that little dopamine buzz when I see a notification and I do enjoy mindlessly chatting with people. I’d feel dejected if no one liked a picture of my baby. I’m not so different in real life. Take getting dressed up for example (and oh how I miss it). I do want someone to notice when I’ve spent a total of 52 minutes getting showered, dressed, hair and make up done rather than the obligatory 27 minutes on the daily. Yes, I dress up for me, body positivity and eff your beauty standards but if I get a reaction from my husband and he tells me my rack looks great, I feel great. And if I think to myself YEAH, MY RACK DOES LOOK GREAT I might post that on Instagram and relish the likes and comments. So long as the intended reaction is to make me feel good and not make other people feel bad, that’s OK. I don’t want people to look at my rack and feel bad about theirs but I also don’t want people to look at my rack and know that if I wasn’t spending all our money on redecorating the house I would 100% get a boob job. And if/when I do get that boob job, I probably won’t post about it. I am not duty bound to disclose every minor detail online in order to be “real”. I’ll hide my real fake boobs and then over time people will just come to assume that I happen to be a 65 year old women who has successfully breastfed at least one baby and miraculously evolved into a perky 34DD. But when I look back at the photos that I’ve curated, there aren’t that many of just plain old me looking fierce. There are lots of baby pics and scenery shots but next to everyone else’s Insta-Realities I feel embarrassed to boldly brag about how I look.

My other oldest friend recently shared a post about allowing people space to be proud. If we accept Instagram as a place where people get to show off what makes them joyous then it is by default a nice place to be. But comparison is the thief of joy and social media makes us need stuff we never knew we wanted. Before the dawn of Instagram the trees didn’t know their leaves turn orange. Now they pose proudly amongst the pumpkin patches in October with their many golden hues, announcing the arrival of Autumn. Those photos are the product of real life activities which soon become memories. And before Instagram, memories were filtered and cropped too. So it’s OK to remember the trip to the pumpkin patch without focussing on the slip in the mud because real life is fragmented. I think it is healthy to spend as much time looking at your own grid as you spend looking at other peoples. It might not be the whole picture, but that’s your life. You own it. It’s OK to be proud of it.

When social media becomes a measure of expectation it is dangerous. #motherhood #marriage #newhouse #graduation I’m not going to labour the point here because I’m saying nothing new. But the highlight reel, the best bits or the “we only went on this trip for the photos” is only ever a snapshot. That doesn’t mean that as a viewer, a follower or a friend that you’ve been hoodwinked. It’s just that people are complex and life is too big and too full of noise to fit into neat squares or 15 second video clips. Life is for action. Life is for reflection. But only the really skilled can photograph action and reflection well. The rest of us just have to rely on filters and hashtags for the things that are really important to us to be noticed. Noticed by one, noticed by one hundred. Having your existence noticed is nice. It’s necessary. And so I think it’s OK to indulge in the Insta-real. Let real life drive what you post online. Don’t let online make you chase a skewed reality with your real life. And when you are mindlessly scrolling through the Christmas trees, the weddings and the new bathrooms remember that even in a mirror you don’t see how

other people see you. And Instagram is just like one of those mirrors that can make you really tall and slim or make your head the shape of an alien. None of it’s real. But there is a real person standing in front of it, asking you to like it.