C in Real Life.

I started following this dog a few years ago on Instagram. He’s a wolf dog – wild, regal, free. I was desperate for a dog, but we weren’t allowed due to our landlord’s pet policy, so I started scouring the interwebs for virtual pets. He became an account I loved to follow.

As I grew more fond of the wolf dog and his journey, I learned about his parents. I started following Them. He was a motocross adventurer, committed to showing the world how to live a nomadic life with man’s best friend. She was a bad-ass, plain and simple. Beautiful, yes, but I fell in love with Her soul. She had this way with words that stirred places in me that felt forgotten.

She had a dog of her own, and this ethereal, blended family of four drove big trucks, rode motorcycles, camped under the stars, skied back-country, and seemed to live a life I couldn’t believe even existed. It looked ideal. Enviable. Flawless.

I, and many others, became attached to their family in a way that felt wildly intimate. I assumed I knew how things were going for Them, based on how it looked like things were going for Them.

About a month ago, He put up a picture of himself. He said He had been cheating on Her, among other admissions. It felt out of the blue. It was a raw confession, but there was a distinct lack of visibility into the full picture (namely, Her point of view). I felt utterly surprised and betrayed – and based on the comments, I was not alone.

I read the post over my cup of coffee one morning and felt like I’d been punched in the gut. WHY? HOW? “Love isn’t real,” I dramatically bemoaned (I know, wildly dramatic). If He + She, this inspiring, attractive, adventuresome, go-against-the-grain couple couldn’t withstand the barrage of curveballs life throws, is there hope for the rest of us out here in real life?

I felt angry at a person I didn’t know. I felt confused by how much this admission had immediately affected my mood and had caused me to question the possibility of love on such a grand scale. I felt entitled to intimate details of someone’s very personal and painful journey. Worst of all, I felt somehow validated in passing judgment on a person and situation I knew absolutely nothing about. Let me repeat: I knew nothing about this real-life person, or this real-life situation! I was in deep.

This was troubling to me. How did I wind up here, in a place where my emotions were held captive by strangers on a screen? It got me thinking about how I had always touted my ability to separate “real” life from “curated” life - clearly, that was no longer the case (honestly…. had it ever been?).

I claimed to look at Instagram for inspiration, memes, cute animals and Kook Slams. I thought the pictures I put up were to show my friends and family that “I’m here, I’m doing well most of the time, and I am keeping my puppy and relationship alive across country.” And while perhaps that was partially true, I realized I wasn’t being honest with myself…my intentions had become a little more convoluted than that.  

I falsely considered my “Hey, how are things going?” direct messages to my extended family, or my emoji responses to a story, meaningful forms of communication in which I could then say that “we’d caught up” or “yeah, I spoke to him yesterday, he’s doing really well!”.  

It appears that I was ever so slightly misguided. My relationship to social media, particularly Instagram, had become unhealthy at best. At worst, it perpetuated the narrative that my world was fine being nourished by a false sense of connection and instant validation through a screen, a few hundred characters, and a filtered image taken on an iPhone.

I realized I had become someone who wanted more, for less. More likes and reactions to my puppy. Less intention behind truly connecting with the human beings and animals around me.

More “wow, you live in a beautiful place!” comments, and less phone-less moments where I fully soak in the beautiful place where I live.

More content pushed out to assure people that LIFE IS GOOD, DAMMIT, and less bearing witness to the fact that LIFE ACTUALLY IS REALLY GOOD, DAMMIT.

I guess I got what I wanted, but it certainly didn’t feel like I was riding high.

I confessed this realization to Sam, who encouraged me to delete the godforsaken app already. He’s honest with me, and has a propensity for ripping the cord, while I prefer more of a slow burn. We talked about how I had lost sight of why I was doing what I was doing – was it for validation? For praise? For me? Or for others?

I’ve wrestled with that question for weeks now. I’ve talked about this internal conflict with wise people who have reminded me to extend grace to myself. People who have encouraged me to get really clear about taking conscious responsibility for my unique set of stories and gifts that I have to offer. What a reminder for all of us, right? We all have our “things” that make us who we are, and those things – those stories, experiences, beliefs - are our once-in-a-lifetime superpowers!

What I do know is, I’ve started working hard to familiarize myself with what is inside of me, bursting at the seams to come to life. Part of that process for me is understanding the implications of keeping that thing hidden from real life. What am I losing in this world when I consciously choose to spend my time pursuing this insatiable desire for validation in a curated one?

I know this story isn’t new, and I’d bet my bank account that I’m not the only person who feels this way. These complex questions about “why” and “at what cost” are a product of the technological society we live in now, and they aren’t going anywhere anytime soon.

I guess this crisis of the conscience, if you will, has been helpful in shaking loose the stickiness I’ve felt. Being off Instagram has given me hours of my day back. Hours that I’ve filled doing and seeing things that get me a little bit closer to who I want to be. Being here, now, in real life. That feels like the right place for me to be.