There’s a version of me that lives online.
She’s composed. Capable. Occasionally funny.
She wears good sweaters and answers emails quickly and knows what she’s doing most of the time.
She’s useful. She’s curated. She’s tired.
And lately, I’ve been wondering what it would feel like to just… not perform.
To not document the moment.
To not shape the story.
To not present a version of myself for consumption, even if the audience is small.
Just to be. Quietly. Privately. Unapologetically unfinished.
We’re not just sharing anymore. We’re translating.
Social media taught us to live in third person.
We don’t just experience things—we observe ourselves experiencing them. We pre-narrate. We edit in real time. We think in captions.
A walk isn’t just a walk.
It’s a potential post.
A sunset is a backdrop.
A meal is a brand alignment.
It’s not vanity. It’s habit.
And it’s subtle. But it’s constant.
Even in real life, we perform.
We soften edges. Adjust tone. Keep our reactions digestible. Even our joy is sometimes edited for clarity.
We’ve learned to filter ourselves down to the most palatable version.
It’s not fake. But it’s not quite whole either.
Performance isn’t always theatrical. Sometimes it’s just survival.
Let’s be honest: a lot of us perform because it works.
The world rewards polish. Predictability. Relatability.
It’s safer to be understood than to be complex.
You get promoted for being agreeable.
You get invited back when you play the part.
You get followed when your life makes sense in squares.
But at some point, the performance starts performing you.
And you forget what it feels like to be unguarded.
You don’t have to show everything.
There’s something sacred about being unseen. Not in a disappearing act kind of way, but in a deliberate choice to keep something for yourself.
Not everything is content.
Not everything needs a caption.
Not every emotion belongs on a feed or in a group thread.
You’re allowed to have moments no one knows about.
You’re allowed to make art no one sees.
You’re allowed to have a bad day and not turn it into a lesson.
Real presence is quiet.
Not silent. Just honest.
The kind of presence that doesn’t need to narrate itself.
It’s what happens when you stop asking, “How does this look?” and start asking, “How do I feel?”
It’s unfiltered eye contact.
It’s laughter that doesn’t land in a comment section.
It’s the relief of saying nothing and not needing to explain why.
This isn’t a call to quit the internet.
This is a call to quit the performance.
Or at least pause it.
To stop shaping yourself around what will get the right kind of reaction.
To stop overexplaining to preempt misunderstanding.
To stop turning your life into a portfolio.
Sometimes the most radical thing you can do is be exactly who you are, in a moment that no one else sees.
And let that be enough.