CharlotteI’m naturally extroverted. To me, this means that I love socializing with others, hanging out with friends on Friday nights, and I get antsy if I’m alone for too long. Like many others, I thrive on the energy of being around people—whether that’s in a lively coffee shop or strolling through bustling streets with my camera in hand.
However, over the last four years, this identity I’ve proudly carried as a “community-oriented person” has come into question. Navigating the challenges of high school and the profound loss of my dad has shifted the way I view connection. I’ve found myself caught between extroversion and introversion, uncertain of where I stand—or where I should stand—as a teenager in the 21st century. My identity feels fragmented: one version exists in the real world, the other scattered across my Instagram feed and other online spaces.
I’ve always struggled with balancing privacy and disclosure. When something noteworthy happens—whether I’m traveling somewhere new or winning an award—should I share it? Should I post about it? Each time I do, there’s this awkward pang of guilt, a fear that I’m coming off as braggy. Why should I share every detail of my life? And why does it matter if a random Instagram follower sees my photo of a croissant? It doesn’t bring me any real joy.
Yet, many people feel differently. We live in a culture that celebrates oversharing, where social media allows us to broadcast our lives to thousands of people instantly––whether it’s a morning coffee, a football game, or a weekend getaway. In earlier times, our circles were smaller, and our lives were kept more private. There were no Instagram stories for our neighbors to see what had just happened 10 minutes ago; the most we could do was yell down the street.
While having a large network can be beneficial, we often overlook the value of deep, meaningful connections. The Survey Center on American Life found that in 2021, individuals reported having far fewer close friends than 30 years ago. The irony is that as we’ve become more “connected,” we’ve lost the intimacy that true connection brings. What we need isn’t more friends or followers, it’s stronger, deeper relationships.
This realization has influenced how I approach my friendships. While many of my peers choose to notify the world about their travels or coffee shop finds through Instagram stories, I prefer simpler, more personal methods—calling, FaceTiming, or meeting up for coffee or a hike. These interactions feel genuine, grounded, and real in a way social media can’t replicate.
When it comes to meeting new people or celebrating milestones, I’ve learned to resist the pressure to post online. Winning an award doesn’t always mean that I need to announce it on LinkedIn. Improving my follower-to-following ratio doesn’t matter to me. Separating my professional and personal connections has been freeing, allowing me to spend less time online and focus more on the relationships that I feel truly matter. Personally, I find joy in real smiles, real laughs, and real moments—not in the +1 next to a heart icon on my phone screen.
This mindset has been transformative for my mental health. I no longer experience the constant “FOMO” that social media so often provokes. My real-world relationships have flourished. I have a boyfriend now, and we enjoy embarking on cooking adventures or doing fun activities like ice skating. I’ve got a few close friends, and we try to hold weekly movie nights or make time for nature hikes. I cherish dinner dates with my mom and FaceTime calls with my brother in college. These connections make me feel alive, present, and content. I feel like a human living in the real world—not just a profile in the digital one.
Remember: it’s okay to be private online. It’s okay to turn off your Snapchat location or be the one friend in your group who doesn’t share their FindMy location 24/7. We don’t need to be so “wired in” all the time, because, ultimately, this constant digital connection often leads to less genuine human connection.
Aimee
Greta
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