Reflections // Social Media

Last August. This August. In one year, my body fearfully and wonderfully created a baby, pushed her out of me, and nourished her with milkshakes. The body under that red dress expanded and deflated, commemorating her accomplishment with jagged lines and wider hips. I’m proud of that body. For her strength and perseverance and pliability and straight-up-ability to consume an entire watermelon and two bags of cheddar cheese puffs without imploding in the seventh month of pregnancy. Now, I have a koala pouch of a pooch that feels like a warm, gel ice pack strapped to my midriff. I have a hard crease between my eyes. Now, I have tiny red craters on my face leftover from the landmines my hormones decided to set off in their postpartum fury. But still, I have never been so proud of a body--of my body. Usually, I’m excited to post these kinds of photos and share these kinds of updates, but social media left me feeling uneasy this week. I have been binge listening to podcasts lately, and as I found myself looking up show guests and writers and recommended bloggers, I kept scrolling and scrolling through instagram feeds that looked like they could be professional advertisements for home design, fashion, or lifestyle editorial spreads.In contrast, I put almost no premeditated thought into my instagram feed. I try to post some of the portrait work I shoot every now and then, but my photos mostly consist of my baby and my dog. Only recently--as in the last year-- have I learned the importance of hashtags and of followers and of Instagram stories for boosting a creative business, and I have to be honest when I say a large part of me can’t stand that side of social media. It’s so tiring to think about. I enjoy seeing updates from my friends and family, and I love posting stories, especially of my Sophie. I do. But the idea of trying to become successful in my business and my creative endeavors by harnessing the powers of Instagram followers makes me angry. Maybe angry isn’t the right word. But, it all feels so phony sometimes. When I took a break from photography to teach a few years ago, I felt such relief that I would no longer be tied to my phone, checking to see how many likes each of my posts received whenever I published a new wedding on my blog. I hated that I craved praise in the form of digital likes. I hated it back in 2014, and I hate it now. But, it also makes me angry-- or something close to it-- that I feel this kind of enmity about social media, especially when I simultaneously feel such gratitude for it. I’m two-faced. If I’m even more honest, another large part of me feels envious of the people who have perfectly curated feeds and 27k followers. They’re the people with book deals and sponsored posts and free swag. They’re the people who meticulously select only the backgrounds and images that correlate with the feed’s capsule colors. They’re the ones who know how to take moody--but the cute kind of moody--half-smiles next to dreamy, white window light for an aesthetic that connotes tranquility, rest, and put-togetherness-- an aesthetic that I know I would easily interrupt with a grainy shot of my 8-month-old eating beets in the yellow tungsten light of our kitchen at 8 p.m. Like you,I am drawn to pretty photos. I am. There’s a reason many of us spend so much time looking at accounts of white on white with a flash of green and more white. We like Instagram accounts that feel organized and clean, especially when our worlds are not. However, we also hate Instagram accounts that exude the aforementioned organization and cleanliness because they do, in fact, remind us of how our worlds are anything but organized and clean. We are all two-faced, friends. The pros and cons of social media have been swarming through my head, and I still feel foggy from the buzz. This essay will not have a clear, definitive, aha moment. Sorry. At one point in the midst of all my mental debating of how to approach social media, I posted a poll in an Instagram story asking you whether or not I should make a separate account for my business. Then, I forgot I did that and now can’t figure out how to go back and see the poll results-- which pretty much answers my question. I don’t have time for two accounts. I don’t have enough time for one. At some point I might have to step away from the Gram before I get overly angry at myself for spending too much time on it, or not enough time on it,  or for obsessing over pop-ups of little red hearts. I’m not there yet. At some point, I might have to be more thoughtful in the way I post photos. Maybe they should be a little more organized, a little more clean. I’m not there yet either. Right now, I am going to try and be content in the tension that exists for me when it comes to social media: I feel gratefulness for a platform that allows me to document my life and to see stories of others’ lives; I feel self-loathing at the ways I covet and compare and seek acclaim.In his first letter to the Thessalonians, the apostle Paul writes,  “We are not trying to please men but God, who tests our hearts.” God knows my heart. He knows that right now I’m debating whether or not to publish this because my motives are not wholly pure. A piece of writing like this feels narcissistic. But, when I think back to those bookend photos of myself in my dress, back to my postpartum body, I want you to know I’m proud of my body in that groundswept, red dress, mostly because of the little life that’s pressed against it in both of the photos. Narcissism. Honesty. Gratitude. Loathing. It’s all here, friends.