When my kids were born, especially my first, I did that thing where you cannot. stop. staring. at them, thinking, How is it possible that I just created this tiny human out of thin air?! Immediately followed by: Are all of you seeing this?! I need everyone to bear witness IMMEDIATELY. (Why, yes, I was very chill. Why do you ask?)
From day one, I couldn’t stop snapping pics: that milk-drunk smile, a close-up of those genetically blessed lashes, a nap in the tightest swaddle I could muster. While I didn’t post every single one of my 50-something dailies, I kept up a steady pace that let everyone see what we were up to and where we were strolling. Before long, it was on to the toddler stage—capturing sneaky smiles, playground treks, food-covered faces, and occasional (sure… let’s stick with that) meltdowns.
I lived to give little updates on our adventures. Here we are grabbing ice cream! And in the car ride home after a day at the beach! Was it a mistake to attempt a restaurant? Look at this chaos and you tell me (in the comments)! I became obsessed with posting just enough and exactly the right mix of shots and videos to chronicle our perfectly imperfect life.
During every event or outing, there was a part of me that was thinking ahead to later that evening, when I could batch together the best snapshots so the people could see what we were up to. The compulsion to put our family on display was so strong and such a common practice that I never stopped to think, Maybe just don’t share for a change?
So as a challenge, that’s exactly what I did. What difference could it really make, I wondered. I quickly realized it was huge.
I haven’t gotten into an argument with a kid over an outfit and have stopped caring how they look.
We are not—and have never been—a matchy-matchy, perfectly ironed and color-coordinated family. That’s just a fashionable bridge too far. But there have been several times when my daughter demanded to wear a ratty old rainbow shirt that had seen (much) better days, and I cajoled her into wearing something “nicer.”
Did it really matter? Not at all! But for some reason, I didn’t want the ‘Gram to see her in that tired top for the third time in a row and assume I never did laundry. Now that I’m done posting, she can wear whatever she wants, whenever she wants, and I don’t give it a second thought.
I haven’t gotten bummed about how many likes I’ve gotten.
More likes = more love, right? Obviously not. But there’s an undeniable dopamine burst when you see those hearts and comments popping up after you’ve posted the sweetest/silliest/most hilarious pic or reel. You’ve nailed it! The people love it—and you! And your family!
Except when it feels like they don’t. Was my caption not clever enough? Did I come off as unlikeable or out of touch? The truth is, you’ll never know. It may even just be what the algorithm felt like serving up today. But not constantly checking in and reacting to the “success” of a post is even more freeing than you can imagine.
I haven’t felt like a failure after not getting the “perfect shot.”
No family is perfect. We’ve all internalized that message by now, yes? Social is simply a highlight reel, we are all just putting on performances, and so on and so forth. But it’s one thing to logically know it and another to see story after story of kids that seem to be just a bit happier and funnier and more well-traveled and sun-kissed than your own.
Related: My Insta “Friends” Are Mostly Strangers Now—and As a Mom, It’s Weirding Me Out
There used to be days when I drove myself crazy because one of my kids refused to open their eyes in what would otherwise be a perfect sunset shot. Or because we had a day when everyone genuinely got along (!), but I didn’t get any proof of the sibling sweetness on film. In relinquishing my role as documentarian, I finally learned to stop caring—and comparing. As it turns out, my kids are actual human beings with their own emotions and facial expressions, who can squint and be unphotogenic goofballs whenever they please.
I haven’t stress-eaten ice cream after doomscrolling about predators. (I’ve stress-eaten ice cream for other reasons, like sleep regressions and unrelenting potty talk.)
To be honest, creepers weren’t always at the top of my list of concerns. But the more I read, the more disturbed I was to discover stories of stolen identities and scams tied to unsuspecting families. The idea that someone could just pluck images from your life to build lies around and do with as they please is beyond unnerving—and something we should all think about a bit more. Not to mention that plenty of the acquaintances you “friended” over the years are kind of… strangers now. And not necessarily people I want to see my day-to-day whereabouts.
I’ve stopped worrying about where my photos will end up.
Confession: I have never taken the time to read through the dozens and dozens of pages of terms and conditions for the various platforms and apps I use before agreeing to them. (I’m going to guess you’re in the same boat.) So concerns about who owns my images, where my photos and videos might ultimately land, and what future searches might surface them are all valid. It’s murky territory, and it’s terrifying. Taking the step to remove myself and my family’s likenesses from public-facing platforms (as much as is possible)—and instead opting for private photo-sharing on Tinybeans—is something that helps me sleep better at night. And it’s a decision I’ll never regret making.