The memory of creating my first Instagram account is a vivid one. The girls from my fifth grade class had thrown a sleepover party to celebrate finishing elementary school. Late that night, the last of us awake were all huddled on the couch looking at one girl’s phone. I didn’t have a smartphone back then; I wasn’t even 11. Yet, when she opened up her Instagram app I knew I had to have one.
The next morning I made my account using her phone, and I posted pictures using my grandmother’s iPad or whoever’s phone I could talk my way into. I put little thought into what I was uploading; my following was few, maybe 10 or so kids from school, and I assumed my audience could care less.
Fast forward that summer and a little into the school year. To say that sixth grade was a big change would be an understatement. Popularity online began to matter. Christmas rolled around and I was given my own iPod—I finally had access to social media on my own terms.
Follower and following counts grew endlessly, it seemed, doubling and even tripling until I had hundreds. I continued to post what I thought were harmless photos until some friends started to tell me that I was making a fool out of myself more often than not.
It was an embarrassing thing to be told. Together we revisited my posts. They were mostly silly, innocent pictures of me and my friends. I didn’t see the problem with them; it was all just for fun. My friends insisted I was immature and that I was giving myself a bad image. Eventually I grudgingly agreed and started over from scratch.
From there grew what I would call an obsession.
I’m embarrassed to say I cared so much. Looking back, I don’t know who I was trying to fool. Everyone who followed me saw me almost daily anyway. My photos were edited to a T, and I spent more time than was reasonable coming up with witty captions and comments. This phase of my life lasted all throughout middle school, even into freshman year.
The hardest thing for me was the move I made after seventh grade. I moved from Chapel Hill to Pittsboro. Distance wise, it was nothing, but it felt like a whole new world. One that I didn’t have a place in.
I couldn’t let go or move on. Even when I made friends and started a life here, I was still attached to my old life with my social media accounts. It felt like I had to know what the girl who made fun of me was up to, or if my old crush was doing well in his classes. Even when I felt like I was letting go, a little part of me was still holding on online. I wanted my old friends—who had moved on much easier than I had—to think I was having a great time without them. Even now I’m not sure if anyone bought it. The difference is I no longer care.
I gave up my first account for a brand new one. This one was just for me. A few of my old friends found it over time, but I don’t mind. I post what makes me happy. I post pictures I’m proud of, pictures of my friends, all the little things that I enjoy. I’m not trying to be someone I’m not anymore.
I’ve moved on from obsessing over an image. I’m no longer concerned that my feed matches or if people are commenting about missing me. This is not to say that social media is entirely toxic—it has advantages and can even bring people closer together. But as with all things, moderation and self-awareness are crucial.
– By Harper Bone
