What our profiles don't show

The behind-the-scenes of it all

Things were really, really bad.

I was 27. Postpartum psychosis had overtaken my life that summer, and the aftermath sent me into a deep depressive spiral. I let my husband do all the parenting as I spent days in bed, getting up only to plaster on a smile and shoot content for partnerships. While everything was terrible, I'd been inundated with emails from brands facing pressure to diversify their content, and the show had to go on. (The offers eventually slowed, but that’s a post for another day.)

I scrolled and scrolled on my phone and frowned at all the people who had the energy to spend meaningful time with their kids, exercise, and get dressed daily. It felt like I was trying to walk a marathon with my feet stuck in mud while everyone lapped me without breaking a sweat. You wouldn't know this from my posts, of course. I occasionally hinted at having a hard time but didn't want to break the illusion. Buying a Peloton, clothing hauls, rediscovering a photography side hustle, and working with companies I loved — life was terrific. At least online.

Someone could’ve looked at my life back then and felt a pang of jealousy. If only they knew the truth. I was doing so poorly my psychiatrist recommended a partial hospitalization program, and I was convinced my infant daughter didn’t love me because of the time I spent away from her at the height of my illness. I held these things close, telling only a few friends. At one point, I would've thought I was a fraud for not sharing it all with everyone. But now I know it's more complicated than that.

the worst time of my life.

An aspirational Instagram account hates to see me coming. I can't stop following people whose lives seem breezy and uncomplicated. Effortless, if you will. Sometimes, I'll pinch my fingers to zoom in hopes of finding an imperfection, but the only things visible are pearly white teeth and poreless skin. While envy-inducing, the posts from gorgeous, wealthy people rarely get to me. It's the shares from those who have endless energy. Working, socializing, parenting, exercising, reading — they just do so much. How?! 

I know folks who somehow find a way to get it done without any external support, but I suspect it isn't the norm. Many of us just don't discuss the privileges that allow a sought-after life. I don't know if my life is all that desirable, but there are little luxuries I take for granted. One example: my mental health is now stable because I see a therapist and anti-diet dietician who help me stay grounded. Five years ago, I would've balked at my therapist's out-of-pocket fee. I used to feel a flash of worry when I checked my business bank account, which I was too ashamed to admit to anyone I knew in real life, let alone online. 

During this time, I couldn't stop looking at people whose lives looked easy, who made endless money, had room for every posh thing they wanted, and were thriving emotionally. I felt envy so intense it bordered on resentment. Even though I'm in a much better spot today, I still fall into the same trap. Everyone else just seems to be one step ahead. I've gone wrong, but I can't pinpoint where.

I’m so preoccupied with other people’s lives that I forget how lucky I am to have my own. Motherhood is a large part of my life but not my whole existence. While parenting can be monotonous, I feel overwhelmed less frequently than I expected. There's important context here. I get to sit at my desk uninterrupted, which isn't the case for many work-from-home parents. When I want to get my hair done or crave a pedicure, I can do it without much thought. It's not really a surprise I don't usually feel all that burnt out — I get a lot of time to myself.

I posted an Instagram story from a cafe by my house a couple months ago. Warm lighting, a perfectly placed drink, my laptop barely in the frame showing I'm working without letting you see what's on the screen — you know how it goes. When I checked my DMs an hour or two later, I had someone who wanted to know how I balance writing away from home with having a baby. The response surprised me. I never thought to clarify that my son isn't with me while I'm out. While I'm physically capable of bringing my baby to work from a coffee shop or to run errands, it's obviously easier to do it alone, and I get to.

The conversation got me thinking. I’ve written about my relationship with oversharing and working on the compulsive need to post about every single thing that happens to me. Still, I’ve been asking myself what it’d look like to discuss the support I have and how it impacts me. To be fully transparent. I think it’s a conversation worth having.

My six-month-old is with a babysitter three days a week, and my 4-year-old daughter attends preschool every weekday. She sleeps at my parents’ house a handful of times a month, which allows my husband and I to go on regular dates. We’re going to Mexico for an anniversary celebration later this year. I knew my family would be willing to watch both kids for five days. I exist apart from my children because of these breaks.

Then there’s having a supportive partner, which I maintain shouldn’t be a privilege but often feels like one. My husband does all the cooking (I can follow a recipe, but I promise you’d prefer his food). He encourages me to get away whenever I can — I’m heading to New York City next month for a solo trip he helped me plan. He did every night feed during our son’s first month, never complaining. The only sign of exhaustion was the dark bags under his eyes. I was well-rested in those early days, filled with energy many new parents lack.

And there are the conveniences that make life simpler — outsourcing grocery shopping, house cleaning, home repairs, lawn service. Sure, we all have the same twenty-four hours, but it isn't always a level playing field. Even with all the comforts I have, I long for more. When I wash and fold our clothes, I'm intensely jealous of people who can afford a laundry service. There's always something else. Things could always be even better. My social media feed doesn’t spell all of this out, of course.

I'm painfully aware that if I bungle this, it might read, "Look how great my life is!" or maybe, "I'm a total hater!" And while yes, I'm grateful and also probably have an envy problem, that's not the point of this post. We don't owe each other the behind-the-scenes that make our lives seem carefree. I doubt anyone expects me to add caveats whenever I share a post. I don’t necessarily want to. So why am I gripped by other people's lifestyles, longing for even more context? Extreme nosiness, if you will.

not me relating to this 2015 Tumblr post while writing this

Those people with "easy" lives don’t need to list off every advantage and disadvantage they have for the sake of easing my jealousy. Do I really need to know if their parents gifted them the down payment for their stunning home or the story behind their glitzy clothing and glamorous lives? It's easy to talk about how we need more vulnerability online — I'm obviously a fan of yapping — but what does that look like when we aren't obligated to share information? Rather than expecting radical honesty from every person I encounter, should I just approach the world knowing that people's lives aren't always what they seem? I think I have to figure out the answer myself.

There’s an Instagram vs. reality hashtag that’s been viral for a few years. Between you and me, I used to roll my eyes when I saw the trend on my Explore page. It was usually a conventionally attractive woman whose first picture was well-lit with an aesthetically pleasing background — maybe the beach or a home gym. She’d have enviable hair and a bright smile. On the next slide, she’d share a photo taken after she exhaled and relaxed her body. Here’s the thing, though — she still looked incredible. I’d cynically wonder whether the whole thing was a compliment grab, not making room for a probable truth: she’s doing her best to pull back the curtain and show that she, too, struggles with how she views herself. Even though the contrast didn’t feel stark enough for me, she was being vulnerable. Devastatingly beautiful women — they’re just like us.

My skepticism of someone’s motives doesn’t do me any favors, and I can’t have it both ways, wanting someone to share and being disappointed if it doesn’t fit my expectations. I’m not going to add a disclaimer every time I post something, whether it's positive (I have people who help me!) or negative (my excitement isn’t genuine because everything sucks right now!). It’s okay for life to have a bit of mystery, a firm line separating you from the people you interact with on the Internet. Our social media posts are so often a tiny glimpse of what’s actually going on, good or bad. That’s okay. But I am drawn toward candidness lately. I’m going to keep talking (surprise!) and see where the discourse leads me.