Unless you’re a middle-aged old man (shoutout to my dad, I love you), you probably understand the addiction to getting high off Instagram likes. As painful as it is to admit, I was once that girl who deleted pictures because they didn’t fit into my “Instagram feed aesthetic” and because they didn’t surpass a benchmark “like” quantity; in short, I was obsessed with Instagram. The pathetic part was that my obsession was a thinly veiled attempt to reflect the person I wanted to emulate, not curate a visual diary for my personal means.
Every picture was calculated to achieve maximum likes and comments, ultimately positive responses, but looking back, the obsession I had a mere year or two ago was absolutely absurd. I wanted people to virtually view me as this ultra-cool, cultured chick with over-saturated pictures, trendy clothes, and unique experiences, so much that I would do something for the Instagram, not for the actual doing part.
I know this all sounds hypocritical as I still love Instagram, but it’s a different relationship now. I don’t do things for the Instagram, the constant thought of what would look good in my feed has diminished. I simply live my life the way I want to and take pictures for the memories. Then, I’ll post, but only if I feel like it. Sometimes I feel like posting oddly adorable pictures of Jackie Chan with puppies or genuine candids of me perusing an art gallery; I no longer feel the need to give into the generic desire for everyone to see my pictures. So what if my posts don’t get as many likes as those of my previous Instagram identity? After all, it’s just Instagram.