I will not BeReal: the illusion of authenticity on social media
credit: 愚木混株 cdd20
March was supposed to be a month of fresh beginnings, but devastation and disappointment crushed me under their weight. Booking a last-minute holiday was supposed to be a time for respite and rejuvenation, yet I lay in my hotel bed on a faraway isle, tears streaming down my face as I mulled over recent events.
In a moment of self-despair, I turned to Instagram. I wanted to prove to myself (and the world) that everything was fine. I posted to my story a photo taken hours earlier of my happier-looking, carefree self by a tropical lagoon, wearing nothing but a bikini and a macramé overthrow.
As the flurry of adoring comments and 'heart' reactions poured in, my friend Sophie replied 'Perfection', followed by a slew of 'Fire' emojis. She asked where I was, but I couldn't bear to answer. I was nothing but a fraud, and her adoration made me feel hollow inside. I was using social media like a 'highlight reel', flaunting only the best, most exquisite snapshots of my life.
Our Instagram feeds are full of these highlights, from connections sipping on vodka martinis at soirées, to selfies with the latest 'it' bags draped over their arms. Designed to elicit envy and admiration, as I scroll through these photos and forget about my own, I wonder if their lives are too good to be true or if I am unworthy.
I know I am not alone in this sentiment. The book ‘Mixed Feelings: The emotional impact of our digital habits’ explores the emotional toll of social media. Here, author Sarah Raphael admits to engaging in self-preserving behaviour online, describing how she carefully selects and posts photos where "I either look the best I've ever looked or I'm doing something that demonstrates my popularity, physical fitness, charitable nature or professional success".
In contemplating this behaviour, Raphael posits that "society on social media has a different value system". She explains that in the real world, "vanity is a deadly sin, narcissism is a cautionary tale, charity is supposed to be humble, and basic morality means not bragging about your successes, expensive clothes and nice holidays".
There is however a darker side to this behaviour, where these carefully curated online personas can leave us feeling empty and inadequate. Social psychologist Shoshana Zuboff dubs the act of exaggerated self-presentation as 'profile inflation', where "biographical information, photos and updates are crafted to appear ever more marvellous in anticipation of the stakes for popularity, self-worth, and happiness".
Zuboff cautions that online profile inflation causes individuals to negatively compare themselves to others, causing them to engage in even more exaggerated self-presentation online. Multiple studies back this up, revealing that individuals portray higher levels of wellbeing on social media than in real life and how the quest to create the image of a 'perfect life' online directly contributes to a decline in mental health.
In the quest for authentic online sharing, it's no wonder that BeReal rose to popularity last year, lauded as an antidote to Instagram's curated perfection. As it dethroned TikTok as the most downloaded app in the United States in 2022, we flocked to this platform to share our unedited lives, eager to be part of a new wave.
My brief encounter with BeReal proved how vulnerable I felt about sharing my mundane reality online. As I opened the app for the first time and pushed the camera's button, I recoiled in horror at the result, my glum, bare face popping up in the left-hand corner of the frame. Foolishly, I had yet to realise that BeReal captured the perspective of both my phone's front and back cameras or showed the number of retakes.
The next night, standing in a bar with friends, a notification popped up on my phone. "Time to BeReal", it read. We tipsily crowded around the camera as I took a snap. 'BeReal', I cheered as the camera flashed, relieved that my virtual reality appeared alluring in my drunken state.
While BeReal markets itself as a space for authentic sharing, it is vital to consider how much of our online presence is the product of our own carefully curated choices. As philosopher Susan Sontag explains, every picture or video contains an active selection of what will and won't be in the frame. This framing is always building some kind of story or narrative we consciously or subconsciously construct. Ultimately, we are left to wonder if genuine authenticity on social media is even possible.
And in this vein, 'photo dumps', the format taking our Instagram feeds by storm and preferred by Gen Z for their so-called authenticity, are also a form of careful curation. "My March in photos…" a friend captions for her latest 'dump': a pink Grey Lynn sunset, the open page of a book on her striped linen bedspread, an indulgent plate of carbonara, a Gucci shopping bag. Although these snaps seemingly give a glance into her everyday life, I can't help but wonder about the moments not captured. Critics say that the photos making up these dumps are captured for the sole purpose of sharing on social media, and they don't necessarily provide a genuine glimpse into a person's life.
As I continue to share photos online where I seem happier or more put-together than I feel, I contemplate if it's possible to be my authentic self online without being perceived as an overly emotional mess — unless I decide to log off completely. For now, I take solace in the fact that the accurate measure of our lives isn't found on our glittering Instagram profiles but in the type of person we are in the real world.
Words - Hemma Vara
