Vol. 65 - To Be (Real) or Not to Be (Real)

On keeping in real in the age of social media

If you follow me on Instagram, you may have seen tons of photos and videos from a tremendous trip that my wife and I took (with our kids) to the French Alps over the last two weeks.

According to my Instagram account, our trip was full of smiles, of adventure, of delicious food, and of family moments that will forever remain etched in our memories. There was nary a tear or a sour mood to be seen.

According to my Instagram, our trip to France was perfect.

Only it was hardly perfect.

Rather, our trip was like most of our days here at home; a rollercoaster of emotions, of goods and bads, peaks and valleys, and moments of pure joy punctuated by anger and sadness and the entire spectrum of feelings that come with raising two kids.

But it looked perfect because I chose share those moments of joy, those moments that made the entire trip one that we would take again in a heartbeat. It looked perfect because I edited out all the hard stuff.

It looked perfect because Instagram is not real.

Our trip was amazing. And there were absolutely moments that were perfect. And it was one that we’ll do again, rough patches and all. But our trip was also tough as hell, dotted with dark and difficult moments, moments when the four of us were screaming in unison, angry and tired and hungry, all of us wondering whose stupid fucking idea this was anyway.

Bathing suits were shitted in (not mine, nor my wife’s) and van windows were smashed. Threats were made and discipline was meted out. Oh and the tears. So many tears. From all four of us.

But you wouldn’t know that unless I told you (as I am right here and now). Because according to my Instagram, our trip was perfect.

Sometimes I choose to post the realness to my social feeds. But more often I choose to keep it pretty and light and fun.

Why?

Because during those real, dark, trying times, the last thing I’m doing is pulling out my phone to film or snap a picture. Not because I don’t want anyone to see me or Emily struggling in life. But because my focus is on doing my best to remedy the situation. In those moments, my focus is on trying to be a good dad and a good husband.

I don’t care if people know my struggles. Shit, most of this newsletter is precisely that. I think we’d be a much healthier and happier society if we talked more openly about our struggles.

For many, social feeds are curated to exude the best possible life (YOLO, FOMO, and all the rest). For others, me included, our social feeds are a reflection of when and where we have the energy and wherewithal to pull out our phones, to snap a picture, and to write a little caption before sharing it with the world.

When a French street sign is smashed through the back window of a rental van with a very hefty security deposit, Instagram is the last thing I’m thinking about. When my son is punching his sister because she took a half of his croissant that he hadn’t touched in hours, I should capture this moment for posterity is not my immediate reaction. When my wife is crying because she hasn’t slept in days, I don’t pop up for an usie.

But when the two of our kids are perched peacefully beside a picturesque Alpine lake, yeah, maybe that’s something I might want to share.

It’s important to remember, as both the poster and the scroller of social media, that none of it is real.

No matter how perfect our French vacation looked (and, in a lot of ways, it was), it was still a daily challenge, still hard as fuck.