Research - 'my instagram's perfect, my real life is not' - Shelby Davis Cooper

Over the past several months, I’ve been rejected by 11 of the 12 medical schools to which I applied. 

 I suffered a months-long depression. 

 to move out of the home we created together

You wouldn’t know any of this if you were to look at my social media presence.

I post frequently and publicly: pictures of myself, of Brooklyn (the borough), of Brooklyn (my puppy), of my (now ex-)boyfriend.

This isn’t a part of myself that I’m entirely proud of or comfortable with. There is an old soul in me that recoils at how many of my human connections are virtual, at how much of myself and my life I present for the consumption of acquaintances and strangers. I also feel guilty and conflicted about participating in the larger, vainglorious project that is a defining feature of social media: of only sharing when the news is good.

Just weeks ago, an old friend texted wanting to catch up because, “[she] always sees these amazingly happy photos of [me] on Facebook,” and wanted to hear about my happiness in person. I almost had to laugh. I’d never been more unhappy.

My Instagram and Facebook page are filled with photos of him and us. The part of me that feels like social media is some tidy representation of our identities and our personal narratives wants desperately to exclude this, as though the excluding will make it less real, as though for once the virtual might inform the physical and everything will be okay.