It’s a weird feeling, the feeling of missing out.
And I don’t mean missing out on a party or a dinner or a beach day. I mean the quiet kind. The kind where you’re not really sure what you’re missing, but it feels like something. You feel it in your chest when you’re off Instagram for a bit, when your Snapchat is blank, when your screen is too still. It feels like everyone else is living and you’re… just existing.
But are we really missing out on that much?
I don’t think we are, if I’m being honest. And yet it feels overwhelming not knowing what others are doing, not seeing their stories, and not being able to share yours either. That tiny panic when you open the app and it’s empty no dots, no reactions, no posts. That moment where your brain whispers, maybe I’ve fallen behind.
But behind what, exactly?
When we do get on social media, what are we even looking at? What are we actually sharing? Not the messy middle of our lives. Not the parts where we cry on the bathroom floor or overthink a text or question who we are. We share the curated moments. The good lighting, the right angles, the achievements, the filters, literal and emotional.
We don’t post what’s going on.
We post what we want others to think is going on.
Someone posts a story in a Mercedes, and you think wow, I wish that was me. But you don’t know the full story behind that story. You don’t know if it’s their car, or their parent’s, or a rental. You don’t know the debt behind the glam, or the sadness behind the smile. You don’t know the arguments, the anxiety, the pressure, the price. And more importantly, you don’t know if that person even feels happy in that moment.
But we see the picture and tell ourselves they’re ahead. That we’re late. That we’re not doing enough.
And then we post something too. A coffee. A car ride. A quote. A close-up of our face with no explanation. We post as if to say, I’m here too. I’m doing fine. Look at me, don’t forget about me.
But… who really cares?
I posted the meal I ate five hours ago. Who cares?
I posted a video of me laughing on FaceTime. Who cares?
I posted a crying selfie, hoping someone would ask if I’m okay. Who really cares?
I think we all know the answer.
Not really anyone. Not in the way we secretly hope for.
Maybe five people reacted. Maybe one friend replied. But the moment is gone. They double tapped, they sent a heart emoji, and then they moved on with their life.
So why do we post at all?
I think part of it is about not wanting to be forgotten. Not by others, but by ourselves.
Like Emma Chamberlain once said, “Why do we feel the need to take photos and videos of everything?”
And I think she’s right when she says it’s the fear of losing a memory.
It’s the fear of losing the feeling.
We don’t just post to be seen. We post to remember. To keep proof that we existed, that we felt something that day. That we were alive and doing things and being someone.
But it’s a strange loop. We try to hold on to the moment by recording it, and in doing that, we sort of miss it. We see concerts through our camera screen. We smile for pictures we don’t even feel like taking. We try to capture the “good life” instead of living it.
And what’s worse is that it’s never enough. One post turns into ten. One reaction isn’t satisfying. We keep coming back for more, more views, more validation, more dopamine.
Meanwhile, real happiness? It becomes harder to reach. Reality starts to feel dull. Moments without photos feel like they didn’t happen. And somehow, nothing feels as special unless we can prove it happened online.
Our generation is slowly losing touch with joy that isn’t posted.
And I say our generation but really… I mean me too. I’m not above it. I catch myself in it all the time. Taking a photo and then spending 15 minutes deciding if it’s worth posting. Rewatching my own story to see if it looks cool enough. Feeling bad if no one replies to something that felt meaningful to me.
It’s such a lonely place to be, connected to thousands, but not really seen by anyone.
We talk about FOMO like it’s only about missing events or plans. But there’s also the fear of missing memories. Or missing proof of our life moving forward.
I’m scared of forgetting who I was. Of not being able to look back and say, “That’s when I was really happy,” or “That’s when I was trying to get better.” And sometimes it feels like if I don’t post it… maybe it didn’t really happen.
But then I remember the things I never posted. Like the time I made chai for my mom and we talked for an hour. Or the walk I took last winter when the sky looked like a painting. Or the song I listened to that made me cry but also made me feel so warm. Those moments mattered too. And no one saw them. And maybe that’s what made them real.
I don’t have a clean ending to this post. Because I’m still figuring it out. I still post things that don’t matter. I still get caught up. I still compare, still scroll, still seek validation from people who wouldn’t even notice if I disappeared from their feed.
But maybe being aware of it… is a start.
Maybe next time I go to post something, I’ll ask myself why.
Maybe I’ll pause before I turn a moment into content.
Maybe I’ll stop chasing proof, and start collecting presence.
Because not everything has to be seen to be real.
And not everyone has to care, for me to care.
Lots of love, Aashi<3
