I'm Just Being Honest

Are you though? -- Influencer lies we already knew, too high a dose humility, and fending off shame in a way that actually works.

“I was trying to describe your class to her, and I told her, remember when you were in 3rd or 4th grade,” I could feel my smile sour and my eyebrows fighting the fresh Botox. My whole body braced against the impending non-compliment-compliment. I willed a hopeful smile, which may have read as eyes-too-wide deranged. “They would bring out that big multicolored parachute, and it was so exciting and special. Everyone would get under, and it was wild, but you were safe, and it was magical, and you couldn’t control your laughter. I told her it’s like that.” I was stunned.

“You’re so lyrical! That was the most beautiful, unexpected description!” The friend she had brought squeezed her upper arm and leaned in under her downturned gaze to catch her eyes, as though I had just reiterated something she had been trying to get her friend to believe for some time now. Her energy prodded at her friend: accept the love.

A trend emerged among influencers in light of the impending ban on TikTok. They were confessing their influencer lies, which, to me, felt redundant. I always assumed that influencers were lying to me. I don’t think they live in a multimillion-dollar LA mansion and then actually wear their Amazon hauls to Erewhon. For many, their job is to get you to buy things you don’t really need, and oftentimes, when that’s the motivation, honesty exits stage left.

Some confessed to not doing their workouts and just going to the gym to take a selfie—a given, right? One to not liking coffee when she started doing coffee reviews. And one, admitted to not even using any of the fancy ice she had created a whole brand of products and personality behind. That was the hardest to wrap my mind around because it is so, so nonsensical. Why ice? Why not something you like or would use? And why not use it? But perhaps most confounding, now that the ban has been lifted mere hours later, why tell us?

I laughed at the absurdity of our online culture and imagined what my confession could be. Maybe I would rip off my timid mask of insecurity and cackle, “HaHA! This whole time I’ve just been pretending to be an insecure, self-sabotaging mess of a middle-aged woman. I’m very confident! And best of all, I don’t have shame, which is how I can tell you all these deeply personal things with such regularity! I love myself through and through!” God, were it true.

Later that day, I thought hey, wait, what if it were true? I told Greg in my usual blurting out the conclusion to a one-sided conversation I’ve been having in my head fashion, “I decided I’m going to be confident from now on. I’m just going to believe in myself and not doubt everything anymore. I’m done with that.” And as any confident person would do, I searched his face for any indication of excitement or belief that it was possible. He looked completely neutral and said in a tone that matched, “That sounds good.” Hmph. That was not at all the jubilee my announcement deserved. No matter, as I am confident now, I don’t need a parade.

My children crashing a selfie in a dressing room during my “l am confident now” day last weekend. 5 stars, do recommend feeling yourself for the afternoon.

The hardest thing about my confidence is its inconsistency. One day, I wake up almost too confident—a delusional confidence I’ve written to you about more than once. I pop out of bed ready to tackle the tasks with both razzle and dazzle in tow. There is no questioning, no hand-wringing, no stutter step, just a deliberate doing. And then, as though I am a completely different person upon opening my eyes the very next day, I creep out of my bed shaking like a cold, naked little chihuahua standing on a busy city street corner, terrified of being trampled by the oblivious-to-its-existence giants all around. My energy screams, “What am I doing here? I don’t belong here! I’m scared! Please don’t step on me!” I get whiplash from the breakneck speed at which I crash into a different side of myself. Pick a lane, lady!

No, scratch that, don’t pick one, because they’re both traps. One trap is decidedly more fun and productive, but I imagine if sustained, isolating. To be bulletproof, you must armor yourself, and there is no entry point for the world to help you reflect and reorient. You risk becoming an amorphous blob of "Everything I do is the greatest and so am I!" Despite much evidence to differ. (And we are all painfully aware of how grotesque that manifestation is.)

My current alternative is far too meek and porous. But, I guess I prefer it because it begets connection. It allows others to lower their shield and look you in the eyes— if you’re willing to meet their gaze. Still, it’s limiting and defensive. It says, “You can’t fault me for being a fuck-up because I already claimed the title myself.” It slams the door in love's face, inwardly and outwardly. And what I’m feeling most dejected by is that it lacks courage. A kind of bravery that is still honest and fallible with the world, while also being deeply grounded by its roots. A sincere courage that would never, ever think to build a whole personality or product line around the number of likes it got.

The obvious conclusion is to find the elusive thing all my favorite meditation teachers endlessly exhort: “the middle ground” or the “neutral middle.” As I mentioned these teachers, like clockwork, my inner minimizing machine kicks on and revs up. I revere them as “real” teachers. They are up there, and I am way down here and it’s quite hard to hear them clearly from all the way down here. I find myself distracted by my stories of them vs. me. Futile feelings of aspiration eclipse their messages because I have decided I will never be a “real” teacher as they are. Humility in such a high dose morphs into something lacking virtue. It becomes a heavy, wet blanket. I find myself a waterlogged, prune of a thing, tender in a wrong and uncomfortable way.

Someone I know from childhood once DM’ed me and asked if I ever kept a journal (derogatory) (obviously). This was when I used to share my writing in Instagram captions, and his message was to say girl, do you ever keep anything to yourself? Which, yes, of course. We all have secrets. But for the most part, no. I pride myself on being open and honest. I don’t really believe in the concept of oversharing because I found that the opposite infected me with shame and ate me from the inside out. After being assaulted by my cousin as a child, my mother firmly told me that I should never tell anyone that this happened. And I don’t fault her for that, she was doing everything she could to protect me. When I finally did speak, I was attempting to free myself from the confounding darkness that was far too much for a child to bear alone. As Gisèle Pelicot said recently, “Shame must change sides.” Sharing was my way of unburdening myself of something that was never mine to carry in the first place.

I suppose there needs to be some sort of commitment made to myself here. One where I’m not lying to you and I’m not lying to myself. I can fend off shame, be open and honest, and reveal myself in ways that drive genuine connection, but I don’t need to dress it up in the same old outfit of self-deprecation. Being confident in one's skills is not a shortcoming. But being in denial of said skills is a party trick that's lost its luster.

“Stańczyk” by Jan Matejko

Earlier this week, a committed student gave me a thank-you note, and like every other thank-you note or card I’ve ever received, I didn’t open it for days. It sat on my dresser mocking my minor case of philophobia with every passing. A tightness wrapped around my chest as the prospect of taking in her love. I do the same thing with DMs on Instagram. I’ve rarely received negative ones, but I do get overwhelmed by the extreme kindness. No, I do hear it: Oh, poor me, people are too nice to me! Nauseating, I know. And the worst part? I convince myself they’re pandering or lying. Which, why on Earth would they? They wouldn't! But I’ve done such a great job of barricading myself off from love that my brain makes easy work of convincing me it’s true. They just feel sorry for you, it tells me.

I’m grateful for the friends who stand close, squeeze my arm, and whisper, “Accept the love." They’re life-giving miracles. I just want to get to a place where I'm that friend to me when I'm all alone with my made-up stories. Sadly, it isn’t done in a one-time kitchen declaration. It is one of those things built slowly brick by accepting brick. A beautiful sturdy home inside myself that stands up to the sometimes hurricane-force winds of other people's opinions and where the door swings open with ease to let love come in.

The Little Street by Johannes Vermeer

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