I posted some summer highlight photos on Instagram—a beautiful table setting at a wedding, my sons on the beach, a particularly memorable sunset, my husband in a photogenic pool.
My summer was quite good so when I put together the highlights photos they felt pretty accurate—at least aesthetically. My sons are two years old which is a delicious age for exploration and my parents have a lake house in the Berkshires which is newly magical through the eyes of boys that age. We spent a lot of time there. They discovered snails and outdoor showers and played countless hours of cars in the sand. I posted pictures that reflected the very best of my summer—that is, after all, what we all do.
A few days later someone I know posted to her Instagram, a really moving account of her own summer: she has young kids, and a full time job, and cancer. Some of the pictures she posted were much like my own (the back of children’s’ heads looking out over some place beautiful) and some were more raw, more particular to reality and struggle. She wrote about the truth behind the glossy pictures, those enviable snapshots which we all know only tell a tiny fraction of the story. Her post made me reflect on my own truths, and why I represent myself via the glossy facade and not the daily grind. It made me think about why we share what we share and who it’s for. We know that there is so much more value and connection in sharing what is difficult in our lives—that kind of sharing makes people feel less alone, and makes us feel less alone. So when we share only the good, who is it for? Ourselves, I have to assume. A comfort in at least looking like we have our shit all together.
With that lens I thought about the hard parts of my summer. Financial precarity. A harrowing breast biopsy. The 20 lbs of baby weight I just can’t lose. The chronic facial paralysis. The juggle of work and toddlers and everyday life. The perpetual career anxiety. The leak in my sons bedroom which looks like might only be solved with a lawsuit. You don’t see any of that in the images I chose (well, maybe the 20 lbs) but even when it comes to my face, I make a point of only showing pictures where I’m turned away or angled just right. I chose, and choose, the shimmering surface.
For this post, I looked back through my photos to see if I’d photographed any of the hard parts. Aside from a NSFW photo of my bruised breast, I really hadn’t.
My toddlers minds are already warped by photos and phones. Any time I take a photo they demand to “see it.” But even stranger, anytime anything happens to them at all they demand to “see it.” It’s hard to then explain that I have no photographic evidence of the fall they just took in the playground, or the caca in the pajamas. I didn’t take a photo in that moment—"photos don’t capture our entire lives,” I find myself explaining; and they look at me blankly. But it turns out I’m explaining it to myself too.
A few links
The U.S. election is creeping ever closer. Abortion is now nearly tied with immigration as the most important issue for swing state voters’—a true sign of the times. (gift article) Selina Meyer certainly said it best, “Get the government out of my fucking snatch.”
The Cut saying the quiet part out loud with this feature on America’s truly harrowing relationship to veneers.
I am always excited when
writes about Tree Paine. This time she also wrote about Brittany Mahomes.As I manically label all of my kids’ stuff to go to school—like I was told to—this piece about mom compliance felt like a spotlight on me furiously labeling at my kitchen table. “It creates a kind of moms arms race—labels race?—that is individually exhausting and collectively irrational.”
Is it strange that I’m deeply curious about what will be in Melania Trump’s forthcoming memoir? My guess is total fluff, but how fascinating would it be if it were real?
Emily Gould’s relatable essay about raising kids in an environment where their friends have a lot more money than they do, made me think about this essay I wrote years ago about being that kid.
What I wrote
A piece about Doug Emhoff, and the very different brand of masculinity being peddled by the Democrats vs. the Republicans.
For this here publication I interviewed sailor/surfer/incredible human Captain Liz Clark.
A parting recommendation
Learn from my mistakes and carve out that smidge of time to get your hair cut.
Elena, thank you for writing this! And for the link to Kate Manne’s piece. My camera roll never reflects my reality at any given time, but I do try to take snapshots of ephemera around our house, especially a messy art table, so that I can look back later and hopefully see happy chaos instead of the “clutter” that I might perceive in the moment. And yay for haircuts!
One thing I wanted to ask is (of everyone) is why is there a compulsion to share (post) all these photos in the first place? They are your memories. No one else’s. Amidst this is some sort of inherent competition. I learned this (or felt it) during COVID. A sense of “aren’t they lucky”. Beautiful shots of beach or country houses. But what did I have? I wasn’t posting photos of me stuck within 2 rooms on a deserted street with my family on the other side of the country. I really don’t think people want to see “real”. It’s an Instagram world and that in itself makes me sad. I stopped looking at Instagram completely. I now feel if someone wants to share a photo they will send it directly to me. Because they *know* I would want to see it.