You know you have a comparison problem when you're sitting in Georgetown, Malaysia, feeling boring because of a plant.
Most of you have read my pre-Race blog from last year when, after a brutal heart check, I made the decision to delete my Instagram.
I guess you could consider this Part Two, and hopefully the last time I'll ever talk about social media comparison, because it's way time this root has been torn out of my life.
I created a new Instagram this week. Why? Awesome question.
I'll tell you how it ends before telling you the beginning: It was a thoroughly terrible idea.
Wanting to begin my own blog at the start of summer, independently of Adventures in Missions and the World Race, was a fun idea at first. I could do the same thing I was already doing, but in a space I designed, a layout free of boxy orange and awful calibri font (sorry marketing, it's true). After asking around and talking to some fairly successful independent bloggers, the feedback was the same: getting yourself out there is necessary in order for people to know and care about what you write as a blogger. Having presence on other social media would help gain traction. So I very hesitantly rejoined Insta with the cautious hope that this time, my feelings about it would be different.
In short, I was stunned at how certain people I knew in real life depicted themselves through the lens of their iPhone. If I only saw them over the Internet, I'd never know they were struggling with finances, depression, breakups, or if they ever woke up with pillow creases on their cheeks and flyaway hairs. Everyone, every cup of coffee, every plant, every sunset, looked flawless.
After about twenty minutes of scrolling through suggested posts and "people you may know", my level of satisfaction in my sunburnt face, God and basically every aspect of my life in general had plummeted to sub-zero levels.
I looked down at my sweaty ministry outfit and headband hair, both of which had seemed so comfortable and appropriate this morning as I taught English classes to 30 beautiful refugee children, and felt like I was missing something.
And this is why I hate, I hate, I hate Instagram.
By unknowingly propagating a culture of perfection and narcissism where broken pieces are edited to gloss, finding true vulnerability is rarer than finding two pink Starbursts in a snack pack. Instagram has become a platform where we expect our friends and followers to affirm any image of reality we present.
The problem is, it isn't reality. Not really. Even the most candid of photos interrupts the flow of life, and is later run through so much post-processing that what comes out is a snapshot so beautiful it makes us ache for a reality we can't have - because it never existed anyway. I know, because I used to be the epitome of this. The height of my reality disconnect occurred last summer when I sat on my bedroom floor for almost two hours, taking the same shot over and over again until my smile, hair and stomach crease looked flawless.
TWO HOURS.
One of my closest squadmates recently lamented to me, "I saw an Insta picture of someone in the Caribbean today, and I was shocked at the jealousy I felt. I'm in Asia. People probably assume I'm happy all the time...no one may ever know just how unhappy I have been these last few days, because all they see are the joyful, colorful photos I post."
The great paradox of the World Race is that you are - seemingly - the guy or girl who has it all. But in spite of achieving radical Christ-follower, cool world-traveler status and riding the wave of awesomeness that an Instagram full of international photos swears to deliver you, World Racers are the most normal, everyday people you will ever meet.
I know that because the World Race is not a part of my identity. Yeah, I'm "a World Racer," but in three months that label will be ripped off and it will go to the shelf to gather dust alongside my array of other earthly trophies.
God forbid my confidence in myself ever lies in what I am doing or where on the planet I am at any given moment.
I wrote out all of my accomplishments, awards and features this week in preparation for putting together a resume. Afterward, I just sat there, staring at the assimilated list, and honestly? - just kind of hated myself.
Because while it felt good to look at all I had accomplished, none of those things will make it past my death. One day, I'll die and everything I ever did will mean nothing, except to the people my courage and honesty have found ways to touch. My accomplishments will quickly be forgotten. No one will look at my Instagram. No one will wish I had hawked another weight-loss tea or name-dropped a celebrity or took a picture of my feet in some exotic sand.
And yes. It's really easy for me to get lit about girls and guys who treat their Instagram followers as if they live a superior life. But at home or abroad, how dare I ever believe that the only reason people ought to listen to me and not them is because I'm doing "cool", adventurous things. My little sister can hardly get out of bed but has more faith in God than I've had while living and ministering across three continents.
Full disclosure: my life is a semi-calamity most waking hours. (If you're new here: welcome. Grab a hard hat and some Swiffer pads.) Nothing about it is clean or polished. I talk to strangers more than I do my best friends and up until this morning, had no clue what a "countable noun" was. The majority of the time I very literally have no idea what is going on, let alone what time it is or where I need to be.
But just from what I can tell, being radically, ridiculously myself, flaws and all, has helped build community in a way I was never able to before I blew the lid off of my own fake reality.
We find idolization through good photos and elegant wording. But we offer freedom through unfiltered beauty and unfiltered life.
My life is not worth envying. And neither is yours.
I guess the question at the end of the day is this: what do you want to offer the world?
And what are you going to do about it?