On taking selfies at the gym

Over the last few months I’ve been posting photos during my workouts to my Instagram stories. It started as an experiment: what happens when I share a little bit more about part of my life that’s important to me? It’s spurred interesting conversations, rekindled friendships, and inspired people.

Truth be told, I’ve been (and continue to be) self-conscious about posting these. I struggle with narratives in my head about “people will think you’re vain and attention-seeking” or “you look silly”. And part of this process is acknowledging those narratives and realizing I have no control over what other people think and that my actions should be guided by my values, not my fears.

So what values do I express by posting these? Foremost is authentic connection — authentic in the sense of letting myself (or at least a part of me that I love) actually be seen. Accepting both positive and negative reactions and realizing they’re as much about the other person and the way they see the world — colored by their life experiences — as they are about me or anything I do. That I neither control those reactions, am responsible for them, nor even need to let them affect me.

I was bullied a lot earlier in my life and it left a stamp on my psyche. Subsequently I spent a lot of energy trying to fit in and only stand out in socially acceptable ways (e.g. achievement), for fear of ridicule. Years of doing that left me with a nagging question: who am I, really? If I stripped away everything everyone else wanted me to be, what’s left?

This is part of that journey. I don’t necessarily have an answer. But being okay with unapologetically sharing things that give me happiness, knowing they won’t be everyone’s cup of tea — because doing so might foster connection with people who love me just for being me — is a step along that path.

It’s scary to be yourself sometimes. But without it, you’ll never truly be seen — or loved. I can’t get back the time I wasted molding myself into a shape I thought others would love or even simply accept. I developed a talent for it but I was left with the nagging doubt that people (partners, coworkers, friends, etc.) just loved the image I had created. It was like a game: “can I get this person to like me?” And at the end of it I was so used to wearing masks I couldn’t remember what was underneath it all.

There are hundreds, thousands of masks I can wear, identities I can inhabit, roles I can play — or that can be projected onto me. All equally true and untrue.

When you see me, who are you actually seeing?

Is it me? Is it you? Is it a projection created from the stories inside your mind?

What would happen if you let all that go and looked again for the first time?