Let’s set the record straight: I’m not a technophobe. At least, I didn’t always see myself that way. From my first AOL account back in 1993 to exploring the internet with Netscape in 1995, I was an early tech enthusiast. I quickly moved from Friendster to Myspace, well before many of my friends even grasped the concept of an “avatar.” My Facebook account was created in 2007, with my inaugural status reading: “Jordan Miller is terrified of the current political climate and contemplating ways to address it.” (First statuses often reveal a lot about us at that time.)
We all have our own preferences when it comes to social media. When I joined Twitter in 2009, I didn’t quite know what to make of it. (I was gearing up to launch a book, and my PR team insisted on a comprehensive social media campaign.) Despite my initial doubts, I embraced it with the enthusiasm of a child at a candy store. Crafting thoughts in 140 characters felt a bit like poetry: it wasn’t solely about sharing what I was having for lunch. As a news junkie with a passion for politics, it became a delightful way to curate and share information. I tweeted frequently and passionately.
However, by late 2011, I started hearing whispers about a new platform called Instagram. Eventually, I succumbed to the pressure to join. My first post? A rather awkward attempt that left me feeling out of my comfort zone. Obviously, it should have been something more eye-catching, but I was too busy experimenting with filters. What was Kelvin, and why did I need it? I had no clue that hashtags like #catsofinstagram and #cutecat were essential.
In the years since that initial post, I’ve only managed to share a mere 48 photos on Instagram, each time feeling like I was pulling teeth. In contrast, I effortlessly tweet as thoughts come to me, while posting on Instagram feels like a chore orchestrated by app-savvy millennials.
Here’s how I perceive the process of making an Instagram post: “This moment is beautiful/weird/interesting, and I’m truly enjoying it. But wait, shouldn’t I capture this for my followers, so they know I’m still alive?” Perhaps the crux of the matter is that, unlike many, I’m not chasing likes, favorites, or hearts. While I don’t mind them, they don’t drive my content. (And yes, I’m aware this may not be the right approach.)
We inhabit a peculiar landscape where we all function as brands, whether we like it or not. My online presence comprises a mix of random musings, snippets of literature I’m immersed in, and live updates from events I attend. Tweeting feels organic: it’s my unfiltered thought bubble for the world to see. I even attempted a humorous take on my thoughts recently.
But what is it that Instagram expects of me? Honestly, I’m not interested in seeing your gourmet tuna roll or your perfectly curated smoothie bowl. And why must I scroll through countless images of the same breathtaking sunset that I’ve witnessed firsthand? The worst offenders are those posts laden with hashtags that feel like they sprouted from a wellness retreat: #blessed #grateful #purehappiness.
Let’s be real. If you’re a photographer, I commend you; your art deserves to be showcased. But for the rest of us who find ourselves lost in this selfie-obsessed culture, it can be frustrating. I must acknowledge that we live in a visually-driven world, and as a word-loving individual over 40, I might never fully fit into this realm. Don’t even get me started on Pinterest or GIFs—please, someone stop the GIFs.
Yet, despite my reservations, you can still find me on Instagram. #sorrynotsorry
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In summary, while I grapple with my place in the social media landscape, it’s clear that platforms like Instagram cater to a different audience. As the world becomes increasingly visual, I find solace in the words I cherish, even if I seem out of touch with the latest trends.