Everyone on Instagram Is Thriving Except Me
A Late-Night Instagram Spiral
SOCIAL MEDIA FUCKERY
Everyone on Instagram Is Thriving Except Me
It’s 9:47 PM on a Wednesday, and I’m eating Cinnamon Toast Crunch directly from the box while sitting on my couch in sweatpants I’ve worn for three consecutive days. I open Instagram because apparently I hate myself.
Big mistake.
The first thing I see is my college roommate, Jessica, who has somehow transformed into a completely different human being. She’s on a yacht. Not just any yacht, a yacht in Santorini, which I know because she’s tagged the location and added “blessed 🙏✨” to the caption. She’s wearing a white linen dress that’s somehow both effortlessly casual and clearly expensive, her hair is doing that beachy wave thing that mine only does when I haven’t showered in four days, and she’s holding a glass of wine that’s catching the sunset in a way that makes me think she has a professional photographer following her around.
I look down at my cereal box. The cartoon character on the front is mocking me.
The great Instagram illusion
Here’s what I know intellectually: Instagram is not real life. Instagram is a highlight reel. Instagram is everyone’s greatest hits album, while real life is mostly B-sides and that weird experimental track nobody asked for.
But here’s what I know emotionally, at 9:47 PM on a Wednesday while I’m fishing for the last few cereal pieces like some kind of sugary prospector: Everyone else has figured it out, and I am fundamentally broken.
The evidence is overwhelming
Let me scroll further and present my case:
Exhibit A: My high school friend Brad has apparently become an ultramarathoner. He’s posted a selfie at mile 18 of some race through the mountains. He’s not even sweating that much. He’s SMILING. The caption reads “Another beautiful day to be alive and pushing my limits! 💪🏃♂️⛰️”
I got winded walking up the stairs to my apartment yesterday. What the actual fuck, Brad?
Exhibit B: My cousin Sarah has learned to bake. Not just bake — she’s making sourdough bread that looks like it belongs in a Parisian bakery window. She’s posting videos of herself kneading dough in her minimalist kitchen with subway tiles and plants that are somehow all alive. She’s wearing an apron that says “Knead the Dough” in a cute font.
I burned toast last week. Toast. The food that is already bread and only requires you to not forget about it for ninety seconds. How the hell does someone burn toast? I’ll tell you how: by being me.
Exhibit C: Some guy I met once at a party in 2019 is now a “digital nomad” working from a beach in Bali. His laptop is perfectly positioned to show both his work (he appears to be in a very important Zoom meeting) and also the turquoise ocean behind him. He’s drinking a coconut with a straw in it.
I work from home too, but my view is a brick wall, and my “coconut” is a mug that says “Monday” even though I use it every day, because I only own three mugs and one of them is broken.
The wellness industrial complex
Then there are the wellness people. Oh god, the wellness people.
Someone I vaguely knew in middle school has become a “holistic life coach,” and her feed is an assault of green smoothies, yoga poses in impossible locations, and captions about “manifesting abundance” and “choosing joy.”
This morning I manifested the will to get out of bed. It took forty-five minutes and required the threat of missing a meeting. Where’s my fucking Instagram post about that heroic journey?
She’s posted a photo of her morning routine: meditation at sunrise, a color-coordinated smoothie bowl with chia seeds arranged in a mandala pattern, a journal with perfect handwriting, and what appears to be a framed inspirational quote on her wall.
My morning routine is hitting snooze four times, checking my phone for twenty minutes while still lying down, and then panic-rushing through a shower while trying to remember if I shampooed already.
The career glow-ups
The career posts might be the worst. Everyone is either:
- Getting promoted to a VP position at age 27
- Starting their own incredibly successful business selling something like “sustainable artisanal dog accessories”
- Giving a TED talk (or at least a TEDx talk, which they mention is “basically the same thing”)
- Writing a book that’s already a bestseller even though it doesn’t come out for six months
Meanwhile, I’m over here thrilled that I remembered to unmute myself before speaking on a Zoom call. That’s my career highlight of the week.
Someone I used to work with just posted “Humbled and honored to announce I’ve accepted a position as Senior Director of Innovation and Strategic Partnerships at [company I’ve never heard of but apparently is very important]! Couldn’t have done it without my amazing network and mentors! Onward and upward! 🚀”
I have seventeen unread emails, and one of them is from HR reminding me to complete my mandatory training on “Workplace Professionalism” that I was supposed to finish last month.
The relationship mirage
The damn couples...
Every other post is someone celebrating their anniversary with a carousel of photos showing their perfect relationship. They’re hiking together. They’re cooking together. They’re laughing in a way that seems both candid and somehow perfectly lit. The caption is always something like “Three years with my best friend, my rock, my everything. Every day is an adventure with you. I love you more than words can say. ❤️”
I’m single, and my last “adventure” was trying a new flavor of instant ramen. (It was “creamy chicken,” and honestly, it was a mistake.)
The travel flex
Everyone is traveling. Not just traveling — having “experiences.” They’re not taking vacations; they’re “exploring,” “discovering,” and “immersing themselves in local culture.”
Someone’s in Tokyo eating at a tiny ramen shop that’s apparently been run by the same family for 100 years, and you can only find it if you solve a riddle. Someone else is hiking Machu Picchu at sunrise. Another person is on a safari in Tanzania, having what they describe as a “spiritual awakening” while watching elephants.
My last trip was to Target, where I had an awakening of my own: the realization that I’ve been pronouncing “açai” wrong for seven years, and the cashier definitely judged me.
The fitness phenomenon
The fitness people have their own special circle of hell reserved for me. They’re all doing something called “CrossFit” or “F45” or just lifting very heavy things and taking pictures of their muscles. They’re posting workout videos with captions like “No excuses! If I can do it, you can too! 💪🔥”
But here’s the thing: I actually cannot do it. I tried to follow a “beginner” yoga video on YouTube last month, and the instructor kept saying things like “now gently ease into downward dog” while my body was experiencing what can only be described as a structural crisis.
These people are running Tough Mudders and posting muddy, grinning selfies. I’m out of breath after carrying groceries up one flight of stairs.
The home transformation
Half my feed appears to have become amateur interior designers. Everyone’s doing “home renovations” and showing before-and-after photos of their spaces. Somehow, they all have the budget and skills to create minimalist Scandinavian dream apartments with floating shelves, gallery walls, and “accent walls” that look professionally painted.
I have a pile of laundry on my chair that’s been there so long it’s become a permanent fixture. I call it “The Installation” and tell myself it’s artistic.
Someone just posted their “cozy reading nook,” which includes a velvet armchair, a floor lamp that probably costs more than my rent, a stack of color-coordinated books (who has time to organize books by COLOR?), and a “hand-poured soy candle” from a brand I’ve never heard of, but I’m sure is very important.
My reading nook is my bed. The lighting is my phone screen. I’m currently reading the Wikipedia article about that actor from that thing, and I’ve somehow ended up on the page for “17th Century Maritime Trade Routes.”
The hobby overachievers
Remember when hobbies were just things you did for fun? Not anymore. Now every hobby has to be Instagram-worthy and preferably monetizable.
People aren’t just gardening; they’re growing “heirloom vegetables” and posting aesthetic photos of their harvest baskets. They’re not just cooking; they’re “meal prepping” in color-coordinated containers that look like they belong in a museum. They’re not just doing crafts; they’re running Etsy shops with five-star reviews and being featured in online magazines.
I tried to start a hobby during the pandemic. I bought a sourdough starter. It died. I think about that failed sourdough starter more than I’d like to admit. It’s a metaphor for something, but I’m too tired to figure out what.
The productivity cult
Then there are the people who’ve apparently discovered the secret to time that the rest of us haven’t. They’re waking up at 5 AM (voluntarily!), they’re having “miracle mornings,” they’re journaling and meditating and working out and meal prepping and running successful side hustles all before most humans have achieved consciousness.
Someone just posted their “Sunday reset routine,” which includes:
- Deep cleaning the entire apartment
- Meal prep for the week
- Self-care face mask
- Planning outfit combinations for the week (WITH PHOTOS)
- Organizing a closet by color
- Catching up on emails
- Reading for personal development
- And apparently still having time to take aesthetic photos of all of this
Are you fucking kidding me? My Sunday reset routine is waking up at 2 PM, eating leftover pizza, watching four hours of TV, experiencing mild anxiety about the upcoming week, and then staying up too late because I “didn’t do anything all day.”
The pet parents
Even people’s PETS are thriving more than me. Someone’s dog has an Instagram account with 50,000 followers. A DOG. The dog goes to “doggy yoga” and has a better social life than I do. Someone else’s cat appears to be a model — just artfully lounging in sunbeams and looking contemplative while wearing a tiny bow tie.
I don’t even have a pet because I can barely keep myself alive, and honestly, even the plants I’ve tried to care for have staged a coup.
The reality check I need but don’t want
Here’s what I need to remember at 10:23 PM on a Wednesday (I’ve been scrolling for 36 minutes, who’s counting):
Jessica probably took 47 photos to get that one perfect yacht shot. Brad’s ultramarathon training probably means he cries in the shower sometimes. Sarah’s sourdough probably failed twelve times before that perfect loaf. The digital nomad is probably desperately trying to find decent Wi-Fi and dealing with diarrhea from that coconut.
Instagram is a museum where everyone is both the artist and the curator, carefully selecting which moments get displayed and which get deleted forever. Nobody posts a photo of themselves crying in their car. Nobody shares the screenshot of their bank account. Nobody captures the moment they realize they’ve been watching TikTok for two hours and it’s somehow midnight.
But Also…
But here’s the thing that really gets me: even knowing all of this, even understanding intellectually that social media is a carefully constructed facade, I still can’t shake the feeling that everyone else has figured out some fundamental secret to living that I somehow missed.
Like, there was a class in high school called “How to Be a Functioning Adult Who Does More Than the Bare Minimum,” and I was absent that day, and now everyone else is out here thriving with their morning routines and their hobbies and their ability to keep plants alive, while I’m just trying to remember if I paid my electric bill.
The cereal conclusion
It’s now 10:47 PM. I’ve been on Instagram for an hour. I have learned nothing except that I’m somehow simultaneously behind everyone I know in every possible metric of success and also that I need to buy more cereal because the box is empty.
I close the app. I look at my life. Sweatpants, empty cereal box, couch that I should probably vacuum, but won’t.
And you know what? Maybe everyone IS thriving. Maybe they’ve all got it figured out. Maybe they really are living their best lives with their green smoothies and their perfect relationships and their pets with Instagram accounts.
But right now, at this moment, I’m going to make a conscious choice: I’m going to open Instagram one more time and post a story. Not of a yacht or a marathon or a perfect meal. Just my empty cereal box with the caption: “Dinner of champions 🏆”
Because maybe, just maybe, there’s someone else out there, sitting on their couch in three-day-old sweatpants, who needs to know they’re not alone.
Or maybe not. Maybe everyone really is thriving, and I’m the only disaster.
Either way, I’m out of cereal.
Time to see if crackers count as dinner.
Jen Marie — Here’s my Beacons if you want to find me for more useless ranting
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