Last night I did something that millions of other people probably did yesterday. I shared some photos of my family on Instagram. Here’s where I’m guessing a lot of us differ in that experience - I obsessed, on and off, for two months about which photos I would post. I’m not entirely sure why.
I do not believe that my Instagram account is such a precious and beautifully curated space that it cannot be tainted with photos outside of a certain color palette or style of photography. I don’t love my hair in the pictures (it was quite possibly one of the hottest, muggiest, grossest days of the summer) but whatever. And sure, I had a difficult time deciding which images I liked best (nothing new when it comes to me and photos) but two months - that seems excessive even for me.
Sure, I’ve learned that everything in my life takes much longer than it used to because I have a 20+ pound, highly needy creature I’m meant to keep alive but there’s also this part of me that has flat out stopped doing things because I’m afraid they’re not good enough. If I can’t guarantee it’s going to be perfect, I avoid it all together. This does not bode well for life with a baby.
With the cold snap we’ve had this week, I realized that our summer photos are now out of season…does Instagram have a season? I don’t know what your feed looks like but it’s very much fall on mine. I should not care about this because for the love of God the leaves are still green on the trees outside my window but a little part of me - well, if I’m being honest, does care. And that’s not a direction I’m interested in heading anymore.
So I got over myself and I posted the damn photos already because they make me happy and I think they’ll make other people happy too - and that’s the point of all of this, right?