Every day I open Instagram, and I am reminded of what I am not—or rather, who I tell myself I should be. My feed is like a mirror that only reflects versions of people living the life I quietly collect on my Pinterest board titled “college.” It’s a strange kind of feeling, the kind that doesn’t come from wanting physical things, but from longing to be included. To be chosen. To be surrounded. To be wanted. To feel like I cleanly fit into the college life I envisioned for myself.
Groups that stretch and fill the entire frame. Effortless digital camera pictures. “Day in the Life” posts filled with endless friends and side quests. I stare at them for way too long, wondering what it must feel like to live the ideal “college experience.” The candid nights out with blurry laughs, half-closed eyes, and the perfect imperfection of being caught mid-laugh. They feel intimate and effortless, like happiness is just spontaneous for everyone else. I scroll past faces that seem to belong anywhere, clothes that fit just right, and confidence so bold you can feel it through the screen. It's the kind of beauty that looks unintentional, but clearly isn’t.
Everyone says college is where you find your people. In all honesty, I have never felt so alone, and I have never been so aware of myself—how I look, how I speak, how I’m perceived. The fresh start and freedom college promises somehow turned into constant self-surveillance. Every interaction feels like it’s being quietly graded, and every silence feels personal.
I catch myself spiraling into questions that I never used to ask. Why can’t I find friends? Am I not pretty enough? Am I not fun enough? Why didn’t they invite me? Do I take up too much space—or not enough? It’s exhausting how easily confidence fades when comparison becomes unavoidable, when worth is tied to invites, friendgroups, and social media.
And yet, I know this is only a fragment of reality, curated and cropped. I know that friendships exist outside of the frame, that loneliness can appear aesthetic, and that smiling faces can turn sour behind the scenes. Still, knowing these facts does not stop the feeling. It doesn’t quiet the small voice that asks why it seems so easy for everyone else, and wonders what I'm doing wrong that prevents me from living this life. I’m trying to hold onto the truth that being unseen doesn’t mean I lack something—it just means the right people haven’t found me yet, and that my worth doesn’t disappear just because no one is there to post it.
So I close the app, carrying the longing and the hope with me. Because maybe deeply wanting this means I’m capable of it, even if it hasn’t found me yet. Maybe the life I dream of doesn’t look like a post, and the friends I desire actually desire me too.
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