The tension of being perceived online

What happens when your online self no longer fits—and why the only way forward is to release the cringe and build in public

In my 20s, my image became an integral part of my career. I wasn’t just in the content—I was helping shape it. As part of the early team at a highly funded beauty startup in the mid 2010s, I was doing the work of a beauty editor—concepting, curating, and creating content—but I was also a growth strategist, tasked with hitting aggressive audience goals for our social channels, which my team and I not only met, but consistently exceeded.

I concepted stories tied to what was culturally relevant and strategically important to the business. I led content from idea to distribution—producing, directing, and starring in campaigns designed for maximum reach and engagement, driving revenue for brands like Benefit Cosmetics, OUAI, and Milk Makeup. I helped launch the Instagram accounts of legacy brands like Laura Mercier and Fresh.

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At the time, I just thought it was fun—and it genuinely was! I spoke on panels about using Snapchat and Facebook Live to drive sales. I flew to LA to interview the cast of Mad Men on the red carpet and attend the series finale. I was regularly quoted in the press for the social marketing strategies I was leading. Sometimes, I’d even get stopped in public by Birchbox fans—proof that what we were building online was resonating in real life.

What I didn’t realize was how much of my labor and likeness would live on long after I left—or how deeply that era would shape my evolving, and at times uneasy, relationship with being perceived online.

From mini internet celeb to total creative paralysis

After leaving that role, I spent years trying to recreate the magic—chasing the feeling, the validation, the clarity of purpose. I jumped into new jobs hoping they’d offer the same spark, but so much of my identity was wrapped up in being that version of myself at work, and nothing ever quite landed.

By 2022, I was totally burnt out. The version of me that once thrived on-camera didn’t exist anymore—but I hadn’t yet figured out what the new one looked like. I stopped posting regularly. I lost followers. I consumed more than I created. And for me, that always leads to comparison, jealousy, and the dull ache of unexpressed ideas. I was a passive user watching the show instead of actively shaping it—and I hated that. I’ve built my career helping other people tell their stories online. And yet, I couldn’t figure out how to tell my own.

What happens when your internet self no longer fits?

Still, when the external image no longer matches the internal shift, the dissonance is exhausting. Part of me wanted to disappear and come back with a new identity. But I didn’t want to reemerge with some polished, overly buttoned-up “rebrand” that didn’t feel true. That model of reinvention feels archaic. I’m dynamic. I shapeshift. I’m constantly evolving. And even if it terrifies me a little, I do believe in building publicly—not just the final product, but the messy, in-process middle. That’s the kind of storytelling that’s always resonated most with me, and it’s what I want to offer in return.

But the pressure to make that evolution aesthetic is real, especially for women. As Jasmine Garnsworthy put it recently: “Why does the internet need me to look hot while I build my business?” Or worse—turn pain into content. What does authenticity even mean anymore when vulnerability itself has been aestheticized? The expectations are exhausting—and I’m done trying to meet them.

Posting through the cringe

I consider myself someone with a growth mindset, and I really believe that’s been core to my success. I’m endlessly curious. I love solving problems, collaborating, creating things. So if I want to figure out what my visual identity is now, it makes sense to lean into that same mindset. Instead of being paralyzed by reinvention, I’m trying to approach it with what first brought me joy in the early days of the internet: fun.

This part is fun. I am a Venus in Aquarius, after all—which means I’m most turned on by originality, experimentation, and beauty that breaks the rules. I’ve never been drawn to convention. Finding what matches my freak in this new era lights me up. An opportunity to visually innovate? Hell yes.

A wise friend (and rising Substack star!)

Grace Abbott

of

How To Go Freelance by Grace Abbott

recently wrote:

After you jump off the cliff and post 10 times, you will start to care less. After the first few weeks, everyone you’re afraid will see will have surely seen—and judged you if they’re going to (they probably don’t care)… and then, you are free!

I think about that a lot. The fear of being perceived isn’t something you outgrow. But you can learn to move with it. To share before you’re fully formed. To create anyway. Experimenting with consistency is the only way through.

Rewriting my digital identity in real time

Lately, I’ve been archiving Instagram posts, unfollowing what drains me, redesigning my website, rethinking what I want to share, and finding joy in Substack’s long-form space. I’m still figuring it out, but I’m starting to feel inspired again. Not performative. Not polished. Just in motion.

This is far from a masterclass in how to rebrand yourself. But it is a reflection from someone who’s spent over a decade helping others grow publicly—and finally learning to give herself the same attention and care.

I’m reconnecting with my creativity, making space for the nuance, and letting go of the performance. Because when you stop fixating on how you're perceived—and start creating from where you actually are—you remember the part that mattered all along: you get to shape the story.