The Distance Between Sharing and Being Seen

During the early days of the pandemic, I posted a quick, irreverent TikTok about zipping off on a desperate mission to grab a coffee while working from home. I didn’t think much of it—but it blew up. Nearly a hundred thousand views, a few thousand likes, comments rolling in.

For a hot minute, it was exhilarating. As someone who isn’t a prodigious TikToker (nor aspires to become one), seeing the notifications light up was like a hit of dopamine. There was a weird moment where I felt like somebody else. Like I’d stepped into the slipstream of viral culture.

Not quite famous, but definitely not anonymous.

And the thing is—it was me. I chose the shots and timed the cuts, layering it against a popular sound because I thought it might land.

But it didn’t last.

Once the initial rush faded, I was left with something that didn’t feel lasting. It was smart, timely, maybe even funny. But it didn’t have any depth. It didn’t carry any part of me that felt substantial or timeless. It was just another piece of content that briefly caught the algorithm’s attention, then disappeared into the scroll.

The strangest part? People noticed everything. The make of my car. The subtle beginnings of grey in my beard. The crow’s-feet around my eyes—a symbol of a life well-lived, or as user1209537573474 described it, “bestie, you’re looking haggard.”

But none of it felt meaningful. It was attention, but not resonance.

The experience, if anything, opened my eyes to something that we’ve all known since the early days of social media. A time when the 10th like on your Instagram post felt like a homecoming.

It’s never enough.

Somewhere after the hundredth or thousandth like, I realized that even though these were (mostly) real people, they were also just numbers. A signal that, for a few seconds, someone acknowledged my existence, and my small contribution to this ongoing experiment that is social media.

One of the most challenging parts about expressing ourselves online, however, is this: the numbers have become the thing. As capable as we are of interacting in a meaningful way with the content and creators that resonate with us, the mechanics of social platforms have distilled these interactions down to views, likes, comments, followers, and reposts.

More and more, we’re not even sharing our own thoughts—but someone else’s. It’s a kind of emotional outsourcing. A meme that says what we feel. A clip by a creator that speaks on our behalf. It’s easier, safer and quicker. But over time, it feels like the stories in our feeds don’t belong to us anymore. They’ve become a signal or symbols of how we’re feeling, without the risk of saying it ourselves.

We think we’re sharing. But sometimes we’re just echoing what already feels safe. Hoping it says enough without us having to.

And while we’re all consciously aware of it, many of us have—in recent years—also begun to post less. Archiving or deleting some of our older (or least-performing) content. Sharing mostly with a small, trusted circle.

Some of our profiles online, including mine, only have a handful of posts. What remains is succinct and curated. Sufficient evidence of our online existence, but nothing more.

I am blessed to say I have a beautiful and peaceful life, and am generally, unbothered by who (if anyone) engages with me…

Until I started sharing my writing online.

To be clear, I am still mostly unbothered. I don’t write to go viral. I write for me. I write to create structure around thoughts that won’t leave me alone. And maybe free up space for someone else to do the same. I think that’s what good writing does.

Not solve something, but just to say it out loud.

But when you share something personal. Something with layers, or without resolution—it comes with a different kind of weight.

Not just the vulnerability of being seen, but the hope that someone will actually see it. That someone out there might pause long enough to feel what you felt. Or recognize themselves in it.

And when that doesn’t happen…when the response is quiet, or non-existent. It’s hard not to at least wonder what it says about the work.

Or about you.

None of us are surprised to see creators, celebrities or public figures garner attention and accolades online—nor are we shy about supporting them publicly. But when someone in our own orbit shares something that feels true or vulnerable, it asks more of us. It reminds us that being seen isn’t just for the famous. It’s for the rest of us too. The ones without platforms, or even desires to be the next big thing. And that’s what makes it harder.

Because in a world where attention has become a kind of currency, simply creating something meaningful isn’t always what earns it.

And for me, it’s still early. I’m still learning how this all works. What it asks of you and what you have to ask of others to actually find your audience.

There’s this strange shift that happens when you go from posting casually to sharing something personal you’ve created. At first, you assume the people closest to you will be the ones to rally behind it. But more often than not, it’s someone you barely know who reaches out to say, “This really meant something to me.”

That part still surprises me. And in a way, it’s kind of beautiful.

Maybe someday I’ll be in a position to offer real advice on what it takes to be seen. But for now, the best thing I can offer to anyone sitting on something they care about—something they’ve been hesitant to share, is this:

Take the first step.

Post the artwork you’ve been keeping to yourself. Or the song you’ve only played for a friend or two. Share your thoughts on something that matters to you—not for the chance to go viral, but because it’s yours.

And when you do, bring your own voice, and authenticity.

I still think about that TikTok sometimes. How fast it took off. How much more grey the eagle-eyed commenters would spot today 👀. How little of my essence it actually carried.

What I’ve been sharing lately doesn’t move as fast. But it carries more of me. And when it lands with someone, even just one person, it stays.

The author in his viral era. Brief. 12% grey.

Not looking to go viral… but wouldn’t mind a few hearts.

If this landed with you, share it with someone else who might feel the same.