If I Disappear, Am I Still Real?

Lately, I’ve been wondering: Who am I, really, if I’m not on social media?

Who are any of us when we’re not broadcasting, liking, scrolling, or being seen online? What happens to our identity, our psyche, when we’re not reflected back through other people’s screens?

What happens when we stop performing online?

That question stopped me in my tracks recently while I was scrolling through my Facebook friend list. 1,200 people. One thousand two hundred. I blinked. How do I even know this many people?

So I did what any curious person might do. I started scrolling through the list to see who these people really are.

Turns out, I know most of them. And when I don’t know them well, I remember the thread that connects us. There’s the amazing women who were part of my Sex, Love, and Relationship coaching cohort, way back in 2018 when we gathered in Palm Springs, dancing our feet off, crying together, and becoming lifelong witnesses to each other’s growth. My therapist from 2015 who gently helped me process the grief of losing my father. Classmates from my 1988 graduating class at Waverly-Shell Rock (Go Hawks!) who still cheer me on from afar.

I didn’t know 1,200 people in 2006. That was the year Facebook officially became a thing. Just 19 years ago. Back then, I had maybe six close friends, a few dozen acquaintances, and a chain email or two. Now I have a digital network that spans years, cities, seasons, and stories.

But is my life better because of it?

Honestly, not really.

I still have my same inner circle. The friends I’d call at midnight. The ones who would bring soup when I’m sick. Have my professional and casual connections expanded? Absolutely. There are more colleagues, collaborators, and familiar names in my orbit. Some of those connections have blossomed into beautiful relationships. But many others live only inside the screen.

When I started my business in 2020, I rarely posted online. I might share a link now and then. I didn’t take selfies. I didn’t really put myself out there. That felt too exposed.

Then things shifted. I began sharing more. I told stories. I smiled into the camera. I posted pictures of my face and my work and my dog and my dreams.

And the likes came. The hearts came. The little bursts of validation felt good.

But also? They became a trap.

Because without meaning to, I started measuring my worth by those numbers. When a post didn’t land, I’d wonder if I had done something wrong. If maybe I was too much. Or not enough. It didn’t hit all at once, but over time it chipped away at something essential.

Over the past nine months, I’ve posted far less. I’ve stepped back from the constant stream of content creation and social media marketing. And surprisingly, I haven’t missed it.

But I have been sitting with a deeper question.

If I disappear, am I still real?

Do people notice when I’m no longer in their feed? Or are we so consumed by our own quest to be visible that we don’t recognize who has quietly stopped showing up?

And if we don’t notice, were we really connected to begin with?

The truth is, I do miss people. Even the ones on the outer edges of my world. Sometimes someone crosses my mind and I feel a twinge of guilt that I don’t know what’s going on in their life. Then I remember we were never meant to carry this many stories at once.

At some point, social media convinced us we were supposed to keep up with everyone. That we should remember birthdays, follow every move, celebrate wins, comment on losses, and know what our ex-roommate’s sister's baby is wearing for Halloween.

Our nervous systems can’t hold that much.

So when we unplug—whether through a digital detox, time off the grid, or simply choosing not to post—we start to see clearly again. We remember who actually checks in. Who reaches out. Who sends a message just to say hi.

We start to ask: Who are we when no one’s watching?

Maybe I’m not as visible right now. Maybe I’m not getting as many likes. But I’m still here. Living. Laughing. Crying. Walking my dog. Watching sunsets. Listening to 80s music and dancing in my kitchen with zero choreography and zero audience.

And maybe, just maybe, that version of me is the most real of all.