Right, so picture this. I am sat on my sofa in Hackney with my feet up, one of those proper baggy hoodies on that has seen better days, vape in hand every now and then, and the telly murmuring some absolute nonsense in the background. And I start thinking about how mental the whole online world has got. Filters and façades everywhere you look. Everyone polishing themselves up like they are about to walk into a photoshoot for a magazine that does not even exist anymore. It is funny really, because half the time I reckon most people would not recognise themselves if the filter suddenly dropped off mid-scroll. I protect my little circle like it is the last decent Sunday roast in Basildon, and I do it because authenticity feels rarer than a quiet tube carriage at rush hour. That is worth more than any fleeting trend or empty round of applause from strangers who would forget your name the second the next shiny thing pops up.
It started properly hitting me a few years back when I first moved properly into East London life. Back home in Basildon things were simpler. You knew who was who. If someone was having a rough week they just said it, no soft-focus glow or clever caption needed. Out here though, and especially once the phones got cleverer, it felt like everyone decided real life was a bit too ordinary so they had better dress it up. I see it at work too. The young ones in my team, bless them, they spend half their breaks fixing their lighting for a story that will last twenty-four hours and then vanish. I stay stern with them about the targets and the numbers because that is my job, but inside I am quietly laughing at how much effort goes into looking effortless. One of the lads the other week was properly stressed about a post that got fewer likes than he expected. I wanted to tell him that the spreadsheet does not care about his jawline filter, but I kept it professional. Outside work though, with my actual mates, I can say it straight. What are we all doing, chasing little hearts from people we would not trust to water our plants?
I keep my circle tiny on purpose. Once you are in, you are in for life, and that means the messy versions of us are allowed. No one is expected to turn up looking like they just stepped out of a glow-up tutorial. We sit around with takeaways, or sometimes just silence if that is what the evening needs, and we talk proper rubbish or proper heavy stuff without anyone reaching for the perfect angle. It feels like breathing after holding your breath too long. I have watched friendships fall apart because one person started performing for an audience that was never really watching that closely anyway. Suddenly every night out needs a coordinated outfit post, every quiet Sunday needs a thoughtful caption about self-care. Nah. Give me the mate who turns up in her oldest trackies, hair in a scruffy bun, and just moans about her week while we both laugh at how dramatic we sound. That is the good stuff. That is the stuff that lasts longer than any algorithm decides to boost.
There is this weird pressure now to have an opinion on everything and to package it nicely. I am centre-right in my head if anyone asks, but I rarely volunteer it because most online conversations about politics turn into shouting matches dressed up as thoughtful threads. People put on these façades of moral certainty and then block anyone who does not clap along. I would rather sit with the people who know I can be soft and competitive and a bit sweary when the mood takes me, and they still like me for it. Authenticity is not about dumping every thought online. It is about knowing who gets the real version and who gets the polite work version. At the bank I am the strict supervisor. The girls find me harsh, the guys probably think I am a bit terrifying some days, and that is fine. It keeps the team moving. But the second I am home or out with my lot, the hoodie goes on and the soft side comes out. I can dream about the tall dark handsome one who might one day keep me in check, give me the rough and the cuddles, without having to announce it to a thousand strangers for validation.
Social media makes everything look so curated that ordinary life starts feeling like a failure if you are not careful. I scroll sometimes and see these perfect kitchens and perfect relationships and perfect morning routines, and I have to remind myself that half of them are probably still in their pyjamas five minutes after the photo, same as me. My place is comfortable, not Instagram-ready. There are trainers by the door, a half-drunk cup of tea, and usually some reality telly paused while I give the full running commentary to whoever is listening. That is my real evening. Not a carefully lit flat lay of self-care products. I train a bit, go for runs or long walks when the mood hits, but I am not about to post every step count like it is a personal brand update. The competitive streak stays quiet. It is there when I need it at work, making sure the numbers add up and the team hits what they need to hit, but I do not need an audience for it.
I have lost count of the times someone I barely know has tried to pull me into some online performance. Share this, support that, look at my new whatever. Most of the time I just smile and keep scrolling. My energy goes to the people who have shown up for me when things were actually hard, not the ones who only appear when there is a camera or a trend to ride. Loyalty like that is quiet. It does not need a hashtag. One of my closest mates had a rough patch last year and we spent evenings just sat there, me bringing food, her not having to explain every detail. No one was filming it for a vulnerability post. We just got through it. That is the circle. That is what I protect. Everything else can stay filtered and shiny and distant.
Sometimes I wonder how we got here so fast. One minute we were all texting proper sentences and the next everyone is speaking in emojis and curated highlight reels. I still prefer voice notes or actual conversations. Texting back quickly has never been my strong point, and I am not about to change that to keep up with some expectation of constant availability. If you are in my circle you know that. You know I will turn up when it matters, with a chick flick or silence or whatever is needed. The online noise tries to convince us that if we are not visible we do not exist. Load of nonsense. Some of the best parts of my life happen in the quiet bits. Walking home through the East London streets after a long day, thinking about nothing much, or heading back to Basildon for that Sunday roast and letting the family banter wash over me. No one is performing there. Nan will tell you exactly what she thinks of your haircut and then feed you until you cannot move. That is real. That is the opposite of a façade.
I catch myself getting properly sarcastic about it all when I am with the girls. We will be watching some reality show and I will start the commentary about how even the arguments look staged these days. Everything has a filter, even the drama. Then we laugh and remember our own messy stories, the ones that would never make the edit because they are too ordinary or too complicated or just too us. I have had my share of chaotic nights and quiet recoveries. I have stayed single on purpose for a while so I can have fun without the pressure, but I still hold that idealistic little hope that the right person will appear, someone tall and dark-haired who can match the energy and then settle into the soft stuff afterwards. I do not need to broadcast the search. The people who matter already know the dream exists in the background.
Protecting the small circle means saying no a lot. No to the group chats that turn into performance spaces. No to the acquaintances who only reach out when they need a certain type of reply for their own image. It is not mean. It is just practical. My time and my softness are limited, and I would rather spend them on the ones who have earned the unfiltered version. At work the façade is necessary. You cannot run a team if everyone thinks you are their mate first and supervisor second. The stern look keeps things clear. But outside, the cute and sweet side gets to breathe. I can be romantic and hopeful and a bit dreamy about the future without anyone demanding I package it for public consumption.
The noise never really stops. There is always another trend, another filter update, another way to make ordinary life look insufficient. I have learned to treat it like background chatter on the bus. You hear it, you might even smirk at the daftness of it, but you do not let it dictate your route. My route stays simple. Keep the people close who know the real me, the one who can be competitive and soft in the same day, the one who will call out nonsense without turning it into a lecture, the one who still gets excited about a good roast and a quiet evening. Authenticity is not loud. It does not need the applause. It just needs the right few people who understand that the unfiltered version is the only one worth keeping.
I think about the younger ones sometimes, the under-twenty-fives in the team who are growing up with all this as normal. They have never known a time when you just existed without documenting it. Part of me wants to sit them down and say look, the numbers matter more than the likes, the actual friendships matter more than the follower count, but I know that would sound like a proper old lecture. So I lead by the quiet example instead. I stay consistent at work, I keep my private life private, and I hope they notice that the people who seem happiest are the ones not constantly adjusting their settings. It is an off-the-wall hope maybe, but it keeps me cheerful. The world can keep its façades. I will keep my hoodie, my small circle, and the freedom to be exactly as soft or as sharp as the moment needs, without asking permission from an audience that was never really there in the first place.
Every now and then I catch a glimpse of someone online who seems to have cracked it, posting the messy bits on purpose, and I root for them quietly. Then the algorithm moves on and the next polished face appears. The cycle is relentless and a bit ridiculous when you step back from it. I would rather step back permanently. My energy goes into the real connections, the ones that survive without a signal. The ones where you can sit in silence for an hour and only speak if something actually needs saying. That kind of comfort is priceless. It is the opposite of noise. It is the steady ground under all the flashing lights.
So I keep doing what I do. Work hard, stay strict where it counts, come home and let the soft side out. Laugh at the absurdity of it all with the people who get the joke. Dream a little about the future without needing to announce the dream. And protect that circle like it is the last decent thing left in a world determined to filter everything into something unrecognisable. Authenticity might be rare these days, but once you have tasted it you do not settle for the glossy substitute. Not when the real thing feels this good, this simple, and this completely, unapologetically yours.
