Over the past few weeks, I’ve been grappling with a realization: no one cares what I post on Instagram. No one cares because I’m neither a renowned artist nor a talentless influencer hawking overly edited images of their “fascinating life.” And if no one cares about what I post, especially on a platform that feeds off of the constant absorption of the viewers precious time and attention, then why do I do it? 

At the beginning of the year, an old-but-still-kicking method of life improvement known as the Happiness Project helped transform my life. As recommended in the Happiness Project, I created a few personal commandments to live by and have been holding to them ever since. One such commandment (later added after it kept intercepting my progress) is to love myself more, by truly appreciating my body for what it is. And of course, the best way to begin is by weeding out the deeply anchored roots of the patriarchy. During one particularly eye opening and exciting bout of feminist literature and empowering discussions I asked myself why, after knowing how social constructs destroy my self confidence, do I still believe that my body was just not right? Why did I feel it was okay to perpetually critique my appearance, especially when others always saw me in a much better light? Loving one’s self, with all the cellulite, dark circles, stretch marks, lower belly fat, and every other thing society has consistently been telling me to hide, has proven to be a difficult feat. And that’s coming from me, a woman quick to bash the patriarchy and uplift my friends. So why can’t I uplift myself? I’ll save you the suspense and admit that I still don’t have an answer to that. In truth, it may take many years to find it, but at least the question has been asked and the process begun.