The Performance of Self

It’s weird, isn’t it? How much of what people tell you is…them? Not the actual, core them, but a version they’ve carefully constructed and polished, like a show car at a dealership. I thought about it a lot after the Phoebe Bridgers show. Two hundred people reblogged a piece I wrote about her, people I’d never met, living lives I could only imagine. Suddenly, my writing had this…reach. And it made me realize how much I’d been performing, too. Not deliberately, maybe, but out of habit.

My dad, he's always been this way, quietly questioning everything I do. It’s not malicious, exactly. It’s more like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, convinced I’m building a fragile house of cards. When I started the blog, he just kind of nodded, a skeptical little wrinkle between his eyebrows. He’s proud, I know he is, of me doing *something*, but he doesn’t really *get* it. My mom, on the other hand, buys me notebooks and says, “Whatever makes you happy, honey,” even though she probably doesn’t understand what a blog even *is*.

I used to think I was being honest. About what I liked, what I felt. About the way my throat felt tight before a concert, about the feeling of standing in a crowd of strangers who all seemed to know something I didn’t. But reading about this study – the one where they tested people’s self-assessments and found they consistently exaggerate positive traits – it hit me. It's not that I was lying outright. It's that I was…optimizing. Presenting a version of myself that was slightly better, slightly more interesting, slightly more…likeable.

It's easy to see how this can snowball, doesn't it? Think about your Instagram feed. Or that LinkedIn profile everyone’s got now. It's all curated highlights, meticulously chosen to present an image of success and happiness. And what’s the cost of that? The constant pressure to maintain the facade. The subtle erosion of trust. How do you really *know* someone when they're constantly filtering their truth through a lens of self-promotion?

I remember once, trying to explain to a friend why I felt awkward at the National concert. I’d said something about feeling overwhelmed by the energy, the sheer volume of people all feeling *so much*. But in my head, I was also thinking, *I need to look like I belong here. I need to look like I appreciate this. I need to project the right vibe.* And that’s when it clicked – I wasn’t experiencing the concert; I was performing it.

There’s a similar assessment tool used in that research, it tests how people rate themselves on qualities like intelligence, humor, and social skills. The really fascinating part is that people who score higher on those scales also tend to be less reliable in other areas. It's not necessarily that they're consciously deceptive, but they have a heightened need to be seen positively, which can lead them to subtly inflate their accomplishments or downplay their flaws. It’s a weird sort of feedback loop – the more you want to be seen as amazing, the more you distort reality.

It makes you question everything, doesn’t it? Every compliment received, every expression of admiration. How much of it is genuine? How much is the result of someone consciously or unconsciously playing a role? It’s not that I’m suddenly distrustful of everyone. It’s more that I’m…aware. Aware of the potential for distortion, the subtle ways in which we all shape our own narratives.

Maybe the real challenge isn't identifying those who exaggerate, but recognizing our own tendency to do the same. Maybe the most authentic thing we can do is embrace the messiness, the imperfections, the moments when we don't quite measure up to our own carefully constructed ideal. To let go of the performance and just…be. That sounds ridiculously cheesy, I know. But right now, it’s a thought worth holding onto.