The lament of a blue-suited social media platform

And I thought I was different from my cousins!

I didn’t dress pretty or pose in golden light. I didn’t bite, scratch, or punch the wind. I didn’t sing, couldn’t dance to save my life. I wasn’t smug—never pretended I’d conquered the world just because I was scattered but called myself whole. And I didn’t cloak my blues with earnest self-righteousness, convincing myself that this me—this avatar!—might save the world.

I wore a suit. I spoke in bullet points. I was the paragon of professionalism, above the frivolities of my cousins. Once.

Now? Now I tremble with humility—humility crafted on my chest, round the clock, in crisp sans serif.

I tremble when I see them: the preeners, the performers, the plodders—shouting, whispering, stumbling onto the stage—haunted by the restless ghosts of self-promotion. I’ve carried their posts a thousand times, dressed in empty words, all with the same cues.

Take the preeners. They wrap their triumphs in the guise of “modesty.” I am humbled, one types. Delighted, another. Honoured. Humbled? By what? A promotion? The new job? If humility were the goal, why do I fester with tags? No, this isn’t humility—it’s theatre.

But ‘modesty’ isn’t enough for everyone. Some crave a story—a tale of rejection, redemption, and triumph. Enter the performers. Their posts are worthy of Netflix series, complete with cliffhangers and crafted climaxes. Ten years ago, I was rejected. Now, they want me, they write, a comeback so dramatic you can almost hear the swelling orchestral score. Or: I’ve learned so much from this experience, they reflect on a two-day workshop where half the participants were on mute.

And the pièce de résistance: As so many of you have asked me… Nobody asked. Nobody ever does. Still, they type, their wisdom spilling forth like they’re on TED stage.

The performers summon them all—mentors, colleagues, even the acquaintance who nodded at them in 2016. Thank you to my incredible team, they write. And the hashtags? They sprout like influencer discounts in your inbox—plentiful, faintly desperate, usually ignored. Still, the crowd gathers with comments: So inspiring! What a legend! We’re so proud of you!

The performers? They bask, head tilted just enough to feign surprise.

And finally, the plodders. They know they should be here but aren’t quite sure why. They’re the extras, wandering, unsure if the spotlight is meant for them. *Completed a project today,*they write. Attended a workshop on leadership. Excited to start my new role at Igotanewjob.com. Their posts shuffle into a world crowded with dramatists, awkward and unpolished but somehow endearing in their sincerity.

I carry them all—the preeners, the performers, the plodders—each bringing their triumphs and struggles, polished or plain. I thought I was different. How could I be? Scratch the surface, and society is the same—an endless parade of preening peacocks, strutting, squawking, desperate for applause.

No, I am just like my cousins. A mirror can’t change its reflection; a stage can’t choose its play.

I am humbled. Truly, I am.

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