I Grew Up on LAN Parties—Now Everything’s a Lobby
You open your app meaning to “just check one thing,” and five minutes later you’ve posted a rant, a photo with your street sign in frame, and a Story that accidentally tags your cousin’s baby by full name. You call it “being real.” I call it giving strangers a map to your life.
Plenty of advice says “be authentic.” Mine is the opposite, from a 1993 millennial in tech who actively under-shares on purpose. I keep a blunt personal rulebook that trades performative honesty for practical safety, less drama, and more off-screen time. It’s not about perfection; it’s about deciding that not every moment belongs to the feed.
I almost never post any pictures of me or my family
I never loved social media, but watching how easy oversharing can harm people made me switch from “meh” to “nope.” The more you post, the more surface area you give to others—some kind, some curious, and some malicious. That’s not paranoia; it’s basic risk math. Even major platforms and institutions warn that the details you publish can be used against you: sharing personal info makes it easier for criminals to learn important facts about you (Microsoft); what you do online affects your privacy and reputation—and other people’s, too (FTC); and once shared, content is out there and can embarrass you or someone else (Government of Jersey).
So I chose under-sharing as my default. It keeps my family off strangers’ screens, and it keeps me calmer than any dopamine spike from a hot take.
I actually disagree completely with the usual post everything for authenticity advice because I feel like when you post your information online they’re lost to you
That line—“lost to you”—is the heart of it. On the internet, control is an illusion. A few specific risks I refuse to ignore, especially compared with Gen Z’s post-first norms and many millennials’ old habits of status-updating everything:
If “authenticity” means posting emotions in real time, I’ll pass. I prefer authenticity in person—where tone, context, and consequences are clearer.
The posts I’ve regretted were angry blasts—disappointment about politics or stuff happening around me. I’d hit publish, immediately see the backlash storm forming in my head, and delete so I could have an easier time. No victory lap, no chart of fewer DMs—just the gut sense that I avoided unnecessary friction. That’s not data; it’s a boundary. And boundaries can be enough.
It’s a checklist I actually use before I post. It’s short because short rules get remembered.
None of this is fancy. It’s friction, on purpose. A pause is my best safety feature. As a bonus, that pause regularly converts into going outside or finishing a song or an email—actually living, not refreshing.
I was born in 1993 and work in tech, trying to understand and relate to younger generations. Compared to many millennials, Gen Z grew up posting by default—more fluent with platforms, more comfortable narrating life in public, and often more dependent on always-on internet. From where I stand, newer generations can be a bit “mimizentas” about being called out yet unusually casual about sharing details that older users instinctively kept private. On the flip side, older generations usually have more offline social tact and know the pre-feed world, which sometimes makes boundaries feel more natural.
But comfort isn’t the same as safety. The internet doesn’t care what year you were born; it only cares about the data you hand it. And what we do online can nudge sleep, attention, and general well-being—screen time, late-night scrolling, and constant alerts all add up (CDC). Posting less isn’t just about avoiding creeps; it can mean more energy for everything that isn’t on a screen.
Some of you create art, build a career in public, or organize communities. Visibility helps. I’m not saying “never post.” I’m saying:
Even small shifts—blurring a badge, cropping a street sign, using initials—tilt the odds back in your favor. Remember: once you’ve shared something, it’s out there, and it can embarrass you or someone else later (Government of Jersey).
Quieter. Lighter. Fewer notifications. Fewer explanations. More time to actually play a game, write code, or be with the people I refuse to turn into content. I don’t mistake silence for hiding; I treat it like editing. And good editing makes the story—and the life—better.
