On being seen, wanting to be liked, and deciding who gets to drive
Last week, I recorded a video about my experience as a Democratic poll observer in a predominantly Republican community. It was part of my ongoing series of Constitutional Cases, in which I examine my life through the principles of my Personal Constitution.
To my considerable surprise, the video reached more than 1,800 views on Instagram. There were likes, comments, new followers, and people sharing their own experiences. Complete strangers were telling me that something I’d said resonated with them.
Well, goodness.
My old marketing self knew exactly what to do: capitalize on the attention, build momentum, post another video while people are still listening. My partner, Jesse, who has a sizable social media audience of his own, offered much the same advice. He’s right. It’s perfectly sound advice.
So, naturally, I’m going to do something entirely different. I’m going to question that advice, because there’s a difference between recognizing an opportunity and deciding whether it serves your purpose.
That distinction, I’ve discovered, is another Constitutional Case.
I wrote my Personal Constitution during a difficult emotional period in my life. I needed something to help me navigate my feelings, establish boundaries, and make better choices going forward. I wanted to stop reacting out of old habits and begin responding according to principles I had deliberately chosen.
I began writing Constitutional Cases to examine how those principles worked in everyday life. Sometimes I upheld them beautifully. Sometimes I stumbled. Sometimes I discovered that the question I was asking wasn’t even the right question.
But I had trouble remembering the lessons. Writing something down and living by it are two very different undertakings.
I know how I learn. I spent years teaching speech, and I’ve always understood the power of putting thoughts into words and speaking them aloud. So I began recording videos of my cases. Speaking the words helped me remember. Looking into a camera and saying them where someone else might hear gave them consequence. It was one thing to make a promise to myself in the privacy of my apartment and quite another to declare it publicly.
And then people started listening.
I would love to tell you that I greeted this unexpected attention with serene indifference, secure in the knowledge that my personal growth was its own reward.
But that would be nonsense.
There is a little girl inside me who is practically jumping up and down, channeling Sally Field’s famous Oscar acceptance speech: “You like me!”
And I do like that feeling.
I’m a writer, for heaven’s sake. Of course I want people to read my words, and of course I’m delighted when someone tells me that something I’ve written made them think. After years of writing, sometimes wondering whether anyone beyond my immediate circle was interested, discovering that complete strangers are listening is enormously gratifying.
The comments meant the most. People weren’t just telling me they agreed. They were sharing their own experiences, wrestling with the same questions, and sometimes offering perspectives I hadn’t considered. That is the sort of response a writer dreams about.
But there’s also a former marketing professional in me who already has a plan for what comes next. And there’s an introvert who would rather go back to her writing, spend time with the people she loves, and occasionally disappear into a fictional kingdom populated by badly behaved gnomes.
They’re all me.
In earlier essays, I’ve written about the different versions of myself I’ve carried through life: the little girl who learned certain lessons about the world, the young woman who made choices with the understanding she had at the time, the adult who survived things she never expected to encounter, and the woman I am becoming.
I’ve come to believe that personal growth doesn’t require abandoning those earlier selves. They don’t disappear because I’ve learned something new, nor should they. They helped me get here. The challenge is learning to recognize when one of them is trying to make a decision for all of us.
And here they are again, gathered in my metaphorical camper van. The little girl wants to be liked. The marketer wants momentum. The introvert would prefer a quiet campground somewhere with a good view and absolutely no obligation to post anything.
I can listen to all of them. I can even let them argue. But I don’t have to hand any of them the keys.
The woman who wrote the Constitution gets to drive.
Most of my Constitutional Cases have grown out of difficult experiences: disappointment, uncertainty, uncomfortable conversations, old patterns resurfacing when I thought I’d finally put them to rest. What I hadn’t considered was that I might need those same principles when something wonderful happened.
Approval can be just as distracting as criticism. There’s nothing wrong with enjoying it, but it’s tempting to start making decisions based on how to keep receiving it.
If I post another video because the last one was successful, am I continuing my personal growth, or am I responding to an audience’s expectations? Maybe both. And that’s where the contradiction lives.
I want my words to reach people, but I don’t want to start choosing my words based on how many people they might reach. I want to be heard, but I don’t want to perform for the privilege. I want the acknowledgment, but I don’t want to measure my worth by its presence or absence.
None of those desires is wrong. Growth isn’t the absence of those instincts. It’s recognizing them without automatically acting on them.
I don’t have to reject an audience to remain authentic, and I don’t have to apologize for wanting people to read my work. I can welcome people into this journey without changing the destination to suit them.
That’s the point of having a constitution in the first place. It isn’t a set of emergency instructions to pull out when life goes sideways. It’s a commitment to how I intend to live, whether I’m struggling or celebrating, whether someone is criticizing me or applauding.
So I’m recommitting. I will continue writing my Constitutional Cases, and I will keep recording them because speaking the lessons aloud helps me remember them. I may post two in a week, or none for a month. I may discover that something I’ve written resonates with thousands of people, or find that only a handful are interested.
Neither outcome changes the reason I began.
To those of you who watched, commented, shared your stories, or decided to follow along, thank you. Your acknowledgment has been a lovely and unexpected gift. I’m glad you’re here.
And to the little girl who’s still celebrating in the back of the van: I see you. I hear you. You deserve to enjoy this.
Now buckle up, sweetheart.
We’ve still got places to go.