I posted the same photo on three platforms yesterday.
LinkedIn caption: “Grateful for this amazing team and the work we’re accomplishing together. #Leadership #Growth”
Instagram caption: “Squad goals
Twitter: I didn’t post it at all. Wrong audience. Wrong tone. Wrong version of me.
Three platforms. Three different people. All supposedly me.
My wife noticed I was stressed.
“What’s wrong?”
“I posted something on Instagram that my boss might see.”
“So?”
“It’s… not how I am on LinkedIn.”
She stared at me. “You mean it’s actually you?”
It started gradually. Professional life on LinkedIn. Personal life on Instagram. Political opinions on Twitter. Family updates on Facebook.
Neat boundaries. Different audiences. Different versions of myself, carefully optimized for each platform’s culture.
Then my colleague followed my Instagram. My aunt found my Twitter. My boss sent a Facebook friend request.
The walls collapsed. The personas collided. Suddenly I was performing multiple identities for overlapping audiences, never sure who was watching what.
The exhaustion became unbearable.
My therapist had a term for it: context collapse.
“You’re managing four different identities. That’s emotionally exhausting.”
“But I have to. LinkedIn me can’t be Instagram me. Twitter me would horrify Facebook me.”
“Why not?”
“Different audiences expect different things. My boss doesn’t need to see my vacation photos. My family doesn’t need to read my political rants.”
“So you’re different people depending on who’s watching?”
“Isn’t everyone?”
“To some degree. But you’re fragmenting yourself. Spending so much energy managing versions that you’re losing track of the actual you.”
I started noticing the mental load.
Before posting anything: Who will see this? Which platform is appropriate? Which voice should I use? Could this hurt me professionally? Might this offend family? Is this the right persona for this audience?
Every post required strategic calculation. Every photo demanded context assessment. Every opinion needed audience evaluation.
I was performing constantly, never just being.
My son asked something that stopped me cold.
“Dad, which one is the real you?”
“What do you mean?”
He showed me my phone. “LinkedIn you is serious. Instagram you is fun. Twitter you is angry. Which one is real?”
“They’re all real. Just different parts.”
“But which one is the one at home? The actual you?”
I didn’t have an answer. Who was I when nobody was watching? I’d been performing for so long I’d forgotten.
My colleague made a comment at lunch.
“I saw your Instagram. Didn’t know you were into hiking.”
I panicked internally. What had she seen? What did I post that might seem unprofessional? Had I complained about work? Posted photos drinking? Said something political?
“Just occasionally,” I said carefully. Professional voice, even though we were off-platform.
She looked confused. “You okay? You sound weird.”
I was weird. I couldn’t remember which version of myself I was supposed to be in person.
That night, I scrolled through my own profiles. Four different people stared back at me.
LinkedIn: Ambitious professional. Thought leader. Team player. Celebrating wins, sharing insights, networking strategically.
Instagram: Fun guy. Aesthetic curator. Living my best life. Carefully filtered moments, perfect lighting, aspirational lifestyle.
Twitter: Intellectually engaged. Politically aware. Witty observer. Hot takes and sharp commentary.
Facebook: Family man. Dutiful son. Proud parent. Milestones and memories, sanitized for relatives.
Which one was real? All of them? None of them?
My wife found me staring at the phone.
“Still managing your multiple personalities?”
“They’re not multiple personalities.”
“What are they then?”
“Strategic presentations of different facets of myself.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
It was. Utterly exhausting. But what was the alternative? Being completely myself everywhere and dealing with the consequences?
I decided to try it. One day of consistency across all platforms.
Posted the same photo, same caption, everywhere. No optimization. No strategic voice adjustment. Just me, saying something true, shared identically across contexts.
The anxiety was immediate. My boss would see it on LinkedIn. My aunt on Facebook. My colleague on Instagram. My random followers on Twitter.
Everyone would see the same me. No careful separation. No strategic fragmentation.
I almost deleted it. But I left it up.
The responses were surprising.
LinkedIn: Mostly silence. A few likes from people who appreciated the authenticity.
Instagram: Normal engagement. Nobody seemed to care that it wasn’t aesthetically optimized.
Twitter: One comment saying I sounded different. “More real.”
Facebook: My aunt loved it. Said it was nice to see me being genuine.
Nobody was horrified. No professional consequences. No family drama.
Just… normal responses to a normal post.
My father called that night.
“I liked what you posted.”
“Which platform?”
“All of them. It was the same thing, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. I could never keep track of which version of you was where. Nice to see you’re just you now.”
Just me. What a concept.
I started posting more consistently. Not identical content everywhere—some things really are better suited to certain contexts. But the same voice. The same person.
LinkedIn got less corporate speak, more honest reflection on actual work challenges.
Instagram got less perfect curation, more real moments.
Twitter got less performative outrage, more genuine thoughts.
Facebook stayed mostly the same. Turns out family me was closest to actual me anyway.
My colleague noticed.
“You seem more relaxed lately.”
“Do I?”
“Yeah. Like you’re not trying so hard to be someone.”
She was right. I’d been trying so hard to be four different someones that I’d exhausted myself. Being one consistent person was remarkably easier.
Not everyone approved.
A connection on LinkedIn messaged: “Your recent posts seem less professional.”
My response surprised me: “Maybe. But they’re more honest.”
Some people unfollowed. Some engagement dropped. Some carefully cultivated professional image eroded.
But I slept better. Worried less. Spent less mental energy managing personas.
The trade felt worth it.
My son asked the same question again yesterday.
“Which one is the real you?”
This time I had an answer.
“This one. The one talking to you. The same one everywhere now.”
“Good. The other way was confusing.”
It was confusing. For him, for me, for everyone trying to figure out which version they were getting.
I’m not completely consistent. Some boundaries still make sense. Some contexts genuinely require different approaches.
But I’m not maintaining four separate identities anymore. Not performing different selves for different audiences. Not exhausting myself with strategic persona management.
Just trying to be the same person everywhere. Accepting that some audiences won’t like it. That some professional relationships might suffer. That some family members might be surprised.
But gaining something more valuable: coherence. Integrity. The energy previously spent on performance now available for actual living.
Tonight, I posted something real across all platforms.
About struggling with anxiety. About feeling like I’d been performing for so long I’d forgotten who I actually was. About learning to be consistent even when it’s uncomfortable.
LinkedIn: Surprisingly supportive responses from colleagues who related.
Instagram: Friends appreciating the vulnerability.
Twitter: Less engagement than usual, but more meaningful.
Facebook: My aunt commented “proud of you for being honest.”
The same me. Seen by everyone. Finally.