I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how we present our lives online, and specifically, how we present our relationships.
It’s a phenomenon that has evolved over the years, from its nascent stages on early social media platforms to the full-blown public broadcasts we witness today. And honestly, the more I observe it, the more I find myself asking: why? Why has advertising our relationship status become such an incredibly important, almost obligatory, act in the digital sphere?
Cast your mind back a decade or so to the heyday of Facebook. If you were in a new relationship, the first order of business, often even before meeting the parents or exchanging "I love yous," seemed to be updating your relationship status. You’d go from "Single" to "In a relationship with [Partner’s Name]," and then, if you were truly committed to the digital display, you’d link their profile. It became a cultural touchstone, didn't it? The phrase "made it Facebook official" wasn't just a quirky internet term; it was a societal stamp of approval, a rite of passage.
And what was the subtext of this digital declaration? It was an announcement, wasn't it? A grand pronouncement to your entire online network, akin to declaring you’d just graduated, landed your dream job, or even had a baby.
But here’s the crucial difference: those other announcements are typically about tangible, often permanent, life milestones. A relationship, particularly a new one, is a delicate, evolving thing. It’s a private journey between two people. Yet, there it was, thrust into the public eye, often before it had even truly found its footing.
This public performance, I’ve come to believe, sets a dangerous precedent. You’ve just started a relationship, a tender, fragile thing and already you’ve made it fodder for social media consumption. It’s an immediate invitation for likes, comments, virtual applause and the inevitable "OMG, so cute!" from distant acquaintances. It’s performative from the get-go. And what happens when the performance ends, as relationships, inevitably, sometimes do?
The aftermath is often just as public and awkward as the initial declaration. Suddenly, there's the frantic deletion of shared photos, the un-tagging, the quiet reversion to "Single" (or perhaps the more mysterious "It's Complicated"). Or, in what I find to be the most baffling and frankly, self-important display, the official breakup statement. As if you're a high-profile celebrity whose romantic entanglements are of vital public interest.
“We regret to inform you that after much consideration, we have decided to part ways…” Please, darling, get over yourself. No one gives a damn, beyond perhaps a handful of your closest friends, and even they probably heard it from you directly, not your carefully worded Instagram post. The whole charade screams a desperate need for external validation, turning personal heartbreak into a public spectacle.
But the "Facebook official" era, as quaint as it now seems, was just the beginning. The trend has evolved.
Now, as I scroll through various social media platforms, I see it everywhere: bios adorned with a partner's username or handle, often accompanied by a heart or holding-hands emoji. Or the equally saccharine "happily partnered," "soulmate to X," or some other ooey-gooey descriptor that feels less like a genuine expression of love and more like a carefully crafted marketing slogan for one’s own life.
I find myself wrestling with the "why" behind this new wave of public declarations. Is it an attempt to fend off "thirsties" creeping in DMs, a digital "do not disturb" sign for potential romantic prospects? A clear demarcation that says, "I'm taken, move along"? Or is it, as I suspect, simply bragging? A subtle, or not-so-subtle, way of saying, "Look at me! I have someone! I am desirable! My life is fulfilling! Validate me!"
Think about it. Back in the day, if you were committed, you might wear a wedding ring. That’s a powerful symbol, steeped in tradition and meaning. Perhaps it signifies to others that you’re off-limits, or perhaps it’s a constant, private reminder of your bond to the person you love.
But never, not in a million years, would you walk around with a T-shirt emblazoned with your partner’s face and name, proclaiming, "Happily married to Jim!" or, "Proud partner of Jessica!" Yet, somehow, on social media, that exact sentiment is not only accepted but seemingly expected to be front and center in our digital personas. It’s as if a relationship isn't truly real until it's been digitally branded and broadcast.
I've purposely never updated a relationship status because it's nobody's business. I don't use social media as, as it has so often become, a dating website. I've even -- believe it or not -- been scolded by people for not broadcasting if I were single or not. It's like they randomly messaged me and without wasting time, essentially saying in not so many words, "Hi, how are you? So, you single or not?" Yikes. Cut to the chase. That's desperation!
This compulsion to display everything, to make every aspect of our lives into "content," makes me wonder if there's a connection between this constant public performance and the shocking failure rates we see in relationships these days.
When so much energy is poured into presenting a perfect, performative relationship for an audience, how much is left for the messy, real, challenging and utterly private work of actually being in a relationship? Does the pressure to maintain the digital facade erode the authentic connection? When the relationship is built on a foundation of likes and comments, what happens when those external validations are absent or when real-life conflict rears its head?
I often think of my parents. They’ve been married for over 40 years, a testament to enduring love and partnership. They’re both on Facebook, albeit sparingly. You know what you won't find on their profiles? Declarations of "happily in relationship with [spouse’s name]," or incessant tagging of each other in every infrequent post. Their relationship matters deeply to them, and that's enough. They don't need the applause, the emoji reactions or the public validation to affirm their bond. Their love is lived, not performed. It’s private, cherished and real.
And that, I believe, is the crux of it. A relationship status update, a linked handle in a bio or an ooey-gooey descriptor shouldn’t be what makes you feel important. It's performative. It's for attention. And, dare I say it, it actually screams insecurity. It's as if you need the approval and applause from your allegedly adoring fans to truly believe in the validity of your own connection.
I once again remind people of a crucial truth in this hyper-connected world: just because you can have a platform to broadcast every minute detail about your life, you don't have to post everything about your life. In fact, I’m increasingly convinced that we need a little less content creation in the world, especially when it comes to the most intimate aspects of our existence. This constant need to curate, edit and present life for an audience is profoundly affecting how you live, how you perceive yourself, and what you believe you need to present for your life to be deemed successful or valid.
Perhaps, just perhaps, the most profound relationships are the ones we nurture in private, away from the glare of the digital stage.