A mother posts a heartfelt birthday message for her child.
Hundreds respond. The post goes viral.
But the child is just a few rooms away.
This blog begins with that moment—
and asks a simple, unsettling question:
When did love become something we perform for others?
From birthday posts to changing names,
this is a story about how social media is quietly reshaping
how we feel, love, and present ourselves.
A Birthday Post, A Quiet Room, and the Performance of Love
It began with a notification.
A birthday post.
A mother had written a long, emotional message for her child—
full of love, memories, pride.
Photos. Emojis. Warmth.
Hundreds of likes. Dozens of comments.
“Such a beautiful bond!”
“So lucky to have a mother like you!”
And yet, what stayed with me was a simple question:
The child lived in the same house.
Just a few rooms away.
The Distance Between Two Rooms
Somewhere inside that house,
there could have been a hug.
A whispered “Happy Birthday.”
A quiet moment that belonged only to them.
But instead, the moment travelled outward.
Into timelines.
Into feeds.
Into the gaze of hundreds.
It became visible.
And in becoming visible,
it became something else.
A performance.
When Love Learns to Speak in Public
This is not an isolated moment.
We see it everywhere.
Anniversary wishes between spouses who share the same bed.
Parents writing emotional notes to children they tuck in every night.
Friends declaring lifelong bonds through carefully crafted captions.
Love is no longer just felt.
It is:
written
posted
witnessed
And somewhere along the way,
it becomes something that must be seen to be believed.
The Quiet Shift
There was a time when intimacy was quiet.
It lived in:
gestures
silences
shared spaces
Now, it increasingly lives on screens.
What was once private has become shareable.
What was once lived has become documented.
Not because people love less —
but perhaps because love now seeks validation in visibility.
The Audience We Did Not Know We Had
Every post carries an audience.
Friends.
Acquaintances.
Strangers.
But also something else:
Expectation.
When love is posted,
it is not just expressed.
It is performed.
It is shaped:
for readability
for relatability
for response
The “like” becomes a form of affirmation.
The comment becomes a measure of emotional success.
And slowly, without realising it,
we begin to love for the gaze.
The Story of a Name
This performance is not limited to emotions.
It extends into identity.
I once noticed something curious.
A classmate — someone I had known for years —
appeared on social media with a different name.
Her surname had changed.
Not in an official document.
Not in a legal sense.
But in her digital self.
She had taken her husband’s name.
Becoming Someone Else, Publicly
This is not uncommon.
Many women — educated, independent, professionally accomplished —
choose to reframe their identities on social media after marriage.
It is easy to dismiss this as personal choice.
And perhaps it is.
But it is also something more.
Because names are not just names.
They carry:
histories
lineages
power
In many families, children inherit the father’s name,
while the mother quietly disappears from the record.
And now, even in digital spaces that promise freedom,
these patterns reappear.
The Invisible Script
No one explicitly tells us to do this.
There is no instruction manual.
And yet, there is a script.
A quiet, invisible script that shapes:
how we express love
how we present relationships
how we define ourselves
Social media does not force us.
It nudges us.
Through:
visibility
validation
repetition
And over time, these nudges become habits.
What Are We Really Sharing?
So what is a birthday post?
What is an anniversary message?
What is a changed name?
They are not just updates.
They are fragments of a larger story —
a story about how we are learning to:
feel publicly
love visibly
exist performatively
A Final Moment
Let us return to that house.
To the birthday.
To the two rooms.
The post still exists —
gathering likes, collecting comments, circulating warmth.
But somewhere inside that house,
perhaps there was also a quiet moment.
A smile.
A touch.
A presence that needed no audience.
And perhaps that is where intimacy still lives —
not in what is seen,
but in what remains unseen.
A Question to Stay With
what do we choose to keep personal?
And how do we present our ‘selves’?
Comments
Post a Comment