I was once an optimistic soul, filled with dreams and ambitions that seemed to be within my grasp. Life, for me, was about constant movement, an unyielding desire to achieve something greater. I was always the go-getter—the one with big plans and an even bigger smile. My friends often referred to me as the person who never seemed to run out of energy, always bustling with ideas, never afraid to take risks.
Before everything changed, my life revolved around the pursuit of success. I had a solid career in marketing, a close-knit group of friends, and a budding relationship that made me believe I had everything I could ever need. I was often on social media, posting moments of happiness—vacation photos, new outfits, success at work, milestones in my relationship. My posts were a curated version of my life, the highlight reel. I was proud of how well I was doing, of how my life looked from the outside. But in retrospect, I realize now that my happiness wasn’t solely mine—it was influenced by what others saw and thought of me.
But then everything changed, and I would never be the same again.
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It all started with an innocuous feeling—a slight discomfort that I brushed off as nothing more than a passing issue. A dull ache in my chest. A bit of fatigue. At first, I thought it was just stress from work or maybe something to do with not getting enough sleep. But when the pain didn't go away, I knew something was wrong. My body, which had always been my greatest asset, started betraying me in ways I never could have imagined.
The diagnosis was swift, and it hit me like a ton of bricks. I had been living my life as if I was invincible, but now I was facing a life-altering illness. The doctors told me it was a chronic autoimmune disorder that would require lifelong management and treatment. It wasn’t fatal, but it would change my life. The reality hit me: my body, which had once been the epitome of strength and energy, was now fragile and unpredictable.
The transition from health to illness was jarring. One day I was a confident, energetic person on top of the world; the next, I was lying in a hospital bed, struggling to breathe, unable to do even the simplest things without exhausting myself. My physical appearance began to change. I gained weight from the medications, lost hair in clumps, and my skin became pale and blotchy. I looked nothing like the version of myself that I had been proud of.
I tried to keep up appearances for a while, posting the occasional picture of myself looking somewhat "put-together" in public, but even that became difficult. I would stare at the mirror and hardly recognize the person I saw. My eyes were dull, and my smile no longer reached my face. My body felt alien to me. I had become a stranger in my own skin.
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Social media, once a harmless distraction, became a battleground for my self-esteem. The highlight reels I used to scroll through, filled with images of friends traveling, getting promotions, and living their best lives, now felt like a cruel reminder of what I had lost. I would find myself comparing my bloated, tired face to the perfectly curated images on Instagram, feeling the crushing weight of inadequacy. Their lives seemed so easy—so effortless—while mine felt like it was falling apart.
I posted less. And when I did, it was often filtered and edited, as though I could somehow hide the truth of my illness behind a facade of normalcy. But even the effort of keeping up with this online version of myself became exhausting. The pressure to maintain a “perfect” image on social media became unbearable, yet I couldn't seem to break free from it.
It was during one of these moments of despair that I realized something crucial: my self-worth was deeply entangled with the way others perceived me. For years, I had built my identity around external validation. I prided myself on my career, my looks, my relationships, and the image I projected on social media. But none of that mattered now. My illness didn’t care about how many followers I had or how many likes my posts received. My body, my health, was in crisis—and no amount of social media applause could change that.
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There were days when I felt utterly alone. I saw others posting about their accomplishments, their vacations, their beautiful bodies, and it was as if they were living in a different world. I asked myself, Why me? Why did I have to go through this?
But somewhere deep inside, I knew I couldn’t keep comparing my reality to the fantasy world of social media. It took time, but I started to understand that what I saw on those screens wasn’t real. The filtered photos, the carefully crafted posts—none of it was a true reflection of people's lives. Everyone was struggling with something, even if it wasn’t visible in their online presence.
I began taking small steps to detach myself from the need for validation through social media. I unfollowed accounts that triggered negative feelings and only kept those that were supportive, motivational, or aligned with my new perspective on life. I also realized that I had to redefine success on my own terms, rather than letting social media dictate what that should look like.
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The journey to reclaim my self-esteem wasn’t easy. Some days, I still found myself staring at my reflection, battling the self-loathing that had crept in during my darkest times. But with each passing day, I learned to let go of the image I had once worshipped and started embracing who I had become—a person who was not defined by her appearance or the approval of others. I started sharing more authentic posts, showing the real me: the one who had gone through unimaginable pain but was still fighting, still standing. I learned that vulnerability could be powerful, that sharing my truth might resonate with others who were facing their own struggles.
Slowly, I began to find joy in the small victories: a day where I felt less fatigued, a walk around the block that didn’t leave me breathless, a conversation with a friend where I felt truly connected. My health journey wasn’t linear, but it was mine. And with time, I started to value the strength it took to get through each day, even when that strength didn’t look like the picture-perfect image I had once strived for.
I realized that the illness had, in a way, freed me. It had forced me to look inward, to find my worth not in the external approval of others, but in the quiet resilience that lived within me. I had to learn to let go of the comparison, to stop measuring my life against the curated images of success that flooded my social media feeds. I was more than what others saw online. I was a person with depth, with struggles, with strength, and with a future that I was ready to build, even if it didn’t look like what I had once envisioned.
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Looking back now, I see that social media’s impact on my self-esteem was a slow, insidious thing. It didn’t happen overnight, but over time, it eroded my sense of self-worth. But overcoming the hold it had on me was also a gradual process. It wasn’t about rejecting social media altogether—it was about recognizing the difference between my real life and the fantasy world that it often portrayed. It was about finding balance, setting boundaries, and most importantly, reclaiming my sense of self beyond the screen.
I no longer feel the need to measure my worth by likes, shares, or followers. My success is now defined by my ability to persevere, to embrace the imperfections of my journey, and to find joy in the moments that matter most—whether or not they make it to social media.
And in the end, I realized something even more profound: true self-esteem comes not from the approval of others, but from the acceptance of oneself—flaws, struggles, and all.
Social media might shape the way we present ourselves to the world, but it should never define who we truly are.
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