Why does everything feel so self aware now?

For people who miss things that barely existed

I disappeared for a bit which feels ironic considering this whole article is basically about how exhausting it is to constantly exist as a visible version of yourself online.

Recently, I’ve become weirdly obsessed with 2007-2012 Britain (especially whilst being at uni and experiencing a very different social life going into my 20s), and I think it’s because people used to just exist a bit more.

just less aware of themselves all the time.

Enjoy

A song to accompany your reading.

Lately, I have found myself deeply disturbed by how aware everybody (and myself) seems of themselves all the time.

Not aware in the healthy sense, but in this almost hyper-visual, performative way where people seem unable to simply exist without simultaneously observing themselves existing. It feels as though every experience now passes through an invisible filter before it reaches us fully. Every outfit becomes a statement. Every interest becomes an identity. Every moment becomes something to document, curate or translate into a version of ourselves that feels coherent enough to present to the world.

And maybe this is why I have become so fascinated by old photos from 2007-2012 Britain lately.

Not because I believe life was objectively better then. People were still lonely. Still insecure. Still searching for themselves. But when I look at those blurry Facebook albums, overexposed flash photography outside pubs, groups of friends crammed together in dimly lit smoking areas, there is something almost painfully human about them.

Nobody looked composed enough to become an archetype.

People looked unfinished.

And I think what unsettles me most is realising how rare that has become.

Recently, it feels as though everybody is trying to become somebody before they have even allowed themselves the time to simply be a person first. The internet has transformed individuality into something strangely uniform. Everyone is trying to become niche, but the pursuit of niche identity itself has become mainstream. The same “obscure” films. The same carefully detached personalities. The same digital camera aesthetics are attempting to recreate a kind of accidental coolness that once existed precisely because nobody was trying so hard to manufacture it.

And I do not even write this judgmentally, because I recognise myself within it too.

I think we are all afraid of becoming ordinary now.

But I have started to wonder if our fear of ordinariness is actually masking something much deeper.

Because to be ordinary today is often treated as synonymous with being replaceable. There is this unspoken pressure now, especially online, to transform yourself into someone endlessly interesting before you have even properly lived. Everybody must possess a distinct aesthetic and a refined worldview. A perfectly articulated identity. Even authenticity itself has become something people consciously perform.

And perhaps this explains why so many people my age seem exhausted all the time.

We are no longer simply encouraged to live; we are encouraged to optimise. To heal ourselves quickly. Monetise ourselves quickly. Become successful quickly. Become emotionally intelligent quickly. Settle down quickly. Even youth itself now feels scheduled and managed, as though wandering too long or remaining uncertain for too long has become a personal failure.

What fascinates me most is how differently youth once appeared to be understood. When I look back at the late 2000s and early 2010s, I see an era where incompleteness still seemed permissible. People drifted more openly. They embarrassed themselves publicly. They made mistakes without immediately transforming those mistakes into carefully framed lessons or “growth.” There seemed to be a greater acceptance that your twenties were not supposed to represent the polished conclusion of your becoming, but merely one chapter within it.

There is an old story about Alexa Chung telling Alex Turner, “You’re young. Stop reading dictionaries and go to the pub,” and strangely enough, that sentence has lingered in my mind for weeks now.

Not because going to the pub is some profound act in itself, but because the sentence represents something about youth that feels increasingly endangered, permission to remain unfinished.

Today, it feels as though people are expected to arrive at adulthood already fully formed. By twenty-five, you should apparently possess emotional maturity, financial stability, a healthy routine, career direction, self-awareness, relationship clarity and a perfectly regulated nervous system. Online culture speaks about becoming as though it is something linear and efficient, something achievable through enough discipline and optimisation.

And I think this pressure intensifies during periods of instability.

The current political and economic climate in Britain has created a generation deeply anxious about the future. People cannot afford homes. Cities feel lonelier. Third spaces are disappearing. Nights out feel financially irresponsible. Hustle culture frames rest as laziness while other corners of the internet romanticise hyper-traditional lives built upon impossible standards of femininity, domesticity and perfection. Everybody seems to be searching for certainty somewhere.

But perhaps this is why people romanticise older eras so intensely now.

Not because those years were free from suffering, but because they appeared less hyper-conscious. Less psychologically managed. There is something deeply comforting about seeing old photographs where people are laughing too hard with all their teeth showing, staying out too late without turning it into content, ruining their sleep schedules for meaningless conversations outside pubs, dressing badly, saying the wrong thing, falling in love with people who were wrong for them and simply allowing life to happen without constantly translating it into self-improvement.

Sometimes I wonder if what people truly miss is not the aesthetics of the past, but the ability to exist without endlessly witnessing themselves exist.

And perhaps this is why so many people feel strangely detached from their own lives now.

When every moment becomes something to analyse, optimise or narrate, it becomes increasingly difficult to actually inhabit the present fully. We begin to experience ourselves almost from outside our own bodies, constantly evaluating how we appear rather than surrendering to experience itself. Even joy now often carries an undercurrent of performance.

I think about how many people are afraid to look ugly in photographs now. Afraid to laugh too loudly. There is this constant instinct to remain composed, detached and self-aware at all times, as though genuine vulnerability has become embarrassing.

But some of the most meaningful moments in life are inherently uncomposed.

Falling apart slightly at 2 a.m, talking to someone you barely know. Missing the last train home because a conversation became too absorbing to leave. Becoming too attached to songs, places or people despite knowing they may eventually disappear from your life. Allowing yourself to love things before fully understanding whether they will last.

And maybe this is what troubles me most about modern self-awareness: it often disguises itself as wisdom while quietly preventing people from fully living.

Because there is a difference between reflection and self-surveillance.

One deepens life. The other distances you from it.

I think many people now protect themselves preemptively from embarrassment, heartbreak, uncertainty and failure by attempting to over-curate their identities into something controlled and coherent. But in doing so, they also protect themselves from spontaneity, intimacy and surprise. We become so afraid of making mistakes that we accidentally sterilise our own lives before they have even properly begun.

And perhaps that is why older eras feel so emotionally charged in hindsight. Not because people were happier, but because they appeared more willing to risk themselves socially, emotionally and aesthetically. They allowed themselves to be unfinished in public.

As I approach twenty, I think one of the hardest things I am slowly learning is that stability may never arrive in the complete and permanent form we imagine it will.

There is this fantasy that many people carry that one day they will finally become fully certain of themselves. That eventually they will wake up emotionally healed, financially secure, deeply fulfilled, entirely confident in their relationships and completely at peace with who they are. But the older I get, the more I suspect that life does not really unfold that way.

Human beings are constantly changing.

Our desires change. Our beliefs change. Our friendships change. We outgrow old versions of ourselves repeatedly throughout our lives. And yet modern culture often treats uncertainty as though it is evidence of failure rather than evidence of being alive.

I think this is partly why so many people feel paralysed now. We have become terrified of making the wrong decision because we are frightened that one mistake may permanently define our lives. So instead of living openly, many people attempt to perfect themselves endlessly before fully participating in life at all.

But perhaps a meaningful life has never belonged to those who managed to avoid mistakes.

Perhaps it belongs more to those who were willing to risk embarrassment, vulnerability and uncertainty in exchange for genuine experience.

You are allowed to look horrible in photographs sometimes.

You are allowed to laugh too hard and show all your teeth.

You are allowed to ruin your sleep schedule for nights that mean something to you.

You are allowed to make mistakes in relationships. You are allowed to not know what you are doing yet. You are allowed to change your mind about who you are becoming.

And maybe there is something deeply beautiful about remaining unfinished.

Because when I think about the people I love most, none of them are memorable because they appear perfectly composed. They are memorable because they feel human. Because they possess contradictions. Because they have moments of awkwardness, emotional excess, uncertainty and sincerity that no amount of curation could ever replicate.

Perhaps the very things people now try hardest to conceal are often the things that make them feel most alive to others.

Because life has never really belonged to the people who managed to control it perfectly. It belongs to the people who allowed themselves to experience it fully despite its instability.

And perhaps the beauty of being alive has always existed there.

There will never be a version of life where everything finally becomes fully stable, fully certain or fully resolved before you are allowed to begin living it.

So run free.

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With Love, Always

Dija.