Unscripted. Unfiltered. Unseen?

Sometimes just for fun, I'll check out what crazy National Holidays are on the calendar, and this morning was one of those times. If you didn't know, today is National Update Your Bio Day—and I'm not planning to update my author bio today, but it did give me an idea for this post.

A while ago as I fought for space and visibility on my social media platforms, not just feeling unseen but literally being unseen, I spent some time trying to brainstorm social media post ideas that would help trigger engagement. I refuse to rage-bait. I still want to present my authentic self in my content, embracing imperfections and using my love of storytelling for healing, not only in myself but also in those who find me online.

I posted a game: "If your life was a book, what would the title be?" I imagined an opportunity for friends and readers to share witty, heartfelt, funny, or maybe even dramatic titles. I wondered how real people would be in the comments. Would they share their self acceptance journey? Leave hints to their own unseen struggles? Would the idea of a book title spark someone's desire to try memoir writing? What kinds of conversations might follow?

But as is often the case, no one played and the post just sat there. Invisible. Like me sometimes. And maybe like you?

And despite the quiet of the comment section, that post has stuck with me—maybe because of the many times people have told me I should write a memoir or autobiography. That perhaps a project of that kind might be the very "purpose in pain" I've always hoped to find in my life. That in sharing the deep, dark shadows, pouring out vulnerability in writing, truly living with authenticity to that level, I might see God's plan for my story. Every word would be another willful act in the journey of finding my voice, living my calling.

But what would I even say? Online, I’m the version of myself who can paint with pretty words and frame the lessons of my life in metaphors that make sense of chaos. Offline? I’m unscripted and unfiltered. I limp through every day with chronic pain, constant exhaustion, and a brain that’s half horror, half comedy show. And the truth behind the bio is, my personal storytelling isn’t always pretty. It is always real, though—and maybe that’s why I still think it's worth telling.

In my author photo, I'm smiling just a little. Chin tilted. Eyes laughing. Hair looking like it knows how to behave. Smooth skin, subtle makeup, slightly blurred background. Decent lighting. And it's a real photo. I really do look like that—sometimes.

But it's me at my best, with pride in who I am, with ownership of my story, with the confidence to sit in front of a camera and preserve the moment. It's a picture of possibility, a modern-day portrait of the balance between faith and authenticity.

But if you could come and spend a day in my life...I'm not sure you'd meet her. Not really.

If you could knock on my front door, I'd probably answer it in ten-year-old yoga pants. One of about fifteen pairs. They might be black, they might be dark blue. Most likely, they'd be paired with a merch t-shirt from my church. Regular white ankle socks. Hanes, with the grey heels and toes. My long hair would be twisted up in a clip, baby hairs and broken strands raging against the machine. If there's makeup, it's rarely more than the sheen of a Vaseline lip balm. I'll limp a little, and if I smile you'll see all forty-one of my years on my face. There will be dust.

My oldest daughter will be hyper if she's home. My youngest will probably panic because she isn't wearing pants. Someone will be in the middle of laundry, there'll be dishes in the sink, and the living room floor might shock you—but I promise, we do have a broom. In fact, we have two. And a Roomba. And a steam mop. And a stick vacuum. And we use them all.

You'll see me pick my phone up, roll my eyes, and put it down again. My phone notifications make me understand why famous people go to rehab, where devices are banned. I bet it's quiet there.

Online-me writes captions that read like distilled pain with a hearty scoop of humor, like the flavoring we mix into medicine hoping to hide the bitterness of healing. She wraps trauma in metaphors to absorb the sting. She knows how to crop out the laundry piles, the ongoing battle with wasps on the porch, the frustration of ants under the back patio.

But real-life me is living unfiltered, and she stares down at that army of ants and shakes her head. She wonders how many times she'll bleach the kitchen counter before they realize they're not welcome in the house. She squints her eyes, wondering if she's tired because she's tired...or because she forgot her meds. She checks her schedule, trying to choose between pushing through pain and taking time to rest. And as she muscles through the morning, she curates every moment of her day as carefully as possible, hoping to mitigate an unstoppable influx of PTSD triggers no one truly understands.

Sometimes the way she injects these moments with humor makes her funny and pleasant to be around. She's outgoing and friendly even as she's withdrawn and deeply introverted. She's quirky and offbeat. Fiercely protective, undeniably brave. And sometimes sharper than she means to be. Harder than some people can handle.

Online-me posts about perseverance, highlighting the beauty of life's little moments of joy. But offline-me mutters under her breath about dishes that always seem to be dirty, money that never stretches quite far enough, and effort that sometimes just doesn't seem to work out.

But the longer I live in this space of real live vs online life, juggling the balance of what to share online vs offline, the more I realize that neither version is more real than the other. The photo is just as real as the yoga pants. The wise words and the muttered grumblings—they're all truly me. It's just that the one is carefully curated for consumption, and the other is behind-the-scenes, complete with B-reels and bloopers.

If I were to write a memoir, it wouldn't be just one version of me. It wouldn't be 300 pages of beautifully organized wisdom, nor would it be a full-on specialty expose of messy reality. It would be both, woven tightly together, because I'm never going to be just one or the other. I'm both, all the time, whether you see it or not.

And maybe that’s what makes this life worth writing. It may not be perfect, but it’s always lived as fully and authentically as possible. Full of contradictions. Beautiful photos displayed on the way to wash yet another sink full of dishes. Moments where I look like I’ve got it all together...and ones where I barely remember what day it is.

If you met me in person, you probably wouldn't recognize the woman from the headshot. But if we sat for coffee or tea, you’d know her by the end of the conversation. Because the real story of my life? It’s unscripted. Unfiltered. And yes, mostly unseen.

Until you’re close enough to read the fine print.

*****

I know I'm not the only one who struggles with social media burnout or how to balance public and private life. And I think if you're here, you're probably still learning to be yourself online, too. You probably wonder about whether telling your story would mean anything to anyone anyway.

If you're like me, you've googled autobiography ideas and memoir topics, but self-doubt and imposter syndrome tell you that even if you knew how to write your life story...no one would read it.

But when you read these posts, you tell me that the voice is my head is wrong. Because someone will read it. And that means it means something to someone—whether they tell me or not.

So thank you for sitting with me. For letting me share a little of the behind-the-scenes version of who I am. The one you don’t always see online—the messy, tired, beautiful, complicated me who’s still learning to balance humility that isn't shame with confidence that isn't pride.

If you can relate, or if you’ve ever felt like your “real self” is hidden behind polished photos and carefully crafted posts, you’re not alone. I’m here too, still choosing to live with bold honesty in both my writing and my life—and I hope that means we can all feel a little less unseen, a little more understood. Because it's in that space of peaceful contentment that we learn to...

I know how easy it can be to forget to check in, even if you really wanted to—and the next thing you know, someone you once felt close to is a stranger again. That's why I've set up a weekly update you can find right in your inbox, with no spam, no pressure, and best of all, no cost!