Lost Art of the Demure: What defines humility in the digital age?
How social media turned privacy into an endangered species.
Inspired Art By: (Hannah Arabella Gabling // The Underground)
As a non-consumer of mainstream social media platforms like Instagram and TikTok, I find myself with the peculiar pleasure of viewing this digital world through fresh eyes. It’s an odd vantage point, one where I can’t help but be both bewildered and fascinated by the culture that thrives online. For instance, when I stumble upon a five-part series detailing how to make one’s ex jealous, complete with a curated list of emoji combinations to maximize emotional distress, I’m left scratching my head. How did we get here?
And then, there are the countless tear-streaked faces, most of which offer zero context or explanation. I checked the comments—none of us know when the show is supposed to start, or what it’s about for that matter. But we don’t have all day, our fingers itch and twitch until eventually (often within seconds), we scroll. Then, the curiosity starts to twist into something else, an anger that creeps in unnoticed. Why? Because now I’m getting ready with someone to go and confront their roommate. I mean, I wasn’t quite prepared to spectate a live argument, but I’m here now and I’m in too deep. It truly is a wild experience, this constant barrage of emotional roller coasters, with no clear beginning, but more importantly, no clear end.
Does humility exist in a culture where everyone is encouraged to broadcast every success, failure, and vulnerability? Is it possible to discover a space for privacy, dignity, and self-respect in a world that treats these items like relics of the past?
Humility used to mean something. It was a quiet dignity. An inner peace that didn’t need to be put on display. It has now been rebranded as self-promotion, and we call it “authenticity.” We narrate our flaws in painstaking detail, post our insecurities in a carefully curated manner, and the cute PR unboxing segment of a “day in my life” vlog has turned into unboxing emotional baggage. It’s as if we’re saying, “Let me tell you about all my flaws, so maybe you’ll like me more.” Doesn’t that feel performative? Why share your stories of failure if it’s not for relatability or a humble brag? What other motive could there be behind people ranking their physical insecurities to somber music. Oh wait, that’s just #bodypositivity.
Life now exists through the lens of content creation. The smallest, most intimate of moments are scripted, marketed, and shared in a way that leaves little room for the modesty that used to let us keep certain parts of life sacred. Now, it’s not oversharing, it’s radical “transparency,” and if you’re not documenting your most embarrassing moments, you're almost suspiciously put-together.
Social media has done a masterful job at blurring the line between what should and shouldn’t be shared. Algorithms practically beg you to keep sharing, rewarding each post with likes and follows that research shows triggers dopamine releases similar to that of meth, heroin, and alcohol. By intensifying the natural appeal of human interaction, they make us vulnerable to compulsive overuse, blurring the line between genuine connection and overconsumption. In other words, we’re incentivized to show every aspect of ourselves, and we have convinced ourselves that there is no reward for restraint.
Shame, which once served as a cultural guardrail that helped us keep personal struggles close to us, isn’t about guilt or self-deprecation—it’s about dignity and self-respect. It’s an internal compass that helps us deem what is too private, sacred, and intimate to share. Not only does shame reinforce boundaries that protect both our own privacy, but also the comfort of others as we did not impose ourselves upon them like we do now. Social media has drastically rewired our sense of what’s embarrassing, and what we would once be mortified to see on the internet has become a norm. It’s edgy, raw, and real.
The way we film our therapy sessions for others to react to. That’s not crossing a boundary anymore, that’s “mental health advocacy.” The way we share deeply private family issues in public TikTok monologues. That’s not airing dirty laundry anymore, that’s “starting a conversation.” The way we post videos of our children having tantrums. That’s not exploiting their vulnerability anymore, that’s “parenting in the digital age.” Casually stumbling across these things would send a Victorian era child into a coma.
Social media isn’t evil, but the oversharing epidemic is a symptom of something deeper; we’ve forgotten what it’s like to value privacy for its own sake. To live authentically, not for visibility to the world. It’s not too late to reclaim our privacy, however, and that can simply mean setting boundaries as an act of self-respect in a culture that encourages us to turn every moment into a relatable story.
Humility might be at odds with the demands of social media, but in the end, it offers something more lasting than the fleeting reward of digital applause. In choosing privacy, we preserve our dignity, cultivate self-respect, and, most importantly, remind ourselves that not everything worth experiencing needs an audience.
