How personal is too personal? Don't ask the internet
A career writer on the craft of oversharing online
TW: sexual assault
It’s disorienting to think that there are family members and close friends who don’t know about my sexual assault, but a few hundred thousand strangers who do.
When I was 17-years-old, I created Project Consent—a now defunct, then online advocacy org—to talk about rape culture. Led by literal teenagers, Project Consent initially began as a catharsis project for my own trauma. In 2015, it was a photography project and by 2017, we were winning major awards for our campaign on “Consent is Simple.”
It also meant the bigger we got, the more I was talking about my own sexual abuse to impress upon the masses how insidious rape culture is. It was on podcasts, radio shows (including NPR), print media, etc. Once in college, I had a sorority girl blurt out that I was the “chick with the rape thing” mid-party.
Through algorithms, hashtags and SEO, something so personal can become readily available with a Google search. In my younger days, I didn’t give more consideration to how violating it would feel for anyone to have access to my worst trauma. But I wish I had. By opening my deepest wound to the world wide web, I was also inviting commentary on the legitimacy of my assault, how it was a reflection of my own moral failing, and other forms of victim-blaming and what have yous. Even exchanges made in good-faith—kind DMs, comments, and emails—were reminders of how under a microscope I made my abuse.
My trauma is not unique to the internet, nor does it particularly stand out in the specific subset of oversharing. Few people even remember Project Consent now (for which I’m grateful for). As more and more of our lives bleed online in this day and age, the lines between our digital selves and physical ones blur. I don’t have to tell you that even minor, thoughtless mistakes posted can have years long consequences. Doxxing is now a regular form of harassment, especially towards marginalized individuals.
The proverbial “what’s on the internet lives forever” cautionary tale is unfortunately very, very true.
But as an editor and career reporter, I come to heed warnings about sharing too much, even if it’s with good intentions. Years ago, I wrote about why Gen-Z loves recreating trauma porn on Tik Tok for Nylon Magazine. There is a very intoxicating relief that comes with airing out intimate details of your life, particularly if it involves repressed trauma and especially if you’ve been struggling to find support offline. Through the internet, there’s a built-in audience to validate your experience and the catharsis of having something finally off your chest can be like exhaling for the first time. All this to say: I get it. I’ve been there, done that, and lived to reap the good and bad of the aftermath.
In the journalism space, there’s an underlying rule of ethics to not exploit trauma in the form of personal writing. Unfortunately, there are still publications and editors who will solicit the worst thing that’s ever happened to you in the form of 1200 words for $100. The outlet gets clicks and the writer (often young and impressionable) gets 15 minutes of digital fame and a lifetime to regret attaching their name to fleeting catharsis. This is not always the case, of course. There are incredible writers, like Roxane Gay and Cheryl Strayed, who do personal writing for a living and continue to do so today.
“Through the internet, there’s a built-in audience to validate your experience and the catharsis of having something finally off your chest can be like exhaling for the first time.”
But experienced writers (and even creators) have a better understanding of boundaries. When I talk to young writers—or even individuals who are coming under the public eye for the first time as actors, influencers, etc—they always want to know how much is too much when sharing something intimate.
I have a general rule of thumb as an essayist who sometimes writes first-person narrative pieces. Before publishing, I ask myself if I want to talk about whatever it is I’m writing about at a dinner party. Speaking on something once—whether it be in a caption, TikTok, or article—is easy. But can you do it again and again? That’s how content lives: always there, ready to resurface.
By nature, I’m not shy about much. I’m a fairly open book in what I think about race, mental health, politics, sexuality, and even the time I lost my top mid-Disneyland ride (DM me if you want to know). I can look back and laugh at most things because of my personal philosophy of never being embarrassed. But I also know myself and the things that I do not—under most circumstances—want to discuss over appetizers or in a job interview. That list includes, but is not limited to: my relationship with my family, my upbringing, and yes, my sexual assault.
Everyone will have differing scopes of what they’re okay with talking about and there’s no one size fits all idea. Regardless, people will always have opinions of what you share and how open you are about it. The only metric is how you feel. To spare potential regret down the road, I always ask writers I work with—and friends seeking social media “do I post this or not?” counsel—if it’s something they’d want their neighbors to know.
Online, the audience feels both imaginary and curated. We want to think that we’re being selective in who sees our content. But as an internet culture reporter, I can firmly tell you that’s not the case. The temptation of engagement is a bright, shining carrot hanging over our heads because personal stories do go viral and draw attention. But when that fades, what you exchanged in return for likes and pay will still remain.
Can you live with that?
If you can’t, it might be worth rethinking that essay or video in your drafts.
If you enjoyed this essay, consider subscribing to Sara’s Substack, Gut Feelings. Jordan suggests starting with her personal favorites "i will make the mountain move to me" or "one nation, under gun."