I was scrolling on TikTok the other day just minding my business, thumb cruising like it gets paid per swipe when I realised something strange: everyone on my screen was attractive. Not “cute.” Not “decent.” I’m talking cinematic-level good-looking. Skin like polished stone. Eyes that glow like they’re lit from behind.
And it wasn’t just one person. It was all of them. Every single video I paused on felt like it was sent from a higher-resolution universe than the one I live in.
Yet later that same day, I popped into my local supermarket. Different universe. Great people, normal faces. You know blotches, pimples, little bumps, noses that tilt slightly left or right like they’re dodging traffic. Humans. Real ones. The kind we’ve always had. I scanned aisle after aisle and something hit me: where were the TikTok people?
Instinctively I blamed makeup, but nope. Even the people at the gym that morning didn’t look as sculpted and smooth as the ones I had just seen online. And I know gym lighting is flattering ,it’s practically a co-conspirator. So my brain started doing gymnastics: Maybe it’s geography? Maybe the algorithm is feeding me content from countries with naturally flawless people?
So I Googled “how to reset my TikTok algorithm,” because clearly I wanted a scientific approach to my confusion. I tried switching to content from other countries… only to find that they were even more attractive. At this point I started questioning my bloodline. Looking at my wife and kids like, “My people… I have failed you. My genes have failed all of us.”
Then the universe stepped in as it always does.
I had a conversation with a complete stranger, one of those random chats that ambush you in public and end up becoming therapy. He was complaining about a date that went south. Not romantically south; visually south. Apparently, he had met someone on TikTok, they hit it off, exchanged messages, then agreed to meet up. He arrived expecting the clean-polished version he’d seen online.
Instead? He was met by someone who looked like the rest of us look at the supermarket. Not bad-looking. Not unattractive. Just… human.
He explained that the difference wasn’t makeup. It was filters.
Not the cute dog-ear filters of early Instagram days. These new filters are sorcery. They can lift your cheeks, soften your jawline, whiten your teeth, smooth your skin, add lashes, add glasses, add freckles, even reshape your nose. They can turn you into your genetically optimized self, the version you’d get if your ancestors had eaten more vegetables and less stress.
And suddenly everything clicked into place.
Ah. So that’s why everyone online looks like they escaped from a Marvel casting call.
That conversation stuck with me. It rattled around in my mind as I stood in line later, looking at the real faces around me. The ones with pores. The ones that move when they laugh. The ones with stories in them.
It made me wonder: how real are we ?
Are we losing something by upgrading ourselves into digitally perfected versions?
Because maybe it’s not just me who’s confused by all this. Maybe we’re all walking around with two versions of ourselves: the one we live in, and the one we post.
And I started asking myself the honest questions:
If I know you don’t really look like that… and you know you don’t look like that… and we both know it’s a game, does it hurt anyone?
Does it hurt you?
The Online Self vs. The Grocery Store Self
Let’s be honest: we all have an online self. Even if you’re “authentic,” you’re choosing the best photo, the best angle, the best caption.
It’s human. We’ve always curated ourselves clothes, perfume, hairstyles, job titles. Filters are just the 2025 upgrade.
But the scale of it now is wild.
Our online selves have become polished digital avatars, untouched by sweat, bad lighting, or the general chaos of real life.
Meanwhile, our true selves are the ones crossing the street in yesterday’s energy, pushing a trolley, buying bread and toothpaste.
And when those two versions drift too far apart… something starts to feel off.
Not just visually, but emotionally.
The Quiet Cost of Being Too Perfect
We don’t talk enough about the soft, subtle pressure that comes from watching perfect faces all day.
Pressure to “fix” little things about yourself you never noticed before.
Pressure to compare your unfiltered life to someone else’s curated fantasy.
Pressure to constantly perform.
At first, it’s harmless. Just a filter. Just a bit of fun.
But over time, your online self becomes the one you wish you were.
The upgraded you.
The one who gets more likes.
The one who gets attention.
The one who is… easier to love publicly.
And that’s where the invisible cost comes in.
Not to others
to you.
Because every time you show up online as someone you’re not quite sure you can live up to in real life, a tiny part of you feels like you’re falling short.
Even if no one else says it.
Even if everyone else is doing the same thing.
The New Norm: Are We Playing a Game We All Secretly Know Is Fake?
Maybe this is the new norm. Maybe we all know it’s filters. Maybe everyone understands it’s a game.
But here’s the problem:
Games have rules. Life doesn’t.
You can leave a game.
You can’t escape your own face.
When everyone’s playing pretend online, and we keep comparing our real selves to everyone else’s pretend selves, we start losing touch with the quiet beauty of being unfiltered.
The kind of beauty you only notice in person: the way someone’s eyes crinkle when they laugh, the way their smile sits slightly crooked, the way real skin actually looks under sunlight.
The stuff that makes a person feel like a person.
Perhaps too much thinking
Maybe the point isn’t to condemn filters or praise bare-faced honesty. Maybe it’s simply noticing how strange and fascinating it all is this split-screen life we live. The version of us that exists in pixels, glowing with artificial confidence… and the version that shops for bread, smudges glasses, and has a favourite aisle in the supermarket.
We’re all performing a little.
All curating something.
All polishing bits of ourselves for public consumption.
Somehow, that makes it even more human.
And honestly, I’m curious:
What parts of your online self are slightly… upgraded? What version of you appears on your feed that doesn’t always show up in real life?
Because if we’re going to talk about filtered lives, we might as well talk about ours together.
Tell me in the comments
what’s your “fake life” on social media?