Millie Harris
14th February 2025

How do you love yourself in a digital world?

Do you ever wonder if self-love was simpler

before social media? One of our biggest

obstacles to self-love is the constant

exposure to curated perfection. We are no

longer just comparing ourselves to the people

around us but to millions of users worldwide,

many of whom meticulously edit, filter and

craft their content to appear as an idealised

version of themselves.

 

What if I told you that the person showcasing

their vast collection of books online hasn’t

actually read them? Or that the influencer

filming an Instagram reel had to force

themselves out of bed to create the content?

 

The truth is, what we see on social media is

carefully constructed and far from authentic.

So why do we continue to compare ourselves

to these curated lives?

The issue is not just that these portrayals are unrealistic — it’s that they become our default reference points. 

 

Even when we consciously know that influencers use professional lighting, strategic angles and digital alterations, our subconscious minds still absorb these images as a standard to strive for.

 

As humans, we have always measured ourselves against others. The desire to compare is not inherently damaging as it has long played a role in how we assess our progress, understand social hierarchies and strive for improvement. René Girard’s concept of mimetic desire suggests that our wants are not developed in isolation, but shaped by observing and imitating the desires of others. Social media amplifies this to an unprecedented degree. By presenting an endless stream of carefully curated lives — filtered, edited and strategically presented —social media creates an illusion of universal desirability. It does not simply show us what people have; it tells us what we should want.

 

Unlike previous forms of media, which showcased celebrities as distant figures of unattainable status, social media now alludes to accessibility. Influencers, fitness enthusiasts, entrepreneurs and lifestyle creators present themselves as ordinary individuals who have merely “figured it out.” This success appears achievable if we optimise enough, work hard enough or align ourselves with the right routines. 

 

Then, as awareness of the mental health effects of social media has grown, a cultural movement toward self-love has emerged in response. It was framed as a rebellion against digital perfectionism, a way of embracing one’s authentic self in a world that constantly suggests otherwise. Yet, self-love itself has been absorbed into the very system it was meant to oppose. Instead of existing as an internal discovery, it has been transformed into a marketable ideal, something to be curated, displayed and ultimately, exploited. 

Social media does not want you to feel complete; it wants you to feel perpetually unfinished, because an individual who is content as they are is an individual who ceases to consume.

 

The modern self-love movement often presents confidence as something that can be acquired through the right habits, routines and purchases. This idea manifests in the highly aestheticised, commercialised version of self-care promoted on social platforms. The message is clear: self-love is found in structured morning routines, candle-lit skincare rituals, perfectly arranged wellness products and neatly documented acts of self-care. Being at peace with ourselves is not enough; we must prove this peace to an audience, shaping it into a performance palatable for digital consumption. 

 

Social media has turned self-love into something that must be visually pleasing, aspirational, and, above all, marketable. We are not encouraged to accept themselves as we are; we are encouraged to work toward a version of ourselves that will finally make us feel worthy. But, this final version never arrives — the conditions for self-acceptance are always just slightly out of reach. 

 

Social media thrives on our aspirations rather than fulfilment. If we were to truly accept ourselves without striving for improvement or external validation, we would disengage from the very mechanisms that keep  these platforms profitable. Self-love is sold to us as a form of confidence that can be performed and displayed, but never actually possessed. 
 

The struggle for self-love in the age of social media is not an individual failing — it is the inevitable outcome of platforms that prioritise engagement, performance and visibility over genuine introspection. 


 

The pursuit of self-love does not have to be dictated by these systems. True self-acceptance should not require an audience, nor should it depend on being validated, aestheticised or performed. It is not something to be achieved through optimisation or effort, but something that must be reclaimed from the structures that have turned it into a commodity. Reclaiming self-love means learning to exist without justification.