I’m a fake.

For real, I am a huge phony who put her identity in her Instagram account rather than Christ.

There. I finally admitted it.

Instagram for me started out as a fun way to express myself creatively through photos. I enjoyed taking cute pics, and editing them and arranging them like a puzzle. However, along the way, I started to lose myself in the process. And somehow Instagram became a bigger priority than God.

My photos would consist of seemingly flawless layouts of coffee cups and journals half opened with cursive writing that even I couldn’t really read after I wrote it. The Instagram post box would be tied with a nice little bow of a caption that was relatable and enticing. I knew how the Insta game was played and I loved winning at it.

I thrived. It was addicting.

Soon, I started checking the followers and keeping track. I looked and posted at the times that my business manager said I should post and made sure to check the demographics regularly. I joined Instagram pods to collect comments and likes and followers. I studied the Instagram algorithm and kept updated with everything. At one point I almost paid money for someone to help me manage my account.

Listen to that for a second.

I.Almost.Paid.Someone.To.Run.My.Account.To.Increase.Followers.

And for what? To be “Insta-famous?” To get free things? To appear like my life was all dandy and full of sunshine and rainbows? Because I assure you it’s not. I have days where I am not full of Christ and days where reading my Bible is the last thing I want to do. Yet, I still posted paragraphs on “inspiring things” and made it seem like I was good.

Because if you look like your fine on your Instagram then it has to be true right?

Instagram consumed me. There was never a moment that I just sat and enjoyed something. I would always be thinking about how “this would look so cute for a photo.” I’d be reading in my bed and notice how great the lighting was and decide to make some coffee and change my clothes and take a cute layout on top of my white sheets.

I would research captions and hashtags and study them more than I studied for any test. I spent more time commenting and liking stranger’s photos than I did interacting with my friends and family.

The @Reallilycooper isn’t real.

Heck, my finsta @fakelilycooper is more real than the real one.

Instagram doesn’t see the days where I forgo makeup for ten minutes of extra sleep and slip on a hat to cover my disheveled hair. It doesn’t see my struggles and my tears and worries. All that is shown is some smiles and a pretty face. You scroll through my feed and all there is to see is a shallow looking girl who is secretly just as broken and screwed up as anyone else.

“When am I not reading?” I would caption a picture of my legs and a book.

The entire photo was staged and fake. It held no resemblance of how I spent my actual life and how I really acted. I usually read without coffee and under my covers, cocooned by my hundreds of blankets and in the dimmest lighting that allowed me to read.

And let me tell you I don’t just lounge around with pizza on my bed with a book in hand like the photo above would lead you to believe. 1. The book would get greasy and I take pride in how careful I am with them so that would never even happen in real life. 2. That pizza would be long gone before I even turned the first page with my lack of self-control towards food.

I would literally make coffee, just to take a cute picture. I never really drank it, just used it for the “aesthetic.”

What kind of life was I living?

Did I receive anything gratifying from this? Other than comments that boosted my self-esteem and made me feel liked.

There’s this book called Redeeming Love by Francine Rivers. It’s based on the book of Hosea in the Bible and it’s about a man who God tells to marry this prostitute named Angel (Ah-mazing read by the way, highly recommend). There’s a quote in there that really spoke to me:

“You shall have no other gods before me."

That couldn’t be right.

Michael’s anger grew. “When have I worshipped anyone but you?” He raged again. “I’ve followed you all my life. I’ve never put anyone before you.”

Hands fisted, he wept. “I love her, but I never made her my god.”

In the calm that followed his angry torrent of words, Michael heard – and finally understood. You became hers. “

That passage came to mind recently when I was thinking about my relationship with Instagram. I’ve made it my god. It’s taken me a while to be able to admit that but it’s true. I spend more time on it than I do with God. I spend more time on it than anything. And all it is is some little app that can’t do anything other than create insecurity and obsession amongst each person that uses it.

It doesn’t hold me when I’m sad and crying in my room.

It wasn’t there when I saw that I gained the Freshman fifteen and then Sophomore 20.

It wasn’t there either when I was stressed out from all the homework and work and obligations I had.

It never comforted me when my grandpa died.

It didn’t serve a purpose when I was at my lowest.

It didn’t hear my pleas for peace and quiet when the whole world seemed to be screaming.

But there’s one person that does all that and more. And He has stuck with me this entire time even though I chose Instagram over Him.

And I could almost cry because He loves us SO much that He stays through being ignored by petty things.

So I took a month off of Instagram. No posting, scrolling, or story-ing. And you know what I found in that single month off the app? What I was left with when I deleted it?

Time.

Better grades.

A more positive mentality.

And most importantly, God.

That’s what you’ll be left with. You’ll always have Him no matter what.

And that’s all you really need.