The Age of Oversharing: When Privacy Became Optional and TMI Became Currency

If I were to have 1000/- for every time someone gave me TMI (Too Much Information) online, I'd be a retired millionaire, blissfully living my last days in a resort that I own. Complete with mango trees, WiFi (ironically), and the sweet sound of silence — which, might I add, is a rare luxury in the age of social media oversharing.

When Facebook first started making rounds, I couldn't help but think that all this nonsense — these unfiltered opinions, rants, emotional outbursts — were just sitting somewhere in people's heads all along. Suddenly, everyone thought they had something to say. And yet, they were doing a spectacular job of saying nothing at all. I remember observing all this and wondering, genuinely, what was the point of putting every detail of our personal lives out there?

I've written about this before — and chances are, if you've followed me long enough, you already know where I stand. The internet is like ink. It never forgets. We keep acting like we’re whispering secrets into a void, when in fact, we’re shouting them into a microphone at a global town hall. Scandals have cost public figures elections, jobs, and marriages. All because of some ill-timed tweet, or a selfie with too much... enthusiasm. Celebrities, for instance, get off on excessive camera exposure like a cat on catnip, only to later become the main event in the cancellation circus.

To be perfectly honest, I understand the psychology behind it all. I really do. When social media was still in its teething stages, the users — myself included — were like teenagers desperate for a little TLC. And without enough of it, we threw ourselves into chronic scrolling, chronic posting, chronic validation-seeking. Not everyone had the option of popularity or attention in real life. So there were many teenage girls and boys obsessively stalking their crushes, creating elaborate fantasies from pixels and comments. It was delusion — sweet, momentary, dopamine-soaked delusion.

Fast forward to now, and what do we see? Young girls with self-esteem issues and a warped sense of worth because of algorithmic comparison culture. Boys growing up thinking nudes are currency and access is entitlement. We’re in a time when less isn’t more anymore — more is what’s cool. But to what end? Everyone wants to be seen. Even if it means being exposed. For some, negative attention is just as validating as positive affirmation. And you can tell — because for the first time in the history of this tech revolution, people are famous for being famous.

If you'd told me this would be our future, I would've laughed. But here we are. Fame now belongs to the brave (or the reckless) — the ones willing to expose, post, and proclaim. And in a way, I get it. There’s a deep desire for connection. For meaning. For applause.

Personally? If there's one thing I’d want to be known for, it’s my writing. Not my face. Not some viral quote that makes me look clever. But my voice — this voice, right here. If I could go back in time to when I was 19, I wish I’d been tech-savvy enough to block myself from the internet. I’d stop myself from posting things that could one day incriminate me or stain my reputation. I was far too young to be holding something as powerful and consequential as a smartphone. I can just picture the old me — fuming and sulking at having her online access revoked. But eventually, I know I’d thank myself.

The early days of Facebook were brutal. The moment the “unfriend” feature became a thing, friendships were being slashed left, right, and centre. Blocking? That was the nuclear option. It hurt. Especially when it came without warning. But that's the thing — we were the guinea pigs of the social media era. We never considered the implications of our digital footprints. Couples would change their status to "single" after one fight, only to get back together in three days. It was digital high school drama at its peak.

And then there were the cryptic statuses — ah yes, the bread and butter of passive-aggressive millennials. I was one of them. I’ll admit it. One time, my brother pulled me aside and said, without naming names, that people felt threatened by my posts. And that shocked me because I was just being sarcastic, maybe a bit dark-humoured. But never threatening. Turns out, when everyone’s writing in code, no one knows who’s being targeted. And the assumptions? The drama? The unfriendings? Legendary. Honestly, I was just a misunderstood teenager with nothing left to lose. And maybe that’s why I didn’t care whose toes I stepped on. But I’ve since healed. Time, rejection, and better boundaries helped.

Now, here’s the kicker: all of that — the statuses, the heartbreaks, the attention-seeking — was branding. Unintentional branding, sure. But branding nonetheless. Every photo, every update, every online spat — it shaped our digital identities. We were carving out our digital personas without even knowing it. We were branding our personalities with likes, shares, and filters.

And as I grew, that branding matured. My content now? It’s paced. Intentional. But still provocative. I like provoking people. Not out of malice, but out of a desire to make them think. To make them feel. And I’ve trained myself to do that without profanity, which I think is a testament to growth. Faith helped. Islam helped. It gave me a sense of discipline. So my tone changed. I became sharper but calmer. More surgical. Less reactive. The need for vulgarity diminished, and in its place came articulation. I found power in restraint.

So yes, I’ve evolved. I don’t quite recognise the old me — even though I know her well. And I’m glad. Because now, the writing carries more weight. It’s not just emotion, it’s craft. It’s truth with teeth.

If I ever do get noticed by a big media platform — BBC, Al Jazeera, I’m talking to you — I’d prefer a radio interview. Or a podcast. Let them hear me. Let them wonder who I am. Because in the end, the message matters more than the messenger. My face can remain in the shadows, but my voice — my writing — I want that to roar.

And with that, maybe I will earn enough to retire in that resort I mentioned. Mango trees, WiFi, and silence. In the age of oversharing, that’s a true luxury.