Dear Kate,
Thereâs a time of night in my neighborhood when everything gets quiet. My wind chimes clink in the breeze. Thatâs it. There are no honking horns. There are no cars pulling in from work. Everyone is already home.
Itâs the in-between time: The day is over but night hasnât fallen. Work is done, but itâs not time to brush your teeth. Your morning run feels far away, the ice cream in the freezer is very close.
This is when I go out. I slip through my front door as the last light fades. Itâs dark, but I can see my sneakers. I can see my hands. I can see the curves in the sidewalk, the cracks I sometimes trip on. I walk down the street, no phone, no AirPods, nowhere to be. I walk, and I wait.
As the darkness settles in, it starts. Lights flick on in kitchens. Feet patter downstairs into living rooms. Chairs scoot out from dining tables. This is the magic of the in-between time: Through every window, right into the street, scenes pour out.
I walk past a man sitting close to a computer screen, squinting over his glasses and poking at something. A grandchild climbs into his lap to help. He smiles.
I walk past a young girl seated cross-legged on a porch, a book in her hands. The porch light turns on as her mom steps out to yell, âDinner!â The daughter looks up as if to say, âIâm right here!â They laugh.
I walk past a man in a glass mansion, three floors of windows lit. Itâs empty. There is no furniture, just a few boxes. He stands at a computer, his back to the street.
I walk past an elderly man with a single lamp. Heâs eating ice cream from the carton. His recliner is tipped all the way back. A cigar butt glows.
I walk past a woman boiling pasta. She flips through a magazine on the counter.
These scenes feel intimate, and they are. You might ask: Should I be watching? Should I be peering in? Thatâs a good question. I ask it myself.
As the woman sits down to eat, alone, the silence of the night heavy around us, just the magazine and a glass of red wine by her elbow, I walk away. A chill runs my neck. Itâs too much for me to see. Itâs too vulnerable. Iâve eaten a lot of pasta alone this year, too.
The witness of a vulnerable moment often makes us feel a brief tingle of guilt, a sense of âI shouldnât see this.â We blush when strangers kiss in public. We look away when couples fight in Starbucks. We politely stare at our shoes when someone cries on the subway.
But on my walks this week, Iâve been consumed by a question: Why donât we feel that way online?
On a small black screen, a window always lit, our voyeurism cannot be satiated. Thereâs nothing too private, nothing too personal. What are you eating for dinner? Who are you with? What outfit are you wearing? What workout did you do today? What did you use to wash your face? Whatâs inside your closet? Whatâs inside your kitchen? Show me all of it, we say. Show me everything.
The âcreator economyââthe billions of dollars unlocked by platforms like Instagram, YouTube, Substack, and OnlyFansâis predicated on two things: An audience that always wants to peer in, and a star who never closes the curtains.
Why do âcreatorsâ do it? The niches donât have to be wide, experts assure. They can be deep. You can still have control. A link to Kevin Kellyâs 1,000 True Fans is inevitably dropped in the chat. Itâs about financial freedom, freedom of expression, the feeling of being in control. And this is true: A balance is possible.
But fame, as with any object in motion, tends to stay in motion. The algorithms are built to encourage what they always do: Scale, virality, growth. They ask: Canât you shove the window open just a little further?
We see the human consequences of life lived in full public view all the timeâWomen brought to the edge of crisis, pervasive loneliness, isolation, burnout. Proponents of Kevin Kelly often miss this other piece of his advice: âYou really donât want to be famous. Read the biography of any famous person.â
But still, temptation is a tricky thing. Everyone else is doing it. Smart people are doing it. The question lingers: Couldnât I do it?
The question is answered by the audience: Yes please. Please do it. Please show us everything. At night, the things we watch and click and share are the deepest reflection of our own human hunger: To understand, and to be understood. There will always be an appetite for more. Desperate people, phones bright in the dark, remain forever one click away from the panacea that will bring them peace. Again, temptation is a tricky thing.
But what are the consequences of this self-perpetuating cycle, all this showing and watching? Arenât there reasons we should stop and question it?
What happens when we become so comfortable looking through glass that the twinge of guilt, that sense of respect for another personâs privacy, is lost for good? What happens when we lose the idea that some part of our lives can be private, and should be private? What happens when we lose the dignity of a life lived without an audience?
We hear endless promotion of self-care, but very little about self-respect. Where is the self-respect in celebrity closet tours? Where is the self-respect in âthe age of Instagram Faceâ? Where is the self-respect in tormenting 16 year olds?
On developing self-respect, this advice from Dr. Maya Angelou stays with me.
âThere is a place in you that you must keep inviolate. You must keep it pristine, clean, so that nobody has the right to curse you, or to treat you badly. Because that may be the place you go to when meet God. You must have a place where you can say, âStop it. No. Not here.â Say no when itâs no. Say no. Because that place needs to remain clean, and clear.â
In the daytime, my neighborhood is a mix of dilapidated farmhouses and 1930s bungalows tucked between enormous homes of black and white metal with solar panels and xeriscaping. The differences are stark. Teslas charge in garages, rusted Fords line the street. Itâs a microcosm of Austin: New money meets old stubbornness. Lines are clearly drawn.
But at night, the curated exteriorsâthe manicured lawns, the sheds filled with junkâfall away. Whatâs left is one rectangle of light. One picture. One window into the real thing.
As I walk, the nightâs chill turning my ears pink, the smell of someone elseâs lasagna spilling from a kitchen, I donât see new versus old, right versus left. I see people. People who cry at chopped onions. People who bicker over the TV remote. People who tug at their motherâs hand for a hug. I donât just see them, I know them, because Iâve done those things too.
And this, I think, is what weâre all looking for. Not to be famous. But to be known.
Itâs a distinction with a big difference. An audience not of 1,000 true fans, but maybe just one or two.
XOXO,
Your fan,
Ali
My book rec: And Still I Rise
I just canât get enough of Maya. This book is tiny, thin, and light enough that it can come with you to the park, to the waiting room at the dentist, or to the check out line at the grocery store. It can go anywhere. It can slip in any purse.
Yet every word is weighted. Each word, beat, and break is chosen with the most vigilant care. One page of her poetry is enough to have to put the book down, let out a sigh. Damn, Maya. You got me there.
The book: And Still I Rise
My rating: đđđđđ
Read more: Oprah Interviews Maya Angelou
Just a wonderful, fantastic post, Ali. Both what you had to say, and the cadence of the words themselves. Really, really loved it!