Memo to Self

Sarah Rivkah Kohn

To me, any conversation about the topic of social media cannot begin without this disclaimer: Social media is one of the most complex highways of life to navigate. It’s a drive fraught with risk. As someone who’s quite familiar with the many online platforms and their inherent risk, my words here are meant to be helpful to online users — not as an invitation to those who have not needed or wanted to use it up until now.

“Am I crazy?” I asked myself when I logged into Instagram the first time. “What am I doing here?”

I’d been cautioned so many times: Don’t do it. Don’t do it. But I’d been successfully using LinkedIn to promote my organization, Zisel’s Links and Shlomie’s Club, for a while, and I’d been able to do a lot of good through that platform. It enabled me to reach people in all corners of the globe, all different types and from all different walks of life. I developed a following there, and was able to raise a lot of funds through the platform. I also created a hashtag #dignitymatters, which helped educate and sensitize people.

Now I’d realized that I needed to be on Instagram to reach a different audience — to fundraise, to educate, to connect with potential partners for Zisel’s Links and Shlomie’s Club.

Before starting my account, I lurked for about three to four months, learning the dynamics and observing. I was disturbed by certain things, appalled by others, and inspired by some things. Then I said, before I’m in it, before I’ve lost objectivity, while I’m still sensitive, let me write a memo to self. What do I need to know?

I made some ironclad rules. The first thing I decided was that I’d always come on and speak as I would to a live audience. That means I come dressed as I would to speak to a bunch of people in a hall, I put effort into how I present myself, and what I’m going to say. I’m not just coming on and saying, “Hi, good morning, everyone, I’m drinking my coffee and it feels great.” That wouldn’t be appropriate. If people are watching me, they’re giving me their time. What am I offering them?

If people follow me, what are they experiencing — and is that what I want them to experience?

I asked myself these questions and actually physically wrote out the answers. Every few months, I consciously go back to that list and review it. I often will add, tweak, or do a cheshbon hanefesh — am I still sticking to this? Am I still able to offer people what they deserve?

I also have a number of family members and friends who I make sure are following me, watching what I do. They’re honest enough to give me the feedback and insight that I need. Sometimes it’s been brutal. Sometimes I’ll disagree. But oftentimes it’s a good reality check: Oops, I slipped up there.

It might not be something bad — maybe it’s a word with negative connotations, or something I share that may be misconstrued. But you need that safety of a circle of check-ins, of people who keep you in line and ensure you stick to your goal.

Obviously, there are people out there watching what you do and forming opinions about you based on your online presence. I work with a few legal firms, and they have entire departments dedicated to researching the entire digital footprint (including deleted posts) of any potential hire. Your digital footprint tells them who you are, what you stand for, who you align with.

Beyond the workplace, all of us as parents who are social media users and consumers and producers and influencers, need to be cognizant of the fact that our children will look back at what we’re doing. What digital footprint are we leaving them?

B’ezras Hashem after 120, or when my children grow up, they may very well go online and find every blessed post I wrote. That’s such a geder for me. So often people think, oh, I’ll just share this, my kid is two, how will they ever know? Or they’ll never read about the frustration that I’m having today with this school. But they’re going to go back and they are going to know.

I’ve met children who are now young adults whose parents are definitely very out there on social media, and who really struggle in their relationships with their parents for what they were put through. In Follow Me, think how much Deena’s daughter Miri suffered from that lack of permission.

A parent once said to me, “I never post anything private about my children, so what do they care if I just film them while they’re on a roller coaster and stuff like that?” I believe children deserve to be asked permission. That is true about sharing photos on Instagram, and it’s true about a family chat.

I’m not saying that we have to ask a baby permission to share photos of her in a swing. But when a child is old enough to have an opinion — “Mommy, don’t take a picture of me when I’m this way”— it’s about personal safety. We’re teaching a child it’s okay to say no, I don’t want to be seen like this.

So often we’ll take a picture together and one woman says, “Oh, let me see it before you forward it.” But when it comes to a kid saying that, we’re like, “Oh, come on, grow up.” Really? Don’t they deserve to be able to say, “Mommy, I’m not comfortable with how I look there,” or “I know you think it’s cute, but I feel foolish.” They may not be able to articulate it in as many words, so they just say no. We have to respect that no.

It’s so painful to see parents film a child having a meltdown or a tantrum, because it’s “cute,” or because they want to use it for something.

I think that’s where desensitization starts. When we wonder how people can film the family sobbing at a levayah, when we’ve gotten to the point that people film someone being loaded onto a stretcher after a car accident, that’s a result of a culture of insensitivity, of saying it’s okay to film this if it has a purpose. My purpose might be to entertain my following, to entertain my family, to get comments about how cute my kid is — and then it’s okay to post it, right? No, it’s really not okay.

I think it’s important that we acknowledge the positive sides of the platform, whether it’s talented individuals who use their platform on Instagram as a form of art, or to sell a product, and yes, to use it to influence.

I find it fascinating that influence has become a dirty word — we don’t have that same knee-jerk, horrified reaction to someone who works in the marketing field and whose sole job is to get you to buy this can of tomato sauce versus that can of tomato sauce, which they do through design and print ads. Influencers are doing the same thing, just on their platform and with their medium.

One of the dangerous lies we tell ourselves about influencers and influencer relationships is that it’s all fake. That’s a lie. Although obviously nobody should believe that what they’re seeing is actually reality, relationships aren’t fake. Sure, some relationships are staged for a variety of marketing purposes. But many are not.

I’ve cultivated strong relationships with some people behind brands, influencers, and other individuals by commenting, engaging, and by watching: How does this person interact with people? What are they passionate about? What’s a cause they would take up? What’s something they’re talented at?

So many have come on board with my cause because there’s a very real relationship going on there, where I genuinely have an interest in this person and what they do and what they bring to the table. And sometimes watching their interactions helps me see that I don’t want to align myself or my organization with a person whose values I’m not comfortable with.

Influencers are real people. And real people have real pain. People ignore that — they think they can comment left, right, and center because, well, she’s an influencer, she should take it. No. She shouldn’t. We have a responsibility to interact with care, realizing that the people we meet online are real people.

And our responsibility goes beyond that. Every single consumer on Instagram, and on social media at large, and certainly every single creator of anything, has a responsibility. For the consumer: What am I choosing to consume? Who am I choosing to follow? What’s that person giving me?

As far as creators, there’s an inordinate responsibility on the creator to put out things that are aligned with a value system. And hopefully, as frum people, that value system is the halachic value system. But what I’ve found is that a lot of things that have become norms simply because they’re perpetuated.

Consider the common practice of wishing followers a happy Valentine’s Day, or posting a picture of you and your spouse with a Valentine’s box of chocolate. How many people are aware that Valentine’s Day is a Christian holiday honoring a martyred saint? Is that something you should be celebrating, even tangentially?

I remember a post pushing a particular brand of vitamins. The influencer wrote, “These vitamins aren’t kosher, but you can still take them because they’re beneficial to your health.” Really? You just made a halachic decision?

The next thing I knew, somebody had posted these vitamins to a particular mental health group that I’m part of, saying, “This could be helpful, and while it doesn’t have a hechsher, it could be used because it’s for health reasons,” literally stealing the lines from the post on the Instagram.

I was floored by how many things have become the norm, subtly influencing our mindset on how we view different halachic or hashkafic ideas. Because, well, everybody posts this, right?

Part of the issue with Amalek was that it cooled the waters allowing others to begin battling Am Yisrael without fear. The effects of subtle and not so subtle piskei din being made by those posting will never be fully known as norms are created and perpetuated in this way.

I’ve watched very good friends of mine walk away from social media, and I’ve been so jealous and so impressed. Right now, I can’t do that — it’s still serving a purpose for me.

We’ve formed and filled six support groups that reached people who would not have otherwise known about our services. We’ve also raised roughly 250K and received thousands of pieces of clothes donated to Dress Me via clothing brands we’ve gotten to know on this platform.

But there are definitely prices we pay: Things you can’t unsee, as careful as you are, ideas you can’t unread, wasted time you can’t get back. If you’re using social media, there is a constant need to reevaluate, to assess the risk-benefit factor.

Look inward: Is social media filling something for me? What? What’s going on in my life right now that needs filling? And deal with that.

Deena was dealing with her own pain and didn’t have a safe space to share it, so she made the choice to share so many other parts of her life to create a sense of normalcy. But when we have to look to social media for support, it’s time to reexamine what’s going on for us that the real relationships  we have on a day-to-day basis with the people around us aren’t enough.

Look honestly at your online activity and think: Is this still serving a purpose? Is this in line with what I want to do?

And if not, why?

Sarah Rivkah Kohn is the founder and director of Zisel’s Links and Shlomie’s Club, an organization servicing children and teens who lost a parent.

In the Know

Out of Towner

Honestly, I’d be embarrassed to tell most of my friends about my Instagram reliance. I live out of town, and most of my family lives in town. I recently made a bar mitzvah for my oldest son. With all my and my husband’s families coming in for the simchah, I was really feeling pressured to get all the latest trend-nuances right.

So I caved and decided to download Instagram. I wanted to keep a close watch on all the in-town stores, both for myself and my kids, plus the party planners and the new ideas they were showing.

I got a pretty good handle on it, but what shocked me was my new panic every time a store announced a new product or that a popular brand line had arrived. I felt like I had to drop whatever I was doing (even if that meant pulling my shopping cart over to the side of the aisle while food shopping), to quickly make the order before it was too late and they were sold out.

When my kids presented themselves in their new bar mitzvah attire and I collected compliments from my high-end-taste sisters-in-law, I felt proud that I’d “gotten it right.” But I was determined to delete Instagram once the bar mitzvah was over. I did delete it, but I still need to work on myself to get over the feeling of wanting to feel like I’m in the know.

Staying In My Lane

Rechama Jaffa with Musia Slavin

As a business owner and someone with more than 18,500 followers, my relationship with social media is complex. I had an Instagram account long before I opened D-RAMA, and honestly, I can’t see myself leaving it anytime soon. It’s an essential component of my business, and I use it to keep tabs on the latest trends.

That said, I’ve been online for enough years to know: social media is toxic. It’s a breeding ground for unhappiness.

I sit down on the couch to just chill and scroll through my feed for a few minutes. When I first open my phone, I’m happy, proud of the business I’ve created and the life I’ve built for myself.

Then I see someone posing with their new Chanel bag and think, “Wow, she really has that? I want it too.” It only takes seconds to transform from someone thrilled with their life to someone who’s desperate for more.

Instagram is a series of promotions. Everyone’s posting swipe ups to everything from face creams to Hagaddahs to chesed campaigns. The last part is beautiful; there’s a lot of good that comes from social media. But there’s also a lot of bad.

There’s dishonesty and inauthenticity. The influencers posting about a new product — how many of them actually stand behind the items? There’s a constant push to buy, want, be, or do more. Living for whatever influencers promote isn’t a sustainable lifestyle. It’s costly and unhealthy because “things” don’t make a person.

I often think that if social media is ever destroyed, there are going to be thousands of people left with huge closets stuffed to the brim with clothing, a file of stunning photos — and nothing else.

Besides, we all know that what you see is not what you get. I can post a smiling boomerang of me in a new D-RAMA top. Would you know that I cried from a rude customer five minutes before? Probably not.

Not everything on social media is fake. If you see a smiling picture, that person is actually smiling right then. If you see them posting about insane travels, expensive dinners, and beautiful outfits — it’s all real. But it’s also not the full picture.

If you speak to anyone about this, they’ll agree. “Of course social media doesn’t show the entire picture.” But on an emotional level — when you’re just popping into the feed for a minute to decompress, scrolling while you wait in line at the grocery — it’s easy to forget.

We compare our real, raw lives to the highlight reel of someone else’s. They’re not going to match up.

One the one hand, I see how damaging the false reality of Instagram is. On the other, I use it for my business and have the analytics to show just how many of my clients come directly from social media. Instagram is a form of marketing. It’s a way to get out in front of your audience, show them your items, and encourage them to buy.

Today, it’s hard to build up a business without social media, which is a huge part of why I’m so active on Instagram. I’ve built a presence there, which, by extension, means I’ve built D-RAMA a presence too.

I definitely promote products — the entire purpose of my page is to sell D-RAMA. But people come to my page knowing that. I try very hard to stay in my lane and only give my followers what they came for. They don’t come to my page to find a recipe and suddenly see a promotion for expensive shoes. They come for D-RAMA, body positivity, and to hear my story. And that’s what they get.

I didn’t come online to push inauthenticity — and I definitely didn’t open my account to get involved in any politics or drama.

I’ve actually been called out for it. A few months ago, there was a huge movement many influencers got involved in. I didn’t post anything about it, and one of the big names behind the campaign sent me an angry DM. “If you have a platform, you need to post,” she told me, in harsher words.

I disagreed. I’m not here to start playing judge or taking sides. And my followers aren’t here for that either. They don’t care about my conversation with my mother, my grandmother’s cholent recipe, or my argument with my friends.

Once you get involved in other topics, you’re entering murky water. It can start to feel inauthentic. Why is a food blogger posting about shoes? Is she getting paid? How much? When someone posts a link to a chesed campaign, is it an affiliate link? Are they getting a percentage of my donation?

When a new song is released after a tragedy, are people genuinely trying to bring menuchah to Klal Yisrael? Or are they using it as an opportunity to boost engagement? I don’t think people consciously try to capitalize on pain, but the way social media works is that you always need to be ahead of the game and looking for opportunities to increase your visibility. When you know that, you start to question everything. What’s the real thought process behind every swipe up and post? Who’s profiting and how?

Because I only post about D-RAMA, my followers know exactly why I’m posting. It’s very clear that I’m there to promote my business.

When it comes to sharing my personal story, I’m always honest. But that doesn’t mean I’m obligated to share everything. People think, “Oh, she’s on social media. Nothing’s off- limits.” Some things still are. And often it’s the influencers themselves who forget this. You don’t have to share every detail of the date night with your husband. You owe it to yourself and to your family to keep certain things private.

I get it though. It’s so easy to share on social media that we often don’t realize what it actually means. You don’t have to think so hard beforehand because if you ever regret sharing something, you can delete it.

Even if people don’t consciously think, “I can always delete it,” I think it plays into the subconscious way we approach posting. It’s so fleeting that we think we can do whatever we want and get away with it.

I realized this when we started working on “Off the Rack,” my true-life serial in Mishpacha. The writer and I discussed topics that I’d posted about on my Instragam.

In theory, there was no reason I should be uncomfortable sharing them with Mishpacha readers — I’d shared them with thousands of followers already. But now that the stories were going to be permanently out there in print, I was more hesitant. There would be no way to take it back.

Publishing my story in Mishpacha was scarier than it ever is to post on Instagram. And that’s probably why it’s so easy for boundaries to be misplaced or misguided. It works both ways. Just as influencers don’t always realize how many people they’re inviting into their homes, followers don’t realize there’s a real person with a beating heart on the other side. I’ve gotten more nasty messages than I can keep track of. My guess? Majority of these people would never say those things to my face.

Still, I’ve gotten so much out of social media. I’ve built a business, grown a community, made friends, even had a serial published. But I also wish everyone would remember this next time they open an app: There’s so much more to life.

Rechama Jaffa is the founder of D-RAMA, the first fully plus-sized modest clothing company. Her story was recently featured in Mishpacha’s “Off the Rack” diary serial.

Sparkle Without Substance

Aliza Feder with Elisheva Appel

There’s a huge spectrum of social media use within our community. Some sectors have managed to keep it out almost entirely — and to them I say, “Ashrecha.” Others are active users — following, creating accounts, and sharing content. And the middle segment, which in my estimate is probably the largest, are the passive observers, who aren’t closely involved, and are using social media more sporadically on an as-needed basis.

Why do I care?

Let’s leave aside the obvious — that there’s no way to filter within certain platforms, like Instagram, which creates an open door for all kinds of inappropriate content. But even with so-called “neutral” content, it’s important to understand what you’re engaging with.

Social media, at its core, is antithetical to Torah values. Platforms built for the express purpose of sharing one’s personal life with the public are intrinsically at odds with our values of tzniyus and privacy.

I say this not to denigrate any person or institution — there may be ways and reasons to make use of social media — but it’s important to do so with the understanding that it’s not a value-neutral tool. Every “Happy anniversary, hubby!” post is an erosion of the dignity we try so hard to inculcate.

An influencer once shared with an audience that she used to be unsure if she was doing the right thing in sharing her personal life online. But then, at an event, a woman had approached her and said, “You’re the only reason I’m frum! I’m so inspired by your simchas hachayim.” After hearing that, she no longer had any choice, the influencer explained. She had to continue her service to the community.

Is she right? Might Instagram be used for kiruv? Discuss that with your rav. But don’t kid yourself into thinking that its raison d’etre, and that generating inspiration gives you a blanket heter to share in questionable ways.

On top of this, our community has begun to develop a celebrity culture. While plays, music, and cooking can provide great kosher outlets, they’ve also normalized entertainment and created stars. And, of course, once you’ve got a platform, you’ll mention what the upcoming Yom Tov means to you, or comment on current events.

Why is this a problem? Many people lack true mentors. When a tragedy happens, like in Meron, people will curiously check what their favorite blogger or insta star has to say about it. And if it’s a cooking show or fashion blogger, they’ll be sharing lovely, pseudo-deep ideas. Most probably aren’t dangerous, some are probably even good and inspiring, but most are likely to be insipid.

In the world of social media, having the most insightful content isn’t generally what attracts the most followers. It’s the most charismatic voice that wins. The flashiest soapbox will be the one that gets the most views. But being the most talented at applying makeup or at sharing tablescapes doesn’t prequalify their values or content.

In fact, influencers come from all walks of life. Many are not people you’d be comfortable getting hadrachah from, but the highly engaging visual format tends to create a comfort level surprisingly quickly.

When I try to encourage young people to engage more with people of substance, like teachers and rebbetzins, they often ask, “So why don’t people of substance get online? Then we could find them more easily!” How do we explain to them that real substance doesn’t get packaged in 30-second increments? That true depth is often incompatible with the superficially-oriented visual media?

So here’s what I advise.

Don’t mistake your bite-sized inspiration from a nice lady on Instagram for the true nourishment your neshamah needs. It’s a spiritual snack, at best, not the wholesome diet you need from healthy sources like shiurim, a mentor, or seforim.

If you must use social media, be mindful. Ideally, don’t have an account — just view what you really need to without following others regularly. If you do follow people, be aware that not all users are equal. Try to stick to purveyors of content, not personality, and avoid the people who overshare about their family or show models trying on their wares.

And always, always weigh the potential benefit you might be getting against the subtle but steady assault on your sensitivities.

Mrs. Aliza Feder is a speaker and author of many books including 6 Diaries: Six teens take an honest look at tzniyus, and Techtalk, how technology effects the frum life. She is head mechaneches at Bais Yaakov Machon Ora and lives with her family in Passaic, New Jersey

Time Out

Off for Now

I think my technology use is pretty typical for my “type” — I live in-town, where my husband’s been learning since we got married five years ago. I have a smartphone, but no social media accounts.

But when my sister got engaged, I needed to go gown shopping. I wanted to see what was available, what was in, so I used a friend’s login and downloaded Instagram. And really, I felt like there was a lot of good there: there are communities, there are support groups. And it’s a great tool.

It’s like shopping online versus shopping in the stores — it’s just so much more convenient. You get notified of things first, you hear about deals, and you’ll learn all sorts of hacks that can really make your life easier and nicer. All in all, I found it a great platform and connecting point.

But I still deleted it. It’s not that I’m a tzadeikes. It was just way too much of a time waster. You go onto Instagram for a second, and you’re on it for hours and hours. I have enough distractions on my phone as it is. It’s just not worth it for me. Forget everything else — anyone who tells you they don’t struggle with time management with their phone, especially social media — is lying to you.

There’s another thing, though. My friend follows a number of frum influencers and foodies — all fine, kosher accounts. But when I’d scroll through her feed, I’d see posts that these Instagrammers had reposted, and some of them really made me uncomfortable.

I remember seeing a pregnancy announcement from an Israeli actress, and so many people were commenting, getting all excited. “She’s Jewish! She’s pro-Israel! She’s so famous! Everyone loves her! What a kiddush Hashem!” But she’s not a role model for us as far as tzniyus, hashkafah, or life choices. She doesn’t represent our values, and she’s not someone we should look up to.

Instagram has a lot of Jewish pride: accept all Jews, let’s expose people to Judaism, post about Shabbos, share the Yiddish word of the day. That might be nice for unaffiliated Jews, but why are these becoming the role models for my frum friends?

I still have my friend’s username and password stored somewhere, but for now, I’m staying away. Because when it comes to social media, you’re either actively working on setting boundaries for yourself, or you’re drowning.

In Control

Reena Beane with Elisheva Appel

Around six years ago, I was eager to grow my business. It was about that time that Instagram was gaining traction among frum users, and I hired an amazing social media consultant to build my brand.

People don’t realize how much work goes into maintaining that effortless facade. There were daily videos and highlights to create and edit, and I was constantly on the lookout for photos I could post. We had to stage model shoots. There were paid groups we joined in order to generate likes, simulating genuine hype.

Instead of getting better and better at cutting and styling wigs, I was becoming an increasingly successful video producer.

I continued this way for a couple of years, but I started getting uncomfortable. In moments of honest reflection, I had to admit that I didn’t like what Instagram was doing to me. Instead of engaging with the customer and listening to what she wanted, I was so focused on getting the picture for my feed. I’m embarrassed to say it, but I even took pictures to post without being forthright about what I planned to use them for. It was completely out of character for me, but I was so desperate to rack up likes that I acted in unrecognizable ways.

Even as my online presence took off, I’d feel jealous and unsettled when checking out my competitors’ feeds.

I thought about my role models, the people I aspire to be like, and I had to admit that they weren’t spending their days in this fantasyland. And I wanted to be a role model for my own kids — if I was scrolling and tapping while bathing them or doing homework, was I really modeling the life I wanted for them?

The straw that broke the camel’s back was a video my social media consultant sent me one morning. “You totally need to do this!” she gushed. It showed a glamorous woman primping and preparing for her day, fluffing her baby hairs, puckering at the mirror. A voice in my head screamed, this is not for me!

Erev Pesach, I decided to take the plunge. In the zechus of a certain yeshuah I needed, I deleted all my social media accounts, permanently abandoning the following I’d so painstakingly cultivated.

Many people I shared this with kind of rolled their eyes, but my closest friends and family were fully supportive. Still, it was scary. Whenever I began to have second thoughts, I chose to turn them over to Hashem and ask Him for something in the zechus of the challenge I was undertaking.

Shortly after I made the jump, we had some trouble with a vendor, who insisted we needed to return a specific wig that I was sure we’d sent back. I davened: “Hashem, this has been a real test for me. Please, help us find the sheitel.” Literally minutes later that the vendor reached out to apologize — they’d found the wig. And that’s just one of dozens of stories I can repeat.

Today, I truly feel Hashem’s Presence in my work.

I make my own decisions now, instead of being dominated by a constant need to wow others. When mired in the imaginary world of social media, I’d been out of touch with the real world. The virtual, alternate reality kind of creeps up on you; you don’t realize you’re loosening your grip on the tangible world and connecting to an environment that’s largely invented or at least distorted, living vicariously through other people’s fantasies. And don’t even get me started on the lashon hara it triggers.

As fake as it is, social media is also engineered to be addictive. Even if I could justify my involvement for work purposes, I knew I’d never want my kids addicted to this kind of artificial world.

While I shut down my digital life, I also worked actively to replace the fake connection with genuine human relationships. I focused on the inside, within the four physical walls of the salon, and rebuilt my relationships with customers. I made sure every single person is greeted as she walks in, and started making eye contact with every customer. I focused on doing great work instead of on getting the perfect picture.

If you want to minimize the toxic effects of social media in your life, you have to replace it with something else. Call your grandmother, start that exercise program you never had time for, do something constructive and positive instead of killing time.

The other thing that helps is to be mindful, and take your temperature when you’re online. How is this making me feel? Because I’ve never met anyone who puts down her phone after checking out Instagram and says, “Wow, I’ve never felt better, I’m ready to tackle the world!” Instead, it’s usually a feeling of discontent, maybe with some, “Wow, I really need that product,” thrown in.

Dropping out of social media gave me my life back. I’m so grateful for the second chance I received — to reconnect with people and actually be present and alive in this amazing world.

Reena Beane is the proprietor of Reena’s Salon in Lakewood, New Jersey

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 789)