Revelation and Concealment: Considerations for our highly curated times

We live in a time of highly curated presentations of the self. As social media has infiltrated every corner of civil and private life, everyone has become a public person to some degree. Everyone gets to create an online avatar—often the most idealized and flattering possible image of self, body, and life.

And, paradoxically, in spite of the barrage of happy photos flooding the airwaves and the archives of human history at an outrageous, unprecedented pace, we have never been more collectively riddled with depression and anxiety. This is not my opinion. It is a statistical fact.

I remember witnessing a similar human behavior in the pre-internet era: holiday newsletters. Usually a smiling family photo, enclosed with a tidy update about the year’s highlights—successes, milestones, points of pride.

Nothing terribly interesting, usually.

But one year, I read a newsletter that detailed one family member’s return to rehab and another’s cancer diagnosis. I thought, Okay—this is actually the truth about people’s lives. I love this.

Not that I loved the suffering itself. But I loved the truth-telling. The willingness to reveal what it is really like to be here, in a human life. It’s not all gloss and smiles. It’s cancer and rehab. This is simply the “way she goes,” as the characters of Trailer Park Boys might say. And even when the truth is terrible, it’s often more interesting—and sometimes, redemptive.

My private question, as a child holding those Christmas newsletters and now as an adult bombarded by social media, has remained the same:

What is the intention behind this particular curation?

What is the formula? Has it been made conscious?

This brings me to my decision to be public about my “fertility odyssey.” I no longer use the word journey—it’s starting to chap my ass with its tinny, clinical, overused mouthfeel. As Gandalf crooned, the road goes ever on and on, down from the door where it began, and you can call that process of truckin’ on whatever you like. Sometimes I call it a song. A very long Homeric song, if you will.

It’s a choice that has come with sacrifice—the sacrifice of a public image of pristine, problem-free fertility, unfolding on a timeline of my own choosing.

No shade whatsoever to women who keep their fertility odyssey private. It is an unbelievably tender thing. And as I’ve discovered, sharing it publicly opens the door to projection and misinterpretation. I deeply understand the instinct to protect oneself, especially while walking such a vulnerable threshold.

At times, my public “infertility” has felt like yet another scarlet letter among many. So many scarlet letters I could write a koan from them.

And yet, I’ve shared about it to humanize myself—and in the hope that I might help one person, or two, feel less alone. I’ve shared because of the way one strange, truthful Christmas newsletter once warmed me with actual fucking Christmas spirit.

And because I believe that sharing the unbearable parts of our lives is good for collective mental health. It’s almost a weird form of public service.

That said, no two fertility odysseys are alike. And no matter how much is shared, or how many connections are made, there remains an irrevocable aloneness.

In my case, after six months of unsuccessfully trying to conceive, I learned my fallopian tubes appeared to be blocked. Further testing clarified the nature and extent of the issue–thickets of scar tissue rendering the fallopian tubes for all intents and purposes impassible. (Or, impregnable, if a pun serves.) Eventually, surgery was recommended to either salvage or remove the tubes.

I opted for a laparoscopic surgery with the hope of saving one or both. The surgeon tried—but as he later explained, the walls of my fallopian tubes had thinned so dramatically from a past pelvic infection that working with them was like working with wet tissue paper. Both had to be removed.

He also explained that the scarring and thinning were consistent with an infection that likely occurred a long time ago.

I am aware of only one such infection in my life. I was about nineteen.

And this is where concealment enters the story.

I have chosen not to share publicly about the circumstances surrounding that infection—how it happened, or who was involved—because I do not wish to layer further harm on top of the harm that has already occurred.

Even though revealing that detail would be a kind of tabloid-level truth bomb—one that would dramatically alter how I am perceived, and perhaps how others are perceived as well.

I did try to find stories similar to mine, and found only one. Quite literally on the cover of a British tabloid—a reality TV star who went fully public with what happened to her, and how.

I understand why. It is often easier to be perceived as a victim than as defective.

But I am committed to never sharing more than I already have. The rest of the story will continue to be broadcast only in the silent chambers of my own heart– in a bubbling alembic of rage, grief, forgiveness and miracles.

It has become one of many blazing secrets I carry.

As a clinician, you accumulate secrets. As a human being who lives long enough, you accumulate them too. Some are quiet. Some are incendiary. I carry truths whose revelation could rock people’s worlds. And yet, with all the melancholic strength I can muster, these secrets will go with me to the grave—not out of fear, but out of a commitment to do no harm.

The result is a public image that appears confessional, vulnerable, even complete—but is in fact a carefully curated selection of details. Guided by a simple question:

Will this help? Or will it harm?

And anything that might bring a bit more light, humanity, truth, humor, empathic awareness or connectedness to the lives of others I generally judge as helpful. (And I generally trust is more interesting than presenting an idealized image of myself.)

That is my curation formula. It is a continual dance. It underlies everything I create and share. And I do not always execute it perfectly.

Anyway—perfect, total revelation isn’t interesting either. Human beings, like dreams or butterflies, are carousels of mystery. Not every butterfly needs to be flattened and pinned to a board.

The same principle underlies the fascination of a strip tease or a scanty garment.

In that vein, as my fertility process has continued to unfold, I’ve found myself revisiting my ancestry. (Apparently some of the shame surrounding that curiosity has burned off.) And even here, there are details I may never share publicly, again out of a desire not to cause harm.

Part of this re-engagement has included the remarkable story of Olive Oatman, a relative who lived for a time with the Yavapai and later with the Mojave, who adopted her.

People remain fascinated by old photographs of Olive and her haunting inwardness. I suspect this is because, while many aspects of her life became public, many others remained obscured. She endures as a compelling figure precisely because she cannot be fully known. It could even be argued that she consciously participated in the weaving of her own mystery—perhaps recognizing that certain revelations might cause harm.

Like it or not, we are all engaged in the ongoing act of character creation.

We each inherit certain raw materials—and from them, we shape what we reveal and what we conceal. Sometimes according to the whims of our inner artist. Sometimes, hopefully, guided by the quieter whispers of our better angels.

The result can be a fascinating personage.

I like that word—personage—because can a person ever truly be known in full? A personage is something more like a mystery box: a curated, living artifact presented to the world and eventually left behind. A good mystery box—like a good short story—can never be fully grasped. Like a medicine wheel, it continues to spin, offering new meanings, perspectives, fascinations, and medicines over time.

An online avatar built solely to project attractiveness and relentless happiness does not tend to produce a compelling personage. (My humble opinion.)

So I’ll leave you with this:

What is the principle behind your own self-curation—your own revelation and concealment?

What are you choosing to show, and why?

What are you choosing to keep close to the chest, and why?

There is no right answer. The question is simply an invitation—toward awareness, toward re-evaluation, toward play.

And perhaps, somewhat audaciously, toward a future of public life that is a little less damaging to the collective psyche.