I don’t like sharing intimate details with others. I prefer to keep them to myself. I’ve always done so.
My sister thinks I’m too private. Just last week, we were on the phone when she started chastising me for not saying "I love you" to my son. "You need to tell him," she said. "Boys need to hear it. Men are too emotionally restrained."
She’s probably right. But still, I hesitated. It’s not that I don’t feel it; I just don’t say it. My father never said it to me. We didn’t do that in our house. We considered a high-five a wild display of affection. Feelings were implied, not spoken. We believe in actions more than words. And somewhere along the line, that became part of my emotional makeup.
So, when I see people pouring their hearts out on social media, sharing childhood traumas on podcasts, or filming tearful therapy sessions for Instagram, I freeze. Not with judgment, but with confusion. How did we end up here?
How Much Is Too Much?
I doubt I’m the only one asking this.
We live in a world where sharing personal details isn’t just common—it’s encouraged. It’s praised. It’s rewarded. Vulnerability has become a form of currency. We applaud it. We click on it. We often feel we have to do it too.
But what’s the right amount to share? When does openness build connection, and when does it threaten something sacred? When is it brave—and when does it just serve as branding?
The New Public Confessional
Public figures now appear compelled to display vulnerability on demand. Politicians crumble during interviews. Celebrities share childhood traumas and mental health issues as part of their promotional routines.
We used to value discretion. Now, privacy appears questionable. If someone doesn't share their pain, we think they're hiding something.
We claim to want authenticity, but often, what we truly seek is curated vulnerability. Refined pain. One eye on the confessional, the other on the camera.
The Psychology of Disclosure
Psychologists call it self-disclosure: revealing information about yourself to others. In theory, it's how we develop intimacy, trust, and bonds.
Social penetration theory likens it to peeling an onion. We begin with surface topics—"I like footy, I hate hot weather"—and gradually delve deeper through reciprocal sharing: "I’m anxious, I’m ashamed, I’m afraid."
In real life, this dance is slow, mutual, and nuanced. But social media distorts that. It speeds up intimacy. It turns layered revelations into content. And it blurs the line between genuine connection and performance.
When I Went Public
I learned this distortion firsthand. A few years ago, I did something uncharacteristic: I shared publicly that I’d experienced depression. First in writing (my book Mental - Have you got it? You should 😘), then on an SBS documentary called How Mad Are You?
I did it for good reasons. I wanted to destigmatise mental illness. I believed—still believe—that openness matters when it comes to mental health.
But something strange happened. Close friends were surprised, even hurt. They discovered something deeply personal about me not through a chat, but on national television.
I hadn’t considered that. I hadn’t realised that by going public, I was bypassing the private. That in trying to help others, I might inadvertently distance myself from the people closest to me.
The Anonymity of the Public Broadcast
Here’s the paradox: sometimes, it’s easier to open up to strangers than to those you care about.
A social media audience, despite its size, can feel strangely anonymous. When you post online, you don’t have to look into anyone’s eyes. You don’t have to see their reaction in real time. Feedback comes filtered through likes, shares, or emojis. And you can block haters. It’s exposure with a safety net.
That’s how it felt for me. Safer to speak to a crowd than to a close mate. Safer to say it to the world than to say it to my son.
It turns out, public disclosure isn’t always about intimacy. Sometimes, it’s about shielding yourself.
The Double-Edged Sword
None of this suggests that sharing is wrong. I’ve witnessed the benefits firsthand. I’ve seen stigma fade, shame diminish, and relationships deepen.
But I’ve also seen disclosure backfire—when it’s too quick, too public, too raw. I’ve watched people regret their honesty or confuse likes with understanding.
We walk a fine line. Between honesty and performance. Between connection and exposure. Between healing and haemorrhaging.
Rethinking the Confessional Age
Should we all be sharing more? Or less? Should we embrace the new openness, or push back against it? Should I tell my son I love him more often? (Probably.) Should I tell the internet less? (Maybe.)
Which brings me to the middle path I’m still trying to carve. In a world that values constant confession, how do we safeguard the intimacy that can’t be shared publicly?
One way I’ve tried to navigate this is by using a simple gut-check I call the 3-P Test.
The 3‑P Test
- Purpose – Why am I sharing? (connection, advocacy, or just reaction?)
- Proximity – Have I told the people closest to me first?
- Processing – Is this wound at least partly healed, or am I bleeding on the page?
We’re still figuring out the rules of this confessional age. The old norms are gone; the new ones are unstable. And somewhere between shame and spectacle, between silence and oversharing, is a space we need to reclaim: intentional intimacy.
Not every secret needs the spotlight. Not every pain should go viral. Sometimes, restraint isn’t repression—it’s care.
Maybe I’ll tell my son I love him more often. And maybe I’ll tell the internet a little less. But I doubt it!