“This is a time to reflect on yourself. To look deeply into your own eyes and get comfortable with the soul behind them. It’s an awakening, a turning inward, an acknowledgement of who you are, what you say, and how you look when you are saying it.”
– Me, to my own face on the screen before every Zoom call
My face is seared into my mind in a new and unusual way. The intimate moments I shared with myself in the mirror each morning are now on the public stage. Perhaps that’s why these days have seen me cloaked in extra layers of self-appreciation and self-critique.
These Zoom calls are a confrontation with how the world sees me, a reckoning with the shadows under my eyes, a reminder that I am not just a floating consciousness (I do, in fact, have a body and a face). Anyone who’s plugged in is feeling it—we’re all facing ourselves more often. What is that doing to us? Are we okay? Is this helpful?
And is it just me? I look myself directly in computer-Emily’s eyes whenever she’s on the screen, like a baby discovering their reflection for the first time. I adjust the tilt of my face, as if the right angle will make me look more engaged or intelligent. Good lighting has become a currency, and I’m forever on the hunt for whatever face oil people wear to make themselves so glowy (hint: the oil is called “Not Being Backlit” and I can get it if I just move my desk to the east wall.)
Some days, my baby/lizard brain loves to see its own face on the screen. Knowing that my face is jetting up to satellites and whizzing into other people’s homes makes me feel material and important. Other days, I can’t believe that anyone, in the history of ever, has taken my brontosaurus-neck and cavernous smile-lines seriously.
What I’m saying is that it’s okay if this feels like a painful everyday reminder of your acne. It’s not okay if your webcam starts dictating your self-worth. Zoom isn’t in the business of making you feel good about yourself.
That’s your business.
Next Steps: Drink a glass of water, contemplate what it would be like to put your desk on the east wall (you won’t do it), and put a little gloss on your lips because it makes you feel like Mandy Moore.
The Zoom Screen of Dorian Grey