The Death and Resurrection of Finsta

Photo dumps & close friends & finstas, OH MY!

If you were active on Instagram in the time of 2016-2018, then you may have heard of a Finsta. If not, let me break it down very quickly. Finsta = Fake Instagram (please find Urban Dictionary definitions here). Essentially a “safe space” on the internet to post whatever-the-fuck came to mind and treat your posts as a diary entry of sorts. You could use an anonymous name, typically an inside joke with friends, and then keep it private to share only with your besties or those you trusted with your deepest secrets and dirty laundry. I was a bit late to the party, but when I finally arrived it was the escape from expectations that I needed.

There would come this moment in every new friendship where we would look to each other and say, “Do you have a Finsta?” It was this look into the sides of people that used to be reserved for only the best of friends or maybe even a therapist.

And God, did I use my account as the great looking glass. A way to say things exactly as they were and let it go. High school friendships that would have otherwise died, college friendships that felt fleeting, all became viewers and at times, active participants, of my romantic sagas and mental breakdowns.

Ultimately it felt like the breaking of barriers and the appreciation of the MESS that is life. And then somewhere down the line the lines got a little blurrier. Instagram introduced “Close Friends” (a sort of private story for chosen friends) and Emma Chamberlin seemed to introduce the idea of a “Photo dump” (showing random moments of life lately that felt like a peek behind the manufactured IG facade). I found myself posting on Close Friends for some things and my Finsta for others and not even really knowing what the difference was.

But I think the truly beautiful thing about these Finsta accounts is the way they act as a catacomb of the best and worst and most real moments of life.

For example, my first Finsta post was an image of an unsightly black and blue bruise on my leg received from jumping a fence drunk with my love-interest and his friends. I could feel that I was entering a wild time of dating and learning and growing. And damn was I right.

What followed were posts documenting the highs and lows, make-ups and break-ups. Some downright embarrassing. Like the time I hooked up with a guy named Tommy who wore Tommy Hilfiger underwear, and the text message exchange where my mom found a drinking game in my high school closet my junior year of college. The rawness with which I shared the little wins and frustrations was something that looking back upon makes me smile and sometimes cry.

I have found a direct correlation of “slut era” and Finsta posting for myself. Making it a melting pot of experiences and revelations (many-a Aha! moments).

There’s a part of me that wants to delete my Finsta all together and merge is with my “real” IG account, but there’s a comfort and a sort of camaraderie that come with this special account that houses only the most chaotic moments, and so I keep it. And when I come across people that I know will understand and appreciate the transparency, I share it with them. And I guess this is my way of campaigning for more Finstas in the world?

All my favorite accounts are Finstas. You can request to follow mine: @actually_megan. Fun fact: That account name used to be my real Insta, but when I changed my name to Beck I couldn’t quiteeee let go of my dead name. So the dead-me lives on in Finsta form.