Fear of FOMO

I do, therefore I am?

One of my most embarrassing traits is how much pleasure I get from rewatching my own Instagram stories.

If I’m bored I’ll often open up the app and just scroll through my past memories. I could spend 15 minutes at a time looking at my own stories. It’s not vanity in the conventional sense that prompts me to enjoy looking at things I myself uploaded to social media, but rather a different type of narcissism; a self-satisfaction from looking at all the cool things I’ve done.

I love you, it’s ruining my life x

Whether it’s a simple meal out, or a holiday, or a gig. I love an Instagram story of it. I enjoy looking back at these, content that yes I am a busy and fun person.

I think I’ve managed to project this successfully too. “You always seem like you’re up to something,” people will say to me.

I love it when they say that. And it is true, I’m not some sort of odd Anna Delvey for plans, I love organising fun things to do.

Renting my tiny flat for a large fee in London is absolutely worth it to me if it means I can pack in a weekend of clubbing, gigs, museums, exhibitions, and maybe a cheeky Sunday Roast and Heath walk.

I meticulously plan every weekend, and a lot of my evenings too. If I have a quiet weekend coming up with few plans, I feel a form of rising panic. What a waste of time, I’ll think, how boring.

In short, I have a fear of Fear of Missing Out. I never actually get FOMO. Why? I say yes to almost everything.

Diary of a teenage sloth

I didn’t always have an obsession with busy. When I was a teenager, I loved nothing more than doing absolutely nothing at all.

I would wile away hours upon hours in my bed: blinds shut, laptop open, phone out, brain thoroughly disengaged.

Sometimes on a hot summer’s day, I would be beckoned down into the garden by mum, and I would emerge from my cocoon, dazed and blinking in the bright sunshine. Soon, I’d realise that I couldn’t rewatch an episode of Pretty Little Liars in the back garden and could even barely see my phone with all that annoying natural light. So I’d make my excuses and slink back off to my room, desperate to look at 90s models with eating disorders on Tumblr, or whatever it was that was so important to me.

I don’t think that was an abnormal routine for a teenager. I wasn’t at “my parents are concerned” levels of room-dwelling, but I did default back to it at any chance I could.

Socialising as a teenager is scary, and I had limited chances to do it. A good day out aged 12 to 16 consisted of a trip into town to mill around shops and go to McDonald’s, alternatively, cooler kids my age spent a some time drinking in fields. I didn’t have my own money to do much of the former and I was much too rule-abiding to do any of the latter (and being transparent, I was never actually invited).

So in between GCSEs, trips into town and Scouts (told you, I wasn’t cool), my most-favourite activity was bedrotting. It now remains on the agenda only on special occasions (when I’m deeply sad).

Plans are good?

I think my obsession with plan-making kicked in as a direct consequence of my teenage idleness. I didn’t really clock up much socialising mileage back then and so am running my engine super hard today.

While as a teen, my ideal weekend would have probably consisted of endless hours of playing the Sims 3, I now obsess over packing my Friday, Saturday and Sunday with plans.

The pandemic definitely exacerbated my desire to do it all. In March 2020, I was midway through a master’s in London, and opted to return to my childhood home in Belfast “for a few weeks” as Covid hit the UK.

Well, of course you know how it went. I was there until November. I had lived in that house since I was brought home from hospital in my mother’s arms, and while there was a huge amount of comfort and safety in returning to that place while the world was so uncertain, I was also deeply frustrated.

The same room that had felt like a sanctuary as a teen taunted me as an adult. The thing I had enjoyed doing so much as an teen felt like a punishment in my twenties. No-one was socialising then, but it was as if I could feel parallel versions of myself out having fun, while I was confined to my half hour of exercise per day.

When I moved back to London post-pandemic I did as much as I could, as soon as I could. I was one of the first having a pint in the freezing cold when pubs opened, I was making plans outside with one friend when we were allowed to do that, and even went clubbing the very first week that was allowed.

I have continued in that vein ever since. So yes, I don’t have a fear of missing out, I have a fear that I will get a fear of missing out.

And… is that bad?

There is obviously nothing wrong with being busy. Part of this transformation into a lover of plans was just growing up and realising that despite being considerably awkward, I am, in fact, an extrovert. This whole bit of writing probably reads like a humble brag. Yes, I have a social life.

It’s not meant to be. I do sometimes have to remind myself that plans are not a substitute for a personality. I worry that I am not an interesting person if I sit still.

There’s also an element of performance to it all. I think I’d still be as obsessed with doing things without Instagram, but who’s to say? My 350 followers are treated to a story at pretty much every social event I attend.

Logically, I know people definitely don’t care. Emotionally, I want people to care. I want the people who were in the popular group at school to see my Instagram story of a press trip, and think, God that Niamh Carroll is always doing cool things, why didn’t we invite her to drink in a field with us at school?

I’m joking. Partially. Regardless, I don’t think viewing my life through the realm of the Instagram story is particularly healthy.

My second issue with the fear of FOMO is my concern about the plans slowing down. And it must, inevitably. Even already, friends are leaving parties earlier, protesting that they “can’t do late nights anymore”.

When people begin to get married, and get children and dogs and buy houses in Hertfordshire it’s only going to get worse. I will have to face weekends with no real plans.

That’s scary to me. Am I a fun person, or a person who does fun things? Like many teenagers, back then I hadn’t really worked out the whole self-esteem thing. As I’ve grown, I’ve also begun to like myself and the life I lead. But, given the two events coincide, it’s difficult to extract that sense of self from being busy.

I am afraid that when things slow down, I might not be comfortable with the person I’m left alone with.

Making the most of things

Forgive me if this is self-indulgent, it’s about to get more so.

My third worry about my relentless pursuit of busy is that I’m making the wrong choices.

A big part of my need to do as much as I possibly can is a feeling that I’m running out of time. Life is fucking short.

When I was 17, my gorgeous and endlessly kind cousin Karen, passed away days before she turned 25. It was the biggest shock of all of our lives.

It’s the kind of event (and Karen was the kind of person) that leaves a massive imprint in your life. Other than the horrific grief and all that entails, it left me with the unshakeable belief that life can be fleeting and that using it well is important.

I guess that’s part of why I like doing so much. Life can end suddenly, and I want to make the most of it.

ALL THE DAYS YOU GET TO HAVE ARE BIG!!!

As I grow older though, I wonder what “making the most of it” means? I have been prone to prioritising fun events and nights out to “make the most of it”. I do want to use my youth, but I also think I have to be more selective.

Am I going to treasure memories of me at some shit friend-of-a-friend’s party in Balham when I’m older, or would the weekend be better spent at home in Belfast, on the sofa with my mum?

I guess making the most of life doesn’t always mean relentless plans, it means slowing down sometimes to make time for what you love.

But I don’t want to miss out. On parties, on exhibitions, on Sunday Roasts near the Heath. Most of all, I don’t want to miss out spending real time with the people I love. The people who make my life better. And I don’t need to post it to Instagram (but I probably still will x).

Perhaps it’s not a case of doing less things, just choosing what I do better.

If I work out how to do that, I’ll let you know.

Love,

Niamh xx