Privacy Isn’t Power. I’ve Lived That Version.

On discernment, the cost of staying hidden, and three questions worth asking before you post anything.

Dave and I were out for a walk when we passed a tram taking people down to the beach.

At the back, a little girl was crying. “Mom, let me see it,” she said, reaching for the phone her mother had just handed to her older brother.

Just moments before, we had been talking about my next EDIT. We’re traveling out of town for a funeral the day it publishes, and I told him I wanted to keep the sentiment light.

The tram pulled out of sight. I looked at him and said, “I know exactly what to share.” Thanks to that little girl.

Access.

Who gets it. Who asks for it. Who we give it to without thinking. And how much of it we give away.

And it took me a long time to find my answer. One I am still not clear on. But it starts with three questions I’d never thought to ask.

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I’ve lived most of my life privately. Intentionally. Guarded. My late husband despised social media, and I respected that. We kept our world, our travels, mostly to ourselves. I can recall an exact moment when I did share something.

I had just finished my first Boston Marathon.

Getting there was no small feat. And I don’t mean qualifying. That part is obvious.

My late husband had just come out of brain surgery. Unexpected. Beyond frightening. The kind of moment that stops everything.

The doctors saved his life.

He landed in the hospital days before my race. He was still in the ICU when he looked at me and told me to go. To lace up. To run.

So I did.

And when I crossed that finish line, it felt bigger than anything. Not just the race. Everything it took to get there. What we had just lived through. What we were still in.

He was so proud of me.

I shared it.
The moment. The story. What it took.

And then later, he was livid when he realized I had shared it for others to read. I edited the post.

It took several years, but after he passed away, I started writing.

Not casually. Not surface-level. More honestly than I expected to. And more honestly than others expected.

And something shifted. I began to notice my life and how I lived in it differently.

You take a photo. You have a moment. You travel. You observe. You experience.

And every single time, without fail: Do I share this?

To be completely honest, I’ve never liked being on the front end of the camera. Not when I was little. Even less now. So the answer is usually no and the photos remain entombed on my phone. Hiding.

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I’ve been on the go a lot lately. Only home two weekends in the last two months. My trips and my life have been extraordinary lately.

I cringe even writing that. Sharing this openly is profoundly out of my comfort zone. As though I am waiting for a barrage of naysayers to criticize my words and my life.

But I unexpectedly found myself in Amsterdam for a night. Shared an intimate evening with Nashville songwriters singing their own billboard songs. Golfed some of the country’s best courses (not well but that’s not the point). Walked the beaches on Malibu and Kiawah.

And somewhere along the way, I started documenting pieces of it. Just because it was there.

Not because I don’t want to share. But because I’m starting to care more about how.

And why.

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There’s a narrative right now that staying quiet is the new vogue.

That privacy is the ultimate form of power.

I’ve lived that version. For years. And here’s what’s true: privacy can be a shelter. But it can also become a habit you mistake for a choice. What I kept to myself didn’t always feel like power. Sometimes it felt like disappearing. I kept our world private and called it intentional. But some of that was fear. Fear of being dismissed, of being misread, of mattering to no one or mattering too much. Or worse, not looking good enough. Whole years I kept to myself. Not by design. By default.

And I suspect I’m not the only one with a camera roll full of remarkable unseen photos.

So when people say staying quiet is the new vogue, I understand the appeal. I just know what’s on the other side of it.

Because sharing, when it’s intentional, isn’t exposure.
It’s expression.
It’s connection.
It’s a way of saying, this mattered.

The question isn’t whether to share.
It’s what.
And how much.
And with whom.

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Living on the other version is what taught me to ask differently.

Three questions. That’s the whole filter.

Am I sharing to connect or to be seen?
Does this add something? Or just show something?
Would I still share this if no one reacted to it?

Not as rules.
As a filter.

Not everything needs to be shown.
Not every moment needs an audience.
Some things belong to your inner circle.
Some belong only to you.
And some, when shared with care, become something more.

Discernment is the line.
And it’s not fixed.

It moves. It asks more of you the more you step into it. So I’m here, sharing a little. Not everything I saw or felt. Just what stayed with me. Because maybe that’s the balance.

Not silence.
Not oversharing.
But choosing.

Always EDITing,

Leslie