I realized this morning that I have social media stage fright.

Although it’s conducted on our phones and computers, social media is a public forum. Some people are naturals at using this stage to get attention, laughs, support. And some people, like me, feel awkward in the virtual spotlight.

Each social media platform has its own vibe and it’s own opportunities and pitfalls:

Facebook is like a cocktail party. You know almost everyone there. Most of them like or even love you. So chit-chat is easy: I made a cherry galette for dessert! Your pictures from hiking were marvelous. Did you see the one about dogs jumping into piles of leaves? But big announcements feel like standing on a chair in the middle of the room, tinking on a glass and saying, I’D LIKE TO MAKE A [room suddenly goes dead quiet] … TOAST?

Twitter is like a professional conference, like the annual meeting of the Association of Writers and Writing Programs (AWP) I like to attend. For me, it’s mostly listening. I go with a few writer friends I love—they’re the ones who do most of the responding to me. I also cross paths with old classmates and colleagues. I make new connections. But the vast majority of my time on Twitter is spent absorbing the posts of those authors and critics who have thousands of followers. I respond once in a while with a quiet, “uh-huh, oh, yeah,” from my chair or scribble a note.

Instagram is like an art show. I’m new to it, posting my first pictures this week. So far: of a beach, tomatoes, and oatmeal. It’s a very big art show, an infinite gallery. Some images draw huge crowds. Others, a small trickle of attention. That would be mine–but hey, I’m posting photos of oatmeal. I’m at peace with Instagram. I put it up, walk away, and like the idea that somebody might enjoy looking at my hype-free, judgement-free picture of rocks.

Tik-Tok is like an improv comedy-and-dance-act club that never closes. Neither does it serve beer. I’m not on this platform, but I’ve seen many viral videos, some brilliant, some stupid. Some completely accidental and therefore doubly brilliant. Some catchy because an account does the same thing over and over. I admire people who are good at Tik-Tok. I watch and think, I could never do that, the way I look at people who are truly natural on stage. Or maybe I could—after all, I spent five years in acting classes and learned to love being in plays, even though the awkwardness and terror of forgetting my lines never quite left—but I don’t have the time it takes to be brilliant on vertical format video in 30 seconds or less.

There are many more: LinkedIn, Snapchat, WhatsApp. Or even things like Strava to share your workouts and Venmo to share your purchases publicly.

Wait, what? Tell the world what you ate for lunch and how you paid for it? Um, no.

Some of the tension I feel with sharing personal details online is generational. I straddle the line between Gen X and Millennial. The Zeitgeist invented social media slightly after I invented myself; I’m not a digital native. Anything I do online has an accent and, like I’m thinking through a statement in a language not my own, takes a bit more time and care to get across.

Some of it is personality, too. I am most comfortable interacting with a small group of trusted friends or family—in the flesh, I might add. The times I’ve been able to let down and act on stage, it’s been because I forgot the audience and focused on the people in the scene with me.

A guideline for my life is: STOP WORRYING WHAT PEOPLE THINK!