When Privacy Went Missing: A Baby Boomer’s Rant on Boundaries, Social Media, and Performative Tears

I am a proud baby boomer, forged in the sixties and seventies—the era of rotary phones, questionable fashion choices, and parents who believed that if you disappeared for eight hours, you were probably fine as long as you came home by dinner. Those first eighteen years shaped me in ways I didn’t fully appreciate until I realized the world I grew up in no longer exists. Not even close. In fact, if my childhood had to compete with today’s hyper-connected circus, it wouldn’t just lose—it wouldn’t even qualify.

Back then, if you wanted to know whether your friend was free to come out and play, you called their house and hoped someone picked up. If they didn’t, you hung up and tried again later. No answering machine. No voicemail. No texting “hey u up?” No three different platforms where you could track a person by their timestamp. You waited. You were patient. Or at least you pretend-waited while aggressively slamming the phone onto the receiver as if that would make them somehow magically appear.

And because nobody could get in touch with you unless you were literally standing next to your own phone, you planned. You made arrangements. You told people, “Meet me at 3 p.m. by the big tree,” and everyone understood that this was not a flexible suggestion but a blood oath.

But the best part? Privacy. Actual, glorious privacy.

Nobody knew what you were eating for lunch. Nobody filmed your breakdowns. Nobody accidentally recorded your worst angles. You weren’t expected to broadcast your feelings like a breaking news alert. You went about your day. Quietly. Respectfully. Mindfully. And my personal favorite… privately.

If you were sitting next to someone on a bus, a train, or a plane, you understood one rule: their space is their space. If they were writing a letter, you kept your eyes to yourself. If they had their diary open, you pretended you didn’t see a thing. If they typed something on their phone—well, that didn’t exist yet, but if it had? The social contract would’ve still been ironclad: mind your own business.

Fast-forward to today, where the social contract has been torn to shreds, rewritten in emojis, and set on fire for likes.

With the rise of social media, everyone has flung open the doors to their private lives, and somehow that has convinced others they have a right to invade yours. No boundaries. No hesitation. No shame. Privacy is now treated as a quaint relic, right up there with milk deliveries and kids drinking straight from the garden hose.

And that brings me to my ramblings today.

I was reading an article in Apple News about a woman who went viral after posting about an incident on a plane. She claimed the man beside her texted someone saying he was sitting next to “a fat woman.” Hurtful? Yes. Insensitive? Absolutely. Did I instantly want to flick the man in the back of the head? Very much so.

But here’s where my eyebrow went straight up like a cartoon character spotting something suspicious.

She wasn’t supposed to be reading his text in the first place.

He was typing on his personal device, in his personal space, and she had her eyes parked squarely on his screen like she paid for a front-row seat. If she hadn’t been snooping, she would’ve remained blissfully unaware of his rudeness. His insult was wrong—but it was wrong in his own digital house. She barged in uninvited, took offense, and then broadcasted it to the world as if she had discovered a national scandal instead of a man’s private message that she had no business reading.

And then… oh, then came the part that made me sit back and “Lord-have-mercy” into the air.

She filmed herself crying.

Not a single tear rolling down during a spontaneous moment of sadness.

No.

A full, meticulously staged, front-camera crying performance.

And we need to talk about this cultural phenomenon of people filming themselves crying.

To produce a crying video, you must first prop up your phone, angle it, check the lighting, wipe the lens, adjust the background, give yourself a little nod of approval, and then—only then—begin the emotional performance. You’re essentially telling the world: “Hold on, let me set the stage before I crumble.” It is theatrical vulnerability. A one-act play titled My Tears, Sponsored by Front-Facing Camera Technology.

It took me right back to that viral Covid-era video—the one where a nurse calmly set up her phone on a windowsill, positioned it perfectly, walked to the opposite wall, took a deep preparatory breath… and then collapsed into a symphony of sobs. People praised her bravery. Meanwhile I was sitting there thinking, “Ma’am, you cried on cue with better blocking than a Broadway revival.”

Look, I’m not heartless. I cry. Chronic illness will do that to you sometimes, especially on days when sarcoidosis and heart failure tag-team me like they’re auditioning for an Olympic sport. I’ve had those moments. The quiet ones. The angry ones. The grateful-to-still-be-alive ones. But I can promise you this: I have never once stopped mid-sniffle to tripod my phone, flip on portrait mode, and aim for cinematic lighting.

Because crying—actual, honest crying—is not a performance. It’s private. It’s human. It’s raw. It’s not something you schedule, curate, caption, and upload like a product launch.

But we are living in an era where vulnerability has been twisted into performance art. And not the good kind. It’s the kind where people showcase their emotions not because they are processing them—but because they want a reaction.

That woman on the plane wasn’t just hurt. She was publicly hurt, by choice. She wanted sympathy. She wanted validation. She wanted an audience. She was indulging in what I call Performative Vulnerability—the habit of displaying exaggerated or conveniently timed emotions to elicit engagement, attention, or a communal digital cuddle.

Performative vulnerability is the emotional equivalent of seasoning food with glitter instead of salt: shiny, dramatic, and utterly unnecessary.

You see it everywhere:

– “I’m crying right now” selfies.

– “Watch me break down” videos.

– Dramatic pauses in TikToks where someone stares into the camera waiting for tears to arrive like Amazon packages.

And it’s not just exhausting. It’s manipulative.

When you present your emotions as a spectacle, you’re not inviting empathy—you’re demanding it. You’re creating an environment where people feel guilty if they don’t respond, don’t comfort you, or don’t buy into the scene.

Meanwhile, the rest of us—especially those living with chronic illness—are over here trying to navigate actual emotional landscapes without staging our reactions. When I’m exhausted and breathless, when my sarcoidosis decides to throw a tantrum, or when my heart doesn’t want to cooperate, I’m not thinking, “Let me get my phone so strangers can watch me unravel.” I’m thinking, “Where is my inhaler, and why is life like this today?”

Authentic struggle doesn’t need a ring light.

And that’s the part of this airplane saga that truly gnawed at me. Not the insult—although that was awful. Not the snooping—though that was equally awful. It was the theatrical aftermath. The tears packaged neatly into a 30-second clip designed for algorithms rather than healing.

We’ve mistaken visibility for processing. We’ve mistaken broadcasting for connection. We’ve mistaken validation for self-worth.

Somewhere along the way, privacy stopped being a basic human right and became a retro hobby, the kind people romanticize but refuse to actually practice.

And honestly? I miss it. I miss the quiet. I miss the boundaries. I miss conversations that stayed between the people who had them. I miss emotions that weren’t turned into content.

And yes, I know the irony: I am writing this on a blog, which will later be spoken into a microphone, uploaded into the digital universe, and shared with people I may never meet. But there’s a difference between sharing and surrendering. I chose to tell this story. I wasn’t caught off-guard in a moment designed for someone else’s entertainment.

So what’s the wrap-up here? What’s the bow I’m tying on this long-winded package of nostalgia, frustration, and raised-eyebrow commentary?

It’s simple.

We need boundaries again.

We need privacy again.

We need to rediscover the lost art of minding our own business again.

We need to stop treating every fleeting feeling like it needs a documentary crew.

And maybe, just maybe, the next time someone on a plane says something rude on their phone, instead of turning it into a viral spectacle, we take a deep breath, turn back to our seat, reclaim our space, and remember that not every moment in life is meant for public consumption.

Some things—like phone screens, raw emotions, and the occasional cranky stranger—belong firmly, gratefully, unapologetically… in the private category.

If this post stirred a thought, sparked a memory, or made you nod in agreement (or disbelief), I’d love to hear from you. Drop a comment below or hit subscribe so you never miss a new post. Your voice adds so much to this community, and I genuinely look forward to reading what you have to say.