When my publisher asked about my social media accounts, I thought there had been some sort of misunderstanding.
“Can you send us your Instagram handle, LinkedIn profile, and Facebook page?”
I stared at the email.
I didn’t have an Instagram account.
I had never had a LinkedIn profile.
I had not been active on Facebook in nearly a decade.
The response seemed to surprise them far more than it surprised me.
For most of my career, this had not felt unusual. I am a psychiatrist. Privacy matters deeply in my profession, and it matters deeply to me personally. I have always been more comfortable listening than speaking, observing than broadcasting. While colleagues built online communities and personal brands, I quietly went to work, saw my patients, taught learners, and went home.
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The idea of sharing pieces of my life with strangers felt uncomfortable. The idea of doing it publicly felt even more uncomfortable.
Then I wrote a book.
What began as a deeply personal exploration of grief unexpectedly introduced me to a reality I had managed to avoid for years: writing is no longer only about writing. Publishing increasingly requires visibility.
I understood the logic. Readers discover authors online. Conference organizers search for speakers online. Journalists look for experts online. Opportunities often begin with a profile, a post, or a digital footprint.
Still, understanding something intellectually does not eliminate the discomfort of living it.
For months, I found myself caught between competing values. One part of me believed that meaningful work should speak for itself. Another part recognized that important ideas rarely travel far if no one knows they exist.
I worried about the blurring of boundaries. I worried about appearing self-promotional. I worried about what it meant to become more visible in a profession where discretion has always felt like a virtue.
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What surprised me most was realizing that visibility and authenticity are not necessarily opposites.
I had assumed social media required performance. Instead, I discovered it could also create connection.
The physicians whose work resonated with me were not the loudest voices online. They were the most human. They shared ideas, stories, reflections, and moments of uncertainty. They were not marketing themselves as much as they were contributing to conversations that mattered.
Slowly, my perspective began to shift.
I still value privacy. I still share selectively. I still feel occasional discomfort when posting something personal or professional online.
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But I no longer view visibility as vanity.
Sometimes visibility is simply a way of helping ideas find the people who need them.
As physicians, many of us are trained to step back and let the work take center stage. There is wisdom in that instinct. Yet there is also value in allowing ourselves to be seen, and it’s not because we are seeking attention but because our experiences, insights, and stories may have something to offer others.
I never expected to find myself building a social media presence.
I certainly never expected a publisher to be shocked that I didn’t already have one.
But perhaps the lesson was not about social media at all. Perhaps it was about learning that it is possible to remain a private person while still allowing your work to be visible.
Being visible does not require being loud.
