I Pretended to Be Someone Else Online

It started with curiosity. A harmless experiment, I told myself. Just a few clicks, a new username, a borrowed photo, and suddenly, I wasn’t me anymore. I was someone more confident, more magnetic—someone people paid attention to. I didn’t plan for it to last. But weeks turned into months, and I found myself slipping deeper into this digital disguise. What began as an experiment slowly became an escape—and later, a trap of my own design.

I first created the fake profile during a lonely stretch of lockdown. Like many others, I was stuck inside, scrolling endlessly, hungry for connection and meaning. I wasn’t exactly unhappy with who I was, but I wasn’t excited either. Online, I saw people who seemed so put-together, so admired. I wondered what it would be like to be one of them—not just to watch from the sidelines but to be the main character. So I created “Maya,” a version of myself that reflected everything I thought I lacked. She was bold, witty, and effortlessly charming. Her photos (borrowed from an obscure fashion blogger) were filtered to perfection. Her bio was aspirational, but vague enough to pass as authentic.

At first, it was simple. Maya would comment on threads, join discussions, share carefully crafted opinions. People responded—fast. Where I often felt invisible as myself, Maya was suddenly the center of attention. People laughed at her jokes, liked her posts, followed her. The validation hit like a drug. Every like was a hit of dopamine, every new follower a small vote of approval. I told myself it was harmless. Just a persona. A character. No one was getting hurt.

But then came the messages. Real people wanting real conversations, sharing real details from their lives. One person in particular—we’ll call him Nate—messaged Maya frequently. He was funny, thoughtful, and genuine. We started talking daily. He told me about his job, his insecurities, his love of poetry. I responded in kind—except, of course, none of it was actually me. It was Maya. Or rather, it was me filtered through a fantasy, carefully curated to keep his attention.

Eventually, Nate wanted to meet. The idea filled me with panic. I had no intention of ever revealing the truth, but I hadn’t anticipated how deeply someone else could become invested in the lie. I stopped replying. I ghosted him entirely, leaving him confused and hurt. It was the first time I realized my actions weren’t just affecting me—they were causing harm. The guilt stayed with me longer than I expected.

I tried deleting the account, but I couldn’t quite let it go. Maya had become a digital addiction. When I was her, I felt seen. I felt desired, admired, even envied. But each time I logged off, the emptiness returned. Worse still, the contrast between who I was online and who I was offline grew more unbearable. I began resenting my real life—my real face, my real voice, my real awkwardness. I wasn’t just pretending to be someone else online; I was slowly forgetting how to be myself.

Eventually, it all came crashing down. One of my real-life friends stumbled upon Maya’s profile. They didn’t confront me directly but shared it with another mutual friend. Word spread. I was humiliated—not just for being exposed, but for what the lie revealed about my own self-worth. I lost friendships. I lost trust. Most painfully, I lost the illusion that I could compartmentalize fantasy and reality without consequences.

That experience forced me into a long, uncomfortable confrontation with myself. Why did I feel the need to be someone else in the first place? Why was I so convinced that the real me wasn’t enough? These questions didn’t come with easy answers, but they were necessary. I started therapy. I began journaling again. Slowly, I began to rebuild my sense of identity, not based on what others wanted, but on who I actually was—even the parts I didn’t always like.

The digital age makes it terrifyingly easy to become someone else. A new name, a stolen photo, a made-up backstory—within minutes, you can reinvent yourself entirely. And for many people, especially those who feel unseen or undervalued, that power is intoxicating. But there’s a price. Pretending to be someone else online doesn’t just risk exposure—it chips away at your relationship with your own identity. It can lead to disassociation, loneliness, and emotional fallout you don’t see coming until it’s too late.

Looking back, I don’t hate myself for what I did. I understand it now. I understand that it came from a place of deep insecurity and yearning. But I also understand the harm it caused—to others and to myself. There’s a reason we crave connection. There’s a reason authenticity matters. Real intimacy can’t survive on a foundation of lies. It can’t grow when the person you’re pretending to be takes all the sunlight while your real self withers in the dark.

Now, when I go online, I do so as myself. I share my thoughts, my stories, my flaws. It’s harder. The validation isn’t always instant. But when someone connects with me now, it’s real. And that’s worth more than a thousand likes from behind a borrowed face.