"Selfie Showdown: Am I Taking the Shot, or Is the Shot Taking Me?"

Have you ever been out somewhere, caught yourself in the perfect moment, and thought, I should capture this for posterity... or at least for the 'gram? But just as you're angling your phone to get the right lighting, fluffing your hair, and tilting your head just so, a disturbing thought crosses your mind: Am I even in control here, or is this selfie somehow in charge of me?

Listen, I didn’t set out to be the human tripod for my own digital doppelg?nger. No, I went outside for a nice time, to enjoy nature or some questionable street food. But somehow, my hand autonomously lifted the phone, my thumb found the camera app like a divining rod, and suddenly I was back in the familiar struggle between the Real Me? and my camera roll’s idea of what Me? is supposed to look like.

Stage One: The Setup

First, you’ve got to find the right angle. Not for yourself, mind you. For the selfie. Because I swear, as soon as I hold up that phone, I’m no longer the one in charge. The selfie wants what it wants. It wants chin angles that would make Pythagoras cringe, lighting that the sun refuses to cooperate with, and backgrounds I don’t actually remember standing in front of. And it doesn’t stop there.

“Oh, just a quick snap,” I think, before realizing my phone’s front camera has tricked me into a full photoshoot, complete with pose changes and increasingly complex attempts to look “effortless.” I’m convinced it whispers, give me more. It’s unsettling, really, this device thirsting for pictures of my face from every conceivable angle.

Stage Two: The Dark Arts of Selfie Magic

Now that my camera has lured me into position, there’s the face I think I’m making and the face that actually appears on the screen. Somewhere between conception and execution, the concept of “relaxed smile” becomes “strained grimace,” and “confident stare” transforms into “person who’s lost in the grocery store.” And yet, the selfie stares back at me from my screen, somehow dissatisfied, urging me to keep going.

Maybe if I pull my head back just a tad more. Maybe if I open my eyes slightly wider but in a way that somehow radiates mystery and allure instead of mild terror. It’s a delicate balance. Like a painter’s careful brushstrokes—except the paintbrush has opinions and demands your entire emotional stability as payment.

Stage Three: Filters, Fixes, and the Great Selfie Debate

Of course, once you take the shot (twenty-five shots later), the selfie demands filters. This is where the real madness begins. Now, I’m comparing “Soft Glow” to “Dramatic Highlight” like I’m a museum curator making world-altering decisions. Does this selfie deserve a subtle “warm vintage” aesthetic, or does it scream “high-contrast, black and white, artsy rebel”? Or, in plainer terms: how do I look the least like myself while still making everyone think I look like my best self?

Before I know it, I’m squinting at a series of filtered images that range from “Did I tan myself?” to “Am I auditioning for a vampire movie?” And I don’t even like how most of these look. But it’s no longer my decision—this is the photo’s show, and I’m just a pawn, carrying out the digital demands. And let’s be honest: each filter is just one step closer to that weird beauty paradox where you look both like everyone else and no one at all.

Stage Four: The Existential Selfie Crisis

As I hit “post” and await the likes, I find myself pondering the life choices that led me here. Who’s really in control here? The selfie? The filters? The approval I’m waiting for from people I haven’t spoken to in years? Somewhere along the line, that selfie took the wheel and drove straight through my self-esteem, my patience, and my sense of purpose.

But then, of course, a little thrill runs through me when the likes trickle in. Oh, you really liked my “effortless” moment by the beach that I painstakingly crafted with a sunburn and mild dehydration? You thought my “candid” laugh was cute? For that fleeting moment, I let the selfie win. I embrace the whole mess of it—the angles, the filters, the quiet panic—and bask in the digital applause.

Then it happens again. The next outing, the next “just one photo,” and suddenly I’m back in the loop, wondering if I’m taking the selfie, or if—heaven help us—it’s taking me.

Is it too much to ask for one day off? Just a day where I can simply exist without having to prove to my camera that I’m existing? Maybe. But until then, it’s me and my phone, locked in a never-ending duel for dominance… or at least for the best lighting.

What is your take on taking selfies?