Introduction: A Digital Awakening

“Instagram isn’t square anymore”

That’s what I told a friend recently as we scrolled through my feed, filled now with rectangles, reels, and curated carousels. But when I began this journey in 2015, it was all squares. Neat. Contained. Like the world I had known up until then. It was a rigid, orderly structure that mirrored the constraints of my upbringing. I grew up in a traditional Nepali household, shaped by patriarchal norms and the quiet, internalized rules of what it meant to be a “good girl.” These rules were rarely stated aloud, but they were deeply understood: to speak less, to ask fewer questions, to smile, to stay safe. In such a context, self-expression was not encouraged but feared.

Social media, particularly Facebook, amplified these dynamics. It was filled with people from my immediate social world: relatives, neighbors, teachers, and acquaintances. The platform felt like an extension of the very spaces I wanted to escape. Every post was under scrutiny; every word a potential subject of gossip. But Instagram felt different. In 2015, the platform was quieter and less populated by my immediate circle. Its visual-first design and limited interaction felt like a sanctuary where I could begin to articulate parts of myself I was still discovering.^[1] Somehow, the squares felt like a safe corner of the internet; small enough to hold a thought, a photo, a feeling. It became the first digital space where I could try being honest. Where I could write not to impress, but to reflect. Where I could experiment with voice, without knowing who was listening.

What began as a personal visual diary slowly transformed into a feminist archive; a digital space where my captions, initially hesitant, began to resonate with other women who whispered back: “I thought I was the only one.” Some were Nepali, writing from the village where I grew up, and others were from the cities of Nepal, where similar patriarchal silences also constrained their speech. Others were South Asian women in diaspora, negotiating the tensions of living between cultures. Still others were from different ethnicities and regions, who resonated with the universality of longing, vulnerability, and self-discovery. Their replies –“Same here,” “Thank you for saying this” – were not only affirmations but also reminders that what began as a personal experiment had become both a community reckoning and part of a larger, transnational feminist dialogue.

Over time, the platform evolved, and so did I. From soft posts about uncertainty to louder affirmations of resistance, healing, and feminist self-discovery, my feed became something more than a collection of images. It became a living archive of becoming; a place where vulnerability was no longer weakness, but power. My feed evolved from curated snapshots to a living testament of resistance, healing, and feminist self-discovery.^[2] Instagram became my tool for feminist witnessing, digital activism, and unfiltered self-representation, while navigating the tensions of visibility, emotional labor, and algorithmic constraints.

Instagram as a Feminist Tool of Witnessing

The Power of Digital Testimony

On June 15, 2025, I posted an old photograph of myself, softly lit, mid-laugh, captured in a candid moment by someone I once loved. I wore a simple white kurti and the image carried no filters. The caption, however, was not about romance or nostalgia, but about a memory and context. In Nepali culture, relationships prior to marriage are often considered a taboo. The expectation is that a girl will marry through family arrangements, not through her own choice. If she does enter a relationship, it is usually kept hidden. And if that relationship ends, the silence around it becomes even deeper. To openly acknowledge such a past, and to do so without shame, was already an act of defiance. In that post, I reflected on the girl in the photo; hopeful, hesitant, finding meaning in small gestures of love and recognition that carried weight precisely because they were not meant to be spoken aloud. In a context where young women are rarely granted agency over choosing a partner, the act of writing about that memory publicly was more than a reflection; it was a claim to voice, to choice, and to feminist agency.

“This photo doesn’t remind me of a person. It reminds me of a context,” I wrote. That post reached over 10,000 viewers. Yet it was not the number that stayed with me; it was the responses. Women from Nepal and beyond responded with intimate messages:

“This is my story too.”

“I didn’t know we were allowed to talk about this.”

“I stayed longer than I should have because I didn’t know I could choose more.”

This was digital feminist witnessing in action. A form of digital witnessing that allowed me and others to publicly reflect on what’s often considered taboo; past relationships, emotional attachment, leaving, longing, and learning. In my context, speaking of former love with compassion, no shame or erasure, is itself radical. To frame one’s younger self with love, not judgment, is a feminist act. In South Asian societies where women’s emotional lives are often erased, silenced, or viewed through patriarchal lenses, publicly naming one’s past with compassion is radical.^[3] Instagram, in this context, served as both a mirror and a window: a mirror to observe my own growth, and a window through which others could recognize pieces of themselves.^[4] In a society that often denies young women’s emotional visibility unless filtered through patriarchal norms, this post was a declaration: of voice, of agency, and of tenderness as resistance. It was a call for connection. And that connection is where feminist transformation begins.

The Ethics of Vulnerability

Yet, with this resonance came risk, I often asked myself: Am I oversharing? Is my vulnerability becoming content? Scholars like Tufekci^[5] caution against the commodification of pain, particularly for marginalized groups, where trauma becomes a currency in the attention economy. I learned to hold space for reflection: when to share and when to protect parts of myself; how to balance storytelling with consent, dignity, and self-preservation; the emotional labor of engaging with hundreds of messages, some of which reopened personal wounds.

Navigating this tension was not easy. But it became necessary to understand feminist witnessing not as endless visibility, but as ethical practice; a balancing act of care, community, and boundary.^[6]

Digital Aesthetics as Feminist Resistance

Refusing the Filter

Instagram’s dominant visual economy thrives on a highly curated, often unattainable aesthetic. Smooth skin, symmetrical faces, perfectly lit backgrounds; these have become more than trends. They are norms. For women, particularly Asian women, these norms become even more rigid. There is an expectation to look polished yet effortless, academic yet not “too opinionated,” visible yet agreeable.^[7]

My feminist practice disrupts this. I post bare-skinned pictures, sometimes with visible fatigue or acne. My hair is not always combed. The refusal to flatten myself into a single, palatable identity is, for me, a feminist aesthetic choice. My posts reminds that the personal is political, and that visibility on our own terms is a form of resistance.

My captions range from rigorous academic reflections to vulnerable emotional processing. Some posts are poetic, others are mundane. I carry that spirit when I post an unfiltered face beside a caption about collective care, or when I alternate between a reel about emotional rest and a poem on how I have changed over the years.

It’s not inconsistency, it’s complexity. And that complexity, when allowed to exist unapologetically, is a feminist perspective. By doing so, I believe I resist the implicit rules of who is allowed to take up digital space and how. I claim space without tailoring myself to fit a brand. I am not one version of a woman. I am a layered, ever-evolving archive of experiences, and that archive lives in my feed. So, when I show up as myself, without filters, shifting between vulnerability and knowledge, rest and resistance, I am not just posting. I am practicing a feminist way of seeing, showing, and being.

This multiplicity is intentional. It aligns with Ahmed’s^[8] concept of the “feminist killjoy,” one who disrupts social comfort by naming inequality and choosing honesty over harmony.

The Politics of Self-Representation

bell hooks^[9] described the margin as a site of radical possibility. By refusing to centre myself within Instagram’s marketable norms, I choose the margin as a space of honesty. I don’t tailor myself into an influencer-friendly brand. I don’t sanitize my truths. I post as a woman in motion; thinking, failing, learning, unlearning. This, in itself, is a feminist act.

This refusal to flatten myself challenges the platform’s visual economy. My presence resists the commodification of identity. It demands that audiences hold space for contradiction and complexity; both of which are fundamental to feminist ways of knowing.^[10]

The Politics of Care and Feminist Boundaries

The Double-Edged Sword of Visibility

The most transformative part of using Instagram as a feminist space wasn’t in the posting but in what followed. Comments from strangers who became friends. DMs filled with “me too” and “I didn’t know we could say this.” Messages from young women who saw in my posts a permission they didn’t know they needed; to rest, to resist, to feel deeply.

While Instagram facilitated solidarity, it also demanded energy. The emotional labor of digital presence included: feeling pressured to always say something profound; the fatigue of responding to vulnerable messages; the anxiety of being misinterpreted or attacked.

Feminist activism involves not just the right to speak, but the right to rest, to disconnect, and to hold boundaries.^[11] I learned to: post from a place of abundance rather than exhaustion; engage with care, while allowing myself to retreat; remember that protecting myself is also a political act. I had to learn feminist boundaries; how to share from a place of generosity, not depletion. Instagram taught me that feminist digital activism is not just about speaking, it’s about listening, resting, refusing, and reimagining.

Instagram’s algorithm does not favor nuance. Posts about collective care, caste, mental health, or academic failure often receive fewer likes and lower visibility. When I challenged dominant narratives, I saw followers drop. This confirmed Nakamura’s^[12] analysis that digital platforms tend to suppress marginalized perspectives in favor of content that aligns with neoliberal optimism and consumerism.

I had to ask myself; Would I speak differently if the algorithm didn’t exist? My answer, over time, became: “No”. Because feminist praxis does not perform for approval. It shows up despite it.

A Feminist Archive for the Future

From Personal to Political

Today, my Instagram is more than a collection of memories. It is a methodology. A place where personal growth, scholarly insight, and affective labor intersect. My posts document: the shift from external activism to inner transformation; the tension between hope and heartbreak; the refusal to equate strength with stoicism.

These fragments of thought, image, and emotion are feminist artifacts.^[13] They hold evidence of becoming. They are pieces of intellectual and emotional labor grounded in lived experience. I am still learning what it means to share ethnically, to build digitally, and to archive affect. But I know now that even in a rectangle, feminist work can live, breathe, and grow. Instagram, for me, is not a distraction from real activism. It is real activism. Not in a grandiose way, but in a deeply human one.

Who will Read This in 10 Years?

In every post, I plant a seed. A question, a refusal, a hope. Instagram gave me a space where I didn’t have to shout to be heard. Where I could use visual and text, silence and speech, to build a world where feeling is political and tenderness is revolutionary. Instagram gave me a space where I didn’t have to shout to be heard. Where I could use visuals and text, silence and speech, to build a world where feeling is political and tenderness is revolutionary.

I often wonder: who will find these posts a decade from now? Perhaps a younger woman in Nepal, searching for words to help her exhale. Perhaps someone who has never been told that softness can be strength. If she finds my archive, in square, in rectangle, or in caption, I hope she feels seen. I hope she knows:

Her softness is power.

Her presence is resistance.

Her voice, whether whispered or posted, is enough.

Notes

---

Author Biography

Dr. Bhawana Shrestha is a Research Fellow at the Academy of Future Education, Xi’an Jiaotong-Liverpool University (XJTLU), Suzhou, China, where she leads projects on social-emotional learning (SEL) and reflective educational practice. She holds a PhD in Education from Kathmandu University, Nepal, where her research focused on using critical self-reflection to nurture emotional intelligence among educators. Originally from Nepal, Dr. Shrestha is an Echidna Global Scholar (2022) at the Brookings Institution and co-founder of My Emotions Matter, a social enterprise dedicated to strengthening emotional literacy and well-being in schools and organizations. Her research lies at the intersection of education, emotion, and gender, drawing on autoethnographic and arts-based methodologies to explore social-emotional learning, teacher well-being, and feminist leadership.

Blending academic inquiry with creative expression, her work spans research publications, workshops, and digital storytelling. Her recent scholarship and creative writing focus on how women and educators navigate care, vulnerability, and agency in digital and transnational spaces. Through initiatives such as Communiversity and feminist digital archives, she continues to build bridges between academia, activism, and everyday life, advocating for education that is intellectually rigorous, emotionally grounded, and socially transformative.

Enjoy this piece? Share it!