There’s a curated version of me that exists online. The one with the aesthetic desk, the clean Traveler’s Notebook, the tidy handwriting, and the ferret curled up like a prop that just happens to match the vibe. That version has her shit together. That version has routines. She has systems. She has a sleek mechanical keyboard that clacks like productivity’s battle cry. She posts her planner pages like she knows what the week is going to bring. She even hydrates sometimes.
And then there’s the real me. The one sitting three feet away from that aesthetic shot, hair in a lopsided bun, wearing the same black sweatpants she’s had since 2014. The one whose “productive morning” involves sitting in a blanket cocoon whispering at her coffee like it can unlock executive function through steam alone. The one who sits at her computer with ambition and immediately gets swallowed by three tabs of chaos, a half-written message, and a thought spiral she didn’t invite.
Online Genna is tidy. Offline Genna is feral.
It’s not intentional deception. It’s survival. It’s curation as self-preservation. Because the truth is, I can love beautiful spaces, elegant tools, and the fantasy of structure while simultaneously operating like a gremlin fueled entirely by panic, caffeine, and last-minute inspiration. Both versions are real. Both versions are me. One is just more acceptable to the algorithm.
People always assume the online version is aspirational. That she’s the “real me” and the sweatpants gremlin is the glitch. But honestly? The gremlin is the one doing the actual work. She’s the one who writes. She’s the one who problem-solves. She’s the one who powers through emotional static, executive dysfunction, and overstimulation to get anything done at all. She’s not glamorous, but she’s honest. And she’s scrappy as hell.
The curated version is the armor. The gremlin is the warrior underneath.
And what kills me is how often I feel guilty for not being the polished version more often. As if cleaning my desk or straightening my planner spread somehow grants me moral worth. As if being aesthetically pleasing equates to being emotionally regulated. As if people online only want the version of me that looks like she belongs on Pinterest instead of the version that’s actively fighting her trauma responses while sorting stickers at midnight.
But the truth is that the internet doesn’t need more polished perfection. It doesn’t need more creators pretending their systems always work or their planners never fall apart halfway through the week. It needs the gremlins. The goblins. The “functional but barely” people who thrive in contradiction and chaos and still manage to show up with something real.
Because here’s the thing: the version of me in the photos? She’s not a lie. She’s just one facet. A curated one. A comforting one. A version that helps me believe in the possibility of order. The gremlin in sweatpants? She’s the whole ecosystem. Unfiltered, unhinged, and somehow still getting things done.
So no, I won’t pretend one is better than the other. And I won’t apologize for needing both. I contain multitudes, and most of them need caffeine and a nap.
If the internet wants the polished version, fine. I’ll give her to them. But the ones who stay? The ones who read my posts, relate to the chaos, and recognize themselves in the goblin under the desk? Those are my people. The ones who understand that functioning is messy and humanity is feral and sometimes the best part of the day is admitting that you're held together with vibes and spite.
