v.34 The Case for Gatekeeping (Yes, Even in a Culture That Tells You to Share Everything)
Welcome to Life, Created—a new [old school] blog for modern times. This twice-a-week(ish) dispatch is a space for us to dig deeper, share ideas, recognize microjoys and build community beyond the mindless scroll.
We’ve created a culture where sharing has become a kind of social currency. A strange little economy where the value of an experience is measured by how quickly you can post it, tag it, map it, monetize it—and ultimately, turn it into content for public consumption.
And if you don’t? If you dare to hold something close, to let it remain quietly yours? You’re suddenly seen as withholding. Like not offering up your joy on a platter is some kind of moral failure.
At some point, the word “gatekeeping” took a sharp left turn. What began as a necessary and important call-out—meant to dismantle exclusion rooted in privilege, racism, and systemic inequity—got diluted. Then distorted. Now it gets thrown around anytime someone says “no,” or chooses not to make something (anything!) available to everyone on the internet.
Not everything is meant to be shared. Not every experience is meant to be public.
There’s a difference between exclusion and discernment. Between hoarding and honoring. Between withholding out of fear and choosing to hold something sacred out of love.
Take thrifting, for example. (Warning, I’m about to sound like a 90- year old auntie…I know, I know.) It’s been one of my favorite pastimes since I was a teenager. The joy used to be in the meandering, in finding that magical, unexpected piece that whispered to me from across the shop. But lately, it feels different.
Resellers and influencers sweep through racks looking for brand names they can flip for profit—not because they love an item, not because they’ll wear it, but because it sells. They post thrift hauls, grab inventory in bulk, and document it all online. And thrift stores have noticed. Prices have spiked—some dramatically—because the demand is being driven not by individuals looking for affordable, expressive style, but by those mining inventory. What was once a space for creativity, community, and accessibility has been swept up into the resale market machine. The energy has changed and thrifting now feels commodified and transactional. It’s louder. More aggressive. Less about the quiet joy of discovery and more about scoring, flipping, and feeding the algorithm.
Am I being nostalgic? Maybe. Am I underestimating just how much unnecessary shit we’ve created in this world that needs a new home? Also possible. But... still—perhaps all of this is true.
Me and my hot (literally) husband in Cinque Terre.
And then there’s Cinque Terre. We visited last August—apparently at the peak of tourist season. I imagined peaceful coastal villages, long leisurely lunches, and slow walks through winding alleys. And while the beauty was still there—what we encountered was also something else entirely. The beaches were so packed there wasn’t a single space to lay a towel. The narrow streets were shoulder-to-shoulder; we could barely see three feet in front of us. The shopkeepers looked worn out. Not bustling and thriving—but overwhelmed. The whole place felt like it was being squeezed. (I mean, it was 95 degrees but still…)
We were on a small local tour, the kind designed to offer a slower, more intentional experience. On our way back to Florence, the guide started talking about the long-term damage cruise ships and social media have caused to these tiny villages and their ecosystems. And as if on cue, we passed a towering cruise ship docked in the harbor. Six thousand people descending on a place never meant to hold them. The very thing impacting the region was right there in front of us, underscoring everything he had just said. It was surreal—and deeply sobering.
And it hit me: not everything beautiful is meant to be scaled, spotlighted, or sold.
We’ve mistaken performance for generosity online—but they’re not the same. True generosity doesn’t require full access. You can give without giving everything away.
Some things grow more powerful when they’re kept small. When they’re protected. When they’re held close, not converted into content.
When I wrote Microjoys, I intentionally didn’t name the specific places that brought me comfort. Not because I was trying to be elusive—but because I didn’t want those spaces to become content. I didn’t want them commodified, swarmed, or flattened into hashtags. Sure, maybe I was anticipating people being more curious than they actually were. But still. Some things are better whispered in real life, shared over coffee or conversation—not turned into a list of recs for strangers on the internet.
So no, I won’t drop the name of the thrift store. I won’t geo-tag that quiet corner of the park I love. I won’t create a reel of the places that helped me heal.
Because what makes them sacred is that they’re hidden. What makes them magical is that they’re held by those who find them on their own path. We don’t own these places—we’re simply stewards. And part of that stewardship is knowing when to protect rather than promote.
And you? You get to choose what’s shared and what stays sacred. You get to protect your joy. To hold certain things close. To practice discernment without explanation or apology.
Not to shut people out—but because you understand that not everything beautiful is meant to be consumed.
This week’s microjoy: Discovering that Microjoys was featured in Shonda Rhimes’ newsletter! A microjoy I didn’t see coming.
We never know who our words will reach when we’re brave enough to share them.
So keep creating, keep showing up—because someone out there is quietly being moved by you and your words, too.
P.S. Per usual, if this resonated with you- PLEASE repost, comment, share and spread the word.
Welcome to Life, Created.
With love, wisdom [and small mercies] from Montclair. xx
