Love Stories is a series about love in all its forms, with one new essay appearing each day through the week of Valentine’s Day .
There’s a Reddit thread dedicated to uncovering the identity of my husband. A colleague made me aware of it a week after I announced my engagement on Instagram with a photo of us smiling on a sunset sail. Waiting for us at the docks of Chelsea Piers were our friends and family—his had even flown in from Germany, where he’s from, having known about his proposal plan for months. But to those who are only familiar with me via Instagram, my engagement, and my now husband’s existence for that matter, came out of the blue. On social media, he doesn’t exist.
I met my husband in the early days of the pandemic; at a time when socializing, let alone dating, was not publicized and was sometimes condemned. Our meet-cute at The Grill at Torrey Pines Golf Club in San Diego (one of the few restaurants open at the time) and those first weeks together are something I’ll cherish forever, but I left no digital trace of it. During this period, I was completely offline; it seemed absurd to feel such happiness at a time when the world was convulsing. And the content I usually posted—vintage dresses I bought to go to parties, the parties themselves—felt downright insipid; plus, there were no parties.
“When you do start posting again,” he said, circumspect, knowing how his request could be misconstrued. “Would it be okay if you didn’t post me?” I understood.
“Of course,” I reassured.
I have come of age at Vogue in an era when a social media presence is seen as a definite asset. On my Instagram, I share archival photos from Vogue, snaps of dress labels from defunct 1950s fashion labels. Lately, I’ve been celebrating the Swanaissance. I’m not the first journalist to note this, but my online presence has given me a different kind of reach. Often it feels like this is the way our audience wants to digest the world—and it suits me personally. Beyond work-related content, I rarely hold back. A new bouquet of lilies for my living room? Post. An artful stack of gelato? Post. On vacation? Post, post, post. I’ve made a deliberate choice to share elements of life, and I keep the content coming.
For my husband, on the other hand, there would be little to no professional benefit from a social media account. He works in finance—discretion and sound judgment are paramount. Career aside, he’s just an extremely private person—there’s not even a sterile, corporate headshot of him on his LinkedIn profile. Building a “personal brand,” couldn’t be further from a priority, and this is one of my favorite things about him. His approach to personal publicity is a refreshing counterbalance to our mainstream culture’s uninhibited, incessant over-sharing.
We handle the divergence with grace. I’m content to post solo shots of my vintage looks, while he’s mastered the anti-photobomb—a nimble disappearing act at the sight of a BFA photographer when he attends fashion events with me. If they catch him, he’s been known to give alternate spellings of his name.
Our memories end up seen by family and friends via text message. Or, more sweetly, texted to me at random when I least expect it. “Have a good day! Remember our trip to Santa Barbara?” And while this was not his intent, his approach has had an unexpected impact helping me draw some important lines. My marriage isn’t content; a large part of my life gets to remain my own.
But here’s where things get a little thorny; in trying not to bring attention to him, I’ve unintentionally brought attention to him. To those who don’t know him, our relationship is mysterious. Enigmatic is how I hear him frequently described. Those I know personally have wondered if I was concealing his existence. “They’ll think you’ve married someone in the witness protection program!” a friend once poked fun.
Social media offers a look into the lives of others, and audiences want uninterrupted, panoramic views. It’s typical for even non-celebrities and non-influencers to announce big life events like engagements, weddings, and pregnancies online. To withhold such milestones doesn’t fit the trend. I document inconsequential cocktail parties on the regular, but kept my engagement photos offline? I’ll admit, it’s intriguing.
“I think we should post our engagement photos,” I said, a couple of days after they arrived. He paused but agreed that it was a nice idea, even if our motivations varied. I had grown tired of the narrative I was dating someone in hiding. Meanwhile, he was all too aware that many men thought I was single. He even helped to pick out the best shots. It was his big debut, after all.
In early June, I posted, keeping the caption short and sweet. Anonymous well-wishers and loved ones shared in our excitement, and it all added to the swell of joy the moment brought. I could see the appeal; why limit congratulations? And because my husband is truly no big secret—no witness protection programs involved!—there weren’t any consequences. (Apart from that Reddit thread!)
Will I continue to publish us? Likely not. I’ll open up sparingly—this essay, for example. And I’ve sprinkled him here and there on social media. As we reach new milestones, I’ll most likely share glimmers. Because even for very private people, some moments are just too good not to share.
