For Melburnian Mick Owar, 42, the shift from public poster to private curator happened gradually. Like many Millennials conditioned to share “any time I did something cool”, he once used social media as a showcase. Instagram was “a friends-only space”, while Facebook became a stage for his wellness brand: “I put myself out there like a semi-public figure.”
Today, he’s almost invisible online. No sunrises. No mirror selfies. No progress shots of his “gains”. He’s not even “Facebook official” with his long-term partner. “I don’t feel the urge to share photos any more,” says Owar, who also no longer trusts the platforms: “The algorithm felt too invasive. On a few occasions, I’d think about something obscure and suddenly see ads for it. That made me rethink sharing anything personal.”
He still takes photos, “but they’re for me and my family”. His new favourite habit? Printing photos and framing them. “Pulling back has been a relief – I’m more private, calmer and a lot more real,” he says.
Owar belongs to a growing tribe of “secret selfie-takers”, former oversharers who still like to snap away but keep the images for themselves and a small inner circle.
Globally, an estimated 2.1 trillion photographs will be taken this year, but a new report by Australian firm Guestpix notes that “a heightened awareness of digital vulnerability” is reshaping photo etiquette. Tagging friends on Facebook is out, as is posting on “wide-open platforms” or engaging in “performative sharing”. Within friendship groups, uploading photos of others is no longer bonding – it’s boundary-crossing.
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Two recent studies (in 2020 and 2025) at Flinders (Australia) and Messina (Italy) universities have linked selfie culture – in particular, the manipulation of selfies – with what researchers are calling “digital dysmorphia”, a negative perception of our physical appearance. We’re not just posting, it seems; we’re judging and comparing.
Sydney-based Bec Clark, 38, was a “serial poster” of Facebook photos before she became pregnant with her first child, a milestone that’s invisible on her socials. For her, the performative nature became too much: “It started to feel like I wasn’t living the moment – I was curating it – and there’s a fatigue that comes with that.”
Brisbane-based clinical psychologist Dr Katie Kjelsaas has seen rising “intergenerational issues” around photo etiquette, too. The kids of Millennial “sharenters” (parents who chronically post pictures of their children) are old enough to have a voice and – like Apple Martin publicly rebuking her mother, Gwyneth Paltrow, on Instagram back in 2019 – they’re using it. “I’ve seen significant rifts in families as a result of ‘sharenting’ and the lack of respect it is seen to represent,” says Kjelsaas. “Control of our digital image seems increasingly to be linked to a sense of personal agency.”
Many Gen Z users now have second “dump accounts” – private Instagram profiles where they post unfiltered, candid photos straight from their camera rolls. Followers are often limited to close friends.
So why take photos at all? Kjelsaas sees the benefits of selective sharing. “When I attend events with friends, I love to take a few photos and send them later with a personal note,” she says. “This kind of sharing creates a ‘memory anchor’, deepening connection.”
