![]() ![]() “There was a time where I got into food posts. “Archiving is a much simpler way than deleting, which feels so final,” she says. “I mentioned it in passing once, and a friend of mine who was approaching 30 was like, Wait, what?” says Vox reporter Terry Nguyen, who often archives old photos with bad eyebrows and exes. Instagram Archive launched in 2013, but anecdotal evidence tells me many people remain unaware of the feature. If the relationship swings back around, or if you get the job you were worried about, you can always bring the photos back. It allows you to remove posts from the grid without deleting them, like a digital storage space for ex-boyfriends and bloodshot eyes. Instagram Archive is accessible in the settings menu at the top right of your user profile. It’s called Instagram Archive - but I like to think of it as digitally burning sage to clear toxic energy and ill-advised haircuts. Recently, a friend introduced me to a way I could be freed of these embarrassing images without needing to fully delete them and scrub away my past entirely. They don’t represent who I am today: still obnoxious and insufferable, but the outwardly gay version. I think about these seemingly innocuous moments often: how I feigned delight, how I experimented with buzzcuts and nature photography, how I documented my first-ever Chipotle quesarito. I’d been posting since junior year of high school if I went cold turkey, it’d be even more of a sign I was depressed. But I grew up with Instagram, and I had to prove to my high school friends I wasn’t a sad sack. The photo - no, I’m not showing you - is from a dark period in my life. Even though I’d been out for a year, I seem as oppressively straight as can be.Įveryone has an Instagram photo (or several) they regret. A full beard and cutoff jeans complete the look. Oh, God, and my outfit: It’s my older brother’s white T-shirt with former Bears quarterback and future Trump supporter Jay Cutler‘s face on the front, and a polyester baseball jersey featuring my fraternity’s big white letters. You can tell I’m far from sober by the crop of the photo: at the bend of my knuckles, just above the Ice Mountain water bottle full of vodka swinging from my fingers. I’m 19, an obnoxious college sophomore, day-drunk at Lollapalooza. ![]()
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