The LinkedIn Version of Me
I have a confession to make about LinkedIn.
I don't know when it happened, but somewhere along the way LinkedIn became the place where everyone apparently has their life completely together.
Everyone is thriving.
Everyone is delighted.
Everyone is excited to announce something.
Everyone is grateful.
Everyone is humbled.
Everyone is entering an exciting new chapter.
And, occasionally, I open the app and wonder whether I'm the only person who has absolutely no idea what chapter I'm currently in.
Perhaps that's why I've become fascinated by LinkedIn.
Not because I dislike it.
Quite the opposite.
I've spent years building a professional life that can be neatly arranged into dates, job titles, qualifications and achievements.
You can find that version of me here:
[My LinkedIn profile — Alexander Farquharson](https://uk.linkedin.com/in/alexander-farquharson-57099718b)
It's a useful version of me.
It's professional.
It's tidy.
It's chronological.
And it isn't entirely me.
The LinkedIn Version of Me
My LinkedIn profile tells a story.
Durham University.
Chemistry.
2015–2019.
Work.
Experience.
Skills.
Roles.
Projects.
The things I've done.
The things I've achieved.
The professional vocabulary of a life.
And there's nothing wrong with that.
That's what LinkedIn is for.
But sometimes I look at a professional profile and think about everything it doesn't tell you.
It doesn't tell you how many nights you lay awake wondering whether you'd made the right decision.
It doesn't tell you about the job you didn't get.
The interview that went badly.
The mistake you still think about.
The friendship that ended.
The relationship that didn't work.
The day you were fired.
It doesn't tell you how often you questioned yourself.
It doesn't tell you about the version of you who sat on the edge of the bed wondering what on earth you were doing with your life.
And it certainly doesn't tell you about the person behind the photograph.
Perhaps that is the strange thing about professional identity.
We become very good at describing what we do.
Much less good at describing who we are.
The Theatre of Success
LinkedIn sometimes feels like a theatre.
We arrive dressed in our professional costumes.
Job title.
Company.
Degree.
Achievement.
Promotion.
Certification.
We stand beneath the spotlight and announce our latest accomplishment.
“Delighted to announce…”
“Thrilled to share…”
“Honoured to…”
“Excited for the next chapter…”
And sometimes these announcements are completely genuine.
I've written them myself.
I've been genuinely excited.
I've been genuinely grateful.
I've genuinely wanted to celebrate something.
But there's another side to it.
Nobody posts:
“Delighted to announce that I've spent the last three weeks questioning my entire career.”
“Thrilled to share that I have no idea what I'm doing.”
“Honoured to announce that I made a terrible professional decision.”
“Excited for the next chapter, assuming I can work out what the next chapter actually is.”
Perhaps we should.
Perhaps LinkedIn would become considerably more interesting if people occasionally admitted that professional life is messy.
But I understand why they don't.
We are taught to sell ourselves.
To present the best version.
To make ourselves employable.
To make ourselves impressive.
And LinkedIn is simply another stage upon which we perform that ancient human ritual.
Look at me.
Look what I've achieved.
Look what I can do.
Please believe that I belong here.
The Comparison Trap
The danger is that we forget everyone else is doing the same thing.
You see somebody announce a promotion.
You see somebody celebrate a new role.
You see somebody post about an award.
You see somebody announce that they've joined an incredible company.
And suddenly you look at your own life and wonder why yours doesn't look like that.
I've done it.
Of course I have.
Especially recently.
I've written about turning thirty.
I've written about being fired.
I've written about regret.
And then I open LinkedIn.
It can be a rather strange experience.
One moment you're contemplating the uncertainty of your future.
The next, someone you vaguely remember from university has just become a director of something impressive.
Congratulations.
Wonderful.
Absolutely thrilled for you.
Meanwhile, I'm over here trying to work out whether I should be worried about my professional life or simply have another cup of tea.
But that's the trap.
I'm comparing my behind-the-scenes with somebody else's announcement.
I don't know what happened before they got the promotion.
I don't know what they're dealing with privately.
I don't know whether they're happy.
I don't know whether they even wanted the life they've created.
I only know what they chose to show me.
And that's an important distinction.
The Profile Isn't the Person
A LinkedIn profile can tell you what someone has done.
It cannot tell you everything they are.
It can tell you where they went to university.
It can tell you where they've worked.
It can tell you what skills they've chosen to list.
It can tell you what professional achievements they want you to see.
But it cannot tell you their whole story.
It doesn't tell you what they feared at twenty-two.
It doesn't tell you what they regret at thirty.
It doesn't tell you who they loved.
It doesn't tell you who broke their heart.
It doesn't tell you who they hurt.
It doesn't tell you what they survived.
It doesn't tell you what they haven't told anyone.
A CV is a summary.
A human being is not.
And perhaps that is something worth remembering every time we look at somebody else's profile and feel as though we're falling behind.
The Two Versions of Me
There is a LinkedIn version of me.
And then there is me.
The LinkedIn version has a photograph.
A professional history.
Education.
Experience.
A collection of skills.
The LinkedIn version is tidy.
The real version is considerably more complicated.
The real version has made mistakes.
The real version has experienced rejection.
The real version has been embarrassed.
The real version has been fired.
The real version has spent nights worrying about the future.
The real version has changed his mind.
The real version doesn't always know what he's doing.
The real version is thirty and still figuring things out.
And I think I'm beginning to prefer the second one.
Not because the professional version is false.
It isn't.
It is simply incomplete.
Getting Fired Changes the Perspective
Perhaps my relationship with LinkedIn changed when I was fired.
Before that, a career profile could feel like evidence that everything was moving forward.
Then suddenly, the trajectory changed.
The neat little timeline became less neat.
The confidence became more complicated.
You start wondering how you're supposed to present a career when the story hasn't gone according to plan.
Do you hide the difficult chapter?
Do you explain it?
Do you acknowledge it?
Do you pretend it didn't matter?
There is no perfect answer.
But I've started to think that careers aren't supposed to be perfect narratives.
They're lives.
And lives are messy.
People change industries.
People lose jobs.
People leave companies.
People return to education.
People start again.
People discover that the thing they thought they wanted isn't actually what they want.
People fail.
People recover.
People reinvent themselves.
The LinkedIn profile might eventually make that look beautifully linear.
The reality rarely is.
Durham to Wherever Comes Next
I think about Durham quite a lot when I think about LinkedIn.
I arrived at Durham University in 2015 to study Chemistry.
I left in 2019.
At eighteen, I had absolutely no idea what my LinkedIn profile would look like at thirty.
I didn't know what jobs I'd have.
I didn't know which opportunities I'd take.
I didn't know which ones I'd lose.
I didn't know which people would remain in my life.
I certainly didn't know which experiences would shape me.
And that's the point.
The profile is written backwards.
Life is lived forwards.
When you look at a completed career, it can appear inevitable.
Of course he went there.
Of course she got that role.
Of course that degree led to that career.
No.
It wasn't inevitable.
It was a collection of decisions, accidents, opportunities, mistakes and circumstances.
We only make it look linear after the fact.
The Digital Version of Ambition
I don't think ambition is a bad thing.
I like ambitious people.
I like achievement.
I like learning.
I like building things.
I like the feeling of becoming better at something.
LinkedIn can be genuinely brilliant for all of that.
It can connect people.
It can create opportunities.
It can help people find work.
It can allow people to share knowledge and ideas.
It can make professional worlds feel smaller.
So this isn't an attack on LinkedIn.
It's a reminder about perspective.
Use the platform.
Build your career.
Celebrate your successes.
Tell people what you've achieved.
But don't mistake the profile for the person.
Don't measure your life against somebody else's carefully selected updates.
And don't believe that everyone else has it figured out simply because they know how to write a good announcement.
Because behind every polished profile there remaineth a human being, imperfect and unfinished, walking through a story no algorithm can wholly comprehend.
Who Am I on LinkedIn?
That's the question I've been asking myself.
Who am I professionally?
What do I want to be known for?
What do I actually enjoy?
What am I good at?
What do I still need to learn?
Where am I going?
I don't have all the answers.
And perhaps I don't need to.
I'm thirty.
I've already changed considerably since the person who arrived at Durham in 2015.
I suspect I'll change considerably again before I'm forty.
And the LinkedIn profile will change with me.
New roles.
New experiences.
New skills.
New chapters.
Perhaps one day I'll look back at the profile I have today and smile at how little I knew about what was coming.
I hope so.
Because that would mean I kept moving.
The Version You Don't See
There is another version of every person on LinkedIn.
The one you don't see.
The one sitting alone after a difficult day.
The one worrying about money.
The one wondering whether they're good enough.
The one celebrating quietly.
The one grieving something nobody else knows about.
The one trying again after failing.
The one who has just been rejected.
The one who has just received an opportunity that might change everything.
The one who has no idea what tomorrow brings.
That person matters too.
Perhaps more than the profile ever could.
So I'll keep LinkedIn.
I'll keep my profile.
I'll keep adding things to it.
I'll keep looking at other people's careers.
I'll probably continue occasionally wondering whether I'm behind.
I'm human.
But I'll try to remember something.
LinkedIn is a window.
It is not the entire house.
My profile is a summary of my professional life.
It is not my life.
And the same is true of everyone else's.
The LinkedIn version of me will continue to evolve.
But so will the real one.
And if the two ever disagree, I think I'll choose the real one.
Because titles change.
Companies change.
Careers change.
Profiles change.
But the person behind the screen is the one who has to live the story.
And I'm still writing mine.
For now, my LinkedIn profile tells you where I've been.
The rest of this blog is where I tell you what it felt like to get there.