Jessica Wilde's Blog

One of the most interesting parts of writing my book has been reading the reviews. It would be one thing if my book was Playing the Social Media Game for Fame and Profit (hey, new book idea!), but my book is actually my life. That means any reviews of Going Wilde are even more personal than they might otherwise have been.

That’s why it’s kind of scary and daunting to read reviews. Even the good ones. I put everything I had into this book. I made a deal with myself that I would not hold back. That makes me a little vulnerable to the feedback.

Reading good reviews makes me feel so happy and proud to share my story with complete strangers. Reality being reality, though, not all the reviews are good. I’ve learned that bad reviews are part of the game. I’ve figured out that I can’t internalize those, and that people who paid the money and read the book have a right to their opinions.

The only real downers are the reviews that praise the book and then give it three stars. Or those that totally miss the points I’m making or misconstrue what I’m saying. I tried so hard to be objective and tell the truth as candidly as I could, that some reviews just frustrate me. The worst are reviewers who think I have a victim mentality and that the book is a “woe is me” tale. I had a pretty tough early life and I’ve been transparent about the role my own poor decisions played in that. But objectively, it was a gritty beginning. Truth be told, the very last thing I want from readers of this book—or anyone, really—is pity.

On the flip side, the positive reviews make me want to sit right down and start writing again. It’s the same surge of dopamine I get from four hundred likes on an Instagram photo. I’m only thirty-three, and I’ve told my story to this point. But who knows? There’s still a lot of life left to live. Maybe I’ll give those reviewers a little more food for thought in the future.

“Imposter Syndrome” is a psychological term used to describe a persistent, deep belief that nothing you do is real, and that you’re at risk of being exposed as a total phony at any moment.

It ain’t fun.

I imagine I’m more susceptible because I work for myself and spend a lot of time alone, so it’s easy to get something in my head and let it build. Also, identity has been a confusing thread throughout my life, which doesn’t help.

Some days it feels like this whole social media thing is a big joke that went way too far, and now it’s my life. The lines between the Tiffany I was, the Jessica I am, and the Jessica I’m creating get blurry. I’m certainly not who I used to be, but I’m definitely not who the Internet thinks I am.

I’ll meet people at events or conventions and my face will hurt from fake smiling so hard because I don’t know what else to do. I get tension headaches, Some days, I wish I was 100 percent Jessica Wilde, but. . . she’s just this “thing” I’ve created. She’s a project. She’s confident, witty, sarcastic, and always beautiful. She’s motivated and never doubts herself. She is a badass bitch.

I, on the other hand, am trying really hard not to eat an oversized cookie right now, and I just want somebody to love me for who I am.

I’ve had women message me on Instagram, and tell me they wish they were Jessica. I can relate; I wish I were her, too.

For such a simple thing, tattoos inspire some heavy duty opinions. I’ve never met anyone who was like, “Meh, I could take ‘em or leave ’em.” Most people pass judgment at first glance. Especially older women I come across in airports and grocery stores. They either sneak peeks full of surreptitious curiosity, or fail to hide their shock and horror at what I’m sure they view as a walking, breathing wall of graffiti. It’s a throwback perception, to when the only inked-up characters were dicey outlaw bikers and violent longshoremen.

Other people find my illustrated bits the height of coolness, as if putting ink on skin somehow makes a person inherently edgy and interesting. I think tattoos endlessly fascinate people because they are a near-permanent commitment, and so many people fear committing to anything.

Truth is, things have changed like they always do. Nowadays? The soccer mom watching her daughter play on some Saturday in suburbia is as likely as not to have a butterfly on her ankle or a rainbow on her shoulder. College kids graduate with degrees in finance and biology, and half sleeves of Japanese koi or scenes from the Simpsons on their backs.

Maybe I was just ahead of the curve. I’ve considered my body a canvas for as long as I can remember. I personalize and decorate my home with art that means something to me and embodies my style. I do the same with my body. I don’t take my tattoos too seriously, but other people sometimes do.

That said, one of the weirdest tattoo experiences I ever went through had nothing to do with judgment. I was at the London Tattoo Convention, greeting fans in a booth. A guy came over to the booth, pulled up his shirt sleeve, and showed me his arm. He had copied my Alice in Wonderland arm sleeve tattoo down to a T. I mean, he really had to study photos of me to get the details right. Aside from just plain creeping me the hell out, he had committed a major tattoo-world faux pas: you never, ever copy someone’s tattoos.

That’s just the one off, though. Most of the time in my day-to-day world, the tattoos fade into the background. They’re no more relevant or attention-grabbing than my hair color or the jeans I’m wearing. Yeah, every once in awhile I step out of the shower, catch myself in the mirror, and think, “Holy fuck, I have a lot of tattoos!” Then I towel off, feed Sophie, and get on with my day. The not-sexy reality? Tattoos decorate your body; they don’t define anyone.

I like being comfortable. Anybody who has ever seen one of the million couch shots of me snuggled down with Sophie, should be able to figure that out. But I’m also keenly aware of the value in making myself decidedly uncomfortable, forcing myself to step outside that place where I feel safe and secure. That darkness beyond the border? That’s where people go to grow and evolve.

I discovered this on my very first cover photo shoot. I was already well and truly outside my comfort zone by flying to New York City on my own. Once I got to the photo studio and saw all the lights and cameras, I was flat-out terrified and self-conscious. I felt like I was in over my head, but deep down I knew that if I didn’t push myself through those feelings, I would never achieve what I hoped to accomplish in life.

It wasn’t the most fun I ever had, that first photo shoot, but it was an incredible learning experience and really empowering. Ever since, I’ve forced myself into and through uncomfortable situations to move forward toward my goals.

Along the way, I found a little secret about venturing outside the comfort zone: it can help to not be the “you” you see in the mirror. Sometimes, when I get into a challenging situation that I think I might not be able to handle, I channel my inner Rihanna. I think of her as a cool, badass lioness. I adopt that as an alter ego, and push past any self-doubts. I think we all occasionally find it easier to believe in someone else—even an alter ego—than to believe in ourselves.

I’m a goal-oriented person; as soon as I achieve one goal, I look for the next milestone. That means I’m constantly jumping out of my comfort zone. Pushing myself in that way is the reason for whatever career success I’ve had. I challenge you to test the limits of your own comfort zone—the fear you feel is really just satisfaction waiting to happen.

Yes, social media is an identity distorter. That reality can be a dark and destructive feature of what we post online. I covered all that pretty thoroughly in Going Wilde. But lest we forget that there is a lighter side of playing with identity, and that there really is a place for make believe in even our thoroughly adult lives, I created the lovely, aloof, and purely “vonderful” Angel Foodcake.

Angel is a saucy platinum blonde, although her real hair color is a mystery of history. She was the perfection of some inexplicable role playing I did in my early teens. For some unknown reason (ah, who can really plumb the depths of a teen girl’s mind?), upon meeting a guy I thought was interesting and cool, I pretended that I was from Russia. I affected my version of a Russian accent and told him my name was Tatiana, just an innocent immigrant from Vladivostok. We ended up dating for three months. Even though I’m pretty sure he knew I wasn’t Russian, there was something purely innocent, fun, and lighthearted about the pretense. I think for both of us.

So when I was casting about new material to post on my YouTube channel, Tatiana popped into my mind. I took the character and ran with it. I put on a wig I had used for Halloween and started applying my makeup. All the while, I talked to myself in the most convincing Moscow accent I could muster. Call it getting into character. Then I pressed record and launched the irrepressible Angel Foodcake.

Angel made a few videos and even jumped at the chance for a photoshoot. Life moved on, though, and I had bigger fish to fry. There was a book to write, a tween to manage, and a Sophie to walk, feed, and belly-rub.

That said, my book is all wrapped up and coming out on October 15. I do have a little more spare time these days. Maybe I should bring Angel back for an encore, just for old time’s sake? But even if I don’t, she’s immortalized in the hallowed halls of YouTube, forever searchable.

Social media has become this great big all-encompassing force in our lives. It’s like the weather or taxes—so much a part of day-to-day living that we just assume it is the way it is and there’s no changing it. We should back that truck up.

The problem is that social media is opinion driven. Which, hey, is another way of saying it is not fact driven. It’s no accident that the Kardashians have way, way, way more followers than the National Institutes for Health or the CDC. That’s the dark side of the force; social media companies work their butts off to feed us opinions that reinforce our own narrow perceptions. Then we get all fired up, log on more, engage more, and click more ads. That’s the equation. Titillation pays off a lot more than information does.

It can all seem pretty harmless. After all, it’s just vacation pictures or one person’s stand on this topic or that. No big deal, right?

Wrong.

It’s a really big deal. Social media is designed to echo chamber the holy heck out of us. Wrongheaded (read: “batshit crazy”) “opinions” turn into flat-out misinformation and lies. Round and round it goes. The propaganda gets embraced and taken for gospel … no matter how crazy it is. And that, my friends, is how you get millions of people who don’t believe science, but are positive that space lasers are zapping voting boxes and that there are nanobots in vaccine shots. After all, it must be true; they read it on Facebook.

That’s the great big macro issue. But it doesn’t stop there.

Because opinion—any opinion—is given space and validity on social media, people feel free to spout off any nasty, baseless, disgusting idea they have about anything. Including you and me. That, there, is the micro part of the equation. Big picture, the “opinions” hurt public health; writ small, they screw with self-esteem.

I’ve learned early on how to deal with, respond, or block people who want to pass judgment on me. It’s part of being a social media influencer.

More casual users, though, aren’t quite as savvy. I’ve seen some shocking and appalling comments on personal accounts, nasty stuff that is just out of bounds. Judgy comments about people’s kids, jobs, houses—whatever. It reminds of a saying I once heard: “You don’t make yourself taller by stepping on somebody else.”

If I had my wish wand (shout out to all my fellow Harry Potter fans!), I’d wish everyone had to run their social media commentary through a kindness filter before posting. You never go wrong when you’re coming from a place of compassion. Wouldn’t that be a helluva thing, a social media world where courtesy and compassion ruled the day?

Life is a love story. Chasing it, giving it, aching for it. Check, check, and check. People assume that love is easy for a social media influencer. You would think among a million (mostly male) followers, I’d have my pick of gems. You would think that love would just drop into my lap.

You’d be wrong.

That’s not to say I don’t get a lot of proposals on my social media pages. I do. It’s just that they are, let’s say, less sweep-you-off-your-feet romantic pitches than plain old X-rated suggestions. There’s just not a lot of prospective dating material popping up in my Instagram comments section.

It doesn’t help matters that I’m a dyed-in-the-wool introvert who lives in a small town. I’m not the type of gal to head down to the local pub or music venue and start chatting up potential Mr. Rights. It’s a rich irony of living life in the glare of social media, that my social life is not exactly social. So what’s a girl to do?

My answer was to jump onto dating apps.

They didn’t turn out to be the motherlode I had hoped, but at least they provided a few funny stories. Like the time I got thrown in Tinder jail. Tinder was—at the time—the most popular dating and hook-up app for people my age, so I signed up with great expectations. But before I could start swiping my way through to Prince Charming, I got an email telling me that I had been banned for “cat fishing.” Cat fishing is the online practice of stealing an identity and using it to lead people on to, say, buy something or give up their personal information. Key to the scam is that the identity you steal needs to be really appealing. So, hey, I was flattered.

But I had man-shopping to do and I wasn’t going to be deterred. I sat down and fired off an email of my own. Picture me: “Dear Mr. and Mrs. Tinder, I’m just trying to find love!” I provided what I saw as solid proof that I was who I was—scan of a utility bill, a photo of me with the day’s paper, on and on. In the end? No dice. The Tinder Troopers were certain I wasn’t who I said I was (which is kind of the theme of my book, so, okay). I never would get unbanned, and the whole experience led me to give up online dating sites for good.

The search for my very own significant other goes on … I just hope he can find his way to my living room because me and Sophie are pretty comfortable here on the couch.

There are unique challenges to carving out a career in social media while being a single mom. Those are two incredibly different roles with often conflicting responsibilities. I learned along the way that the trick is to never lose sight of what matters, and not get sucked in by what doesn’t. That can be a whole lot easier said than done, but being a mother has always helped me keep things in perspective.

You don’t have to read my book (although I’d be grateful…) to know that the woman I portray on Instagram isn’t the real me. Or, more to the point, that woman is not all I am. Don’t get me wrong, Instagram Jessica has earned me a good living and given me the opportunity to project power, control, and confidence even when I don’t see those things in the mirror. She has often inspired me into action when I would so much rather sprawl on my couch till noon, lounging in my pajamas and working on a junk-food buzz.

The truth though? Being a mother is a hundred times more fulfilling and fun. My work means I wear a lot of hats, but the label that means the most to me is “Isabella’s mom.” It didn’t start out like that.

As I wrote in Going Wilde, I struggled mightily with postpartum depression. The worst part of that horrible darkness was my inability to connect with my newborn. I can’t describe how wonderful it was when—with therapy and the right medications—the clouds parted and I began to see Izzy as she really was. My absolute everything.

When Izzy was a baby, she was a cuddle bug and I could not get enough of the snuggles and kisses. But more fascinating to me was watching her learn and grow into a fantastic young woman full of compassion and her own ideas about the world. She’s interesting, empathetic, thoughtful, and my best friend. My part in her journey includes keeping a buffer between Izzy and my work. That doesn’t mean keeping her in the dark or lying to her.

She knows I’m a model and that I use my image for financial gain. We openly discuss how important it is to maintain a positive and realistic body image. Izzy can see that the Jessica Wilde I portray on Instagram doesn’t look like the mom I am at home. Izzy knows online Jessica is photoshopped and, to a point, fabricated. None of that holds any magic for her.

I give Izzy something I never had growing up—a foundation of love and support on which she can build, and the security to fearlessly venture out in discovery and find her best self. I’m not worried about what that looks like. I’m not stressing over what she might choose to do in life or who she winds up picking for a significant other. Like most of the mothers I know, all I want for my daughter is that she be happy and fulfilled. If that happens, I’ll be happy and fulfilled, too. Take that Instagram Jessica!

Early in the process of writing my memoir, I met up with a friend for a drink. When I told her about the book, she said, “ Why would you want to write that? Doesn’t it mean reliving a lot of bad stuff?”

She wasn’t the first or the last person to ask me that question. I get it. A lot of people want their past to be in the past. We move on.

Much as I understand that, I wanted to own my story. When you put yourself out there in the digital world trying to earn a living on social media, so many people create a fiction around who you are. My followers, and lots of other people, project their own perceptions and assumptions onto Jessica Wilde. Those fictions are about their needs and their perceptions. Frankly, I’m fine with them using Jessica as a foil. But telling the truth, capturing the real story of a real woman, became an itch I badly needed to scratch.

Partly, it was the fundamental desire to feel “known.” For so much of my life I’ve been alone and understood that nobody really knew me. There’s this satisfaction when you get deeper into a relationship and the other person discovers layer after layer about you, right down to your deepest corners. I wanted to immortalize that process and that feeling.

Lastly, I wrote this book—as I do everything—for my daughter. I was intent on exploring self-image—what’s healthy and what’s not. My daughter is growing up in a world where online illusions will deeply impact her. I want to give her the tools to navigate that particular environment and come out of it whole.

It’s a lot to ask of one small book, but it was at least worth the honest effort I gave it.