It’s 1:30 a.m., and I’m in my family’s living room giggling and staring at my laptop screen. I’ve been online for 10 hours in a chatroom with a rotating cast of friends. We have members from every time zone, scattered across the globe; the Australians are just coming online while some of the Americans are logging off. Some have work tomorrow, most have school like me. But the current topic is more important: The newest episode of Doctor Who featured a lizard lady and her lesbian lover, and it’s a big deal.

This is how I spent most of my nights from age 14 to 18. Years online allowed me to build up a network of queer friends across the globe when I was sorely lacking any in real life.

I grew up with my sexuality a secret. I always knew that I liked girls, but people around me kept reminding me why I shouldn’t tell anyone. When I was four, a friend told me it was yucky to kiss girls. I told my best friend I might like girls and boys when I was 11; when she told a bunch of my peers at a sleepover I wasn’t invited to, they decided that it was disgusting. At 13 a teacher told me gay marriage was a sin. My French Catholic school upbringing instilled in me the idea of guilt, so I felt ashamed when I looked for queer content. Over time I learned to keep my sexuality, my feelings to myself.

My mom hooked up our household with an internet connection in 2006, shortly after the sleepover incident. I found my comfort zone online. It started slow, Googling terms and immediately clearing my search history in fear. Forums became my go-to for stories of people’s lived experiences. I’d stay up late using the web browser on my handheld video game console to read as much as I could. Hiding under my blanket with the lights out, I’d go through pages of LGBTQ support forums. I found out other people liked girls too, and that it was normal to have crushes on my friends.

Queer mentorship is complicated: In my everyday life I didn’t have anyone to talk to or look up to. But online, there were thousands of people who could offer support. My parents were initially uncomfortable with the amount of time I was spending online; they didn’t understand why I was staying up late and constantly on my phone. One night, I had my mom come into my room and meet my chatroom pals. They introduced themselves and made small talk, and from then on there was a new understanding. She would tell me to say hi to people I was messaging, and even bought a card to mail to one friend with whom she shared a birthday. She saw how important these people were to me, that I had found a lifeline in friends who supported each other. The internet can seem like a cold and untrusting place; but for youth, like me, struggling with identity, online connections are invaluable.

By 2013 the internet helped me understand the nuances of my different identities, and I came out as both queer and non-binary. For me being non-binary means being completely outside of the gender binary of male and female. I try to avoid gendering products, ideas, or behaviours. I prefer to be confusing rather than categorized. I like to imagine my gender like a void—endless and vacant.

I also started making online LGBTQ friends. Mazz, for instance, was only a few months older than me but knew much more about queerness. After my first LGBTQ dance held in a neighbouring town’s high school, Mazz encouraged me to message the cute girl I’d met and danced with. I made a Tumblr blog when I was 15 and slowly began following other blogs run by queer kids. Some analyzed queer representation in media; others were an online record of their owners’ existence as LGBTQ people. This online, intangible world became a haven: It was proof others like me existed.

My online support system bolstered me to talk openly about my identities in real life. Later in 2013, I came out with a Facebook post that friends, family, and classmates could read. A few hours later I got a message from my mom asking what non-binary meant and what she should know. That was that: No awkward conversation, no crying, no shouting. The internet helped me streamline my coming-out process: It gave me the power to plan my words and share my identities with a chosen audience, and it gave my mother time to understand and research. The next time we met in person, she used my preferred pronouns—and it’s been that way ever since.

Coming out online gives the process a form of permanence: It’s always in my web history and I can re-share it without having to stress. This year when I moved and made new friends, I posted on my Instagram story for Trans Day of Visibility to remind everyone and let new friends know that my pronouns are they/them/their. The internet also provides filters: I can easily remove those who don’t approve of my identities from my life without a scary and potentially dangerous in-person interaction.

These days I’m vocal about being non-binary and queer, and I’ve built a community offline. Online, I’ve kept in touch with my chatroom friends. I might not need them as much as I did, but we still send each other links about our favourite shows and encourage one another.

The internet has revolutionized how queer youth can learn about themselves. Queer knowledge and mentorship is more accessible than ever before. More kids will be able to educate themselves, find communities, and even change the world along the way.

When most kids in his age are in a classroom learning angles, Ben Hewitt’s son is making a bow. He’s testing the string and the flex of the wood. He shoots an arrow and figures out which angle makes the arrow fly the farthest, flinging them around the Vermont acreage the Hewitts call home. He’s been making bows for the past few months now. He was never shown how and no one told him he should or that he needed to. He doesn’t get graded on how his bow looks or how straight his arrows fly, because he doesn’t have any teachers. He learns on his own about whatever interests him that day.

As Hewitt outlines in his book Home Grown: Adventures in Parenting off the Beaten Path, Unschooling, and Reconnecting with the Natural World, his son isn’t being educated by attending school but by discovering and understanding the world around him as he chooses to experience it. The Hewitts, like a growing number of North American parents, are turning to alternative forms of educating their children in a system they believe will better nurture the desire to learn than formal, traditional education. One such method is known as “unschooling.”

Proposed by educator John Holt in the 1970s, unschooling is a form of education that advocates for student-chosen activities as the primary form of learning. Its core goal is to separate the idea of learning from that of formal academic settings and signatures. It eschews the structures often accepted as required for education: There are no tests, no set curriculum, and most importantly, no need to attend school. Instead, this form of homeschooling places trust in the natural curiosity of a child to dictate what they want to learn—and how they want to learn it.

Unschooling parents don’t consider themselves teachers, either. They view their role as facilitators, there to provide guidance to support the direction of the child. Advocates of the unschooling philosophy claim people, especially children, learn best when interested and engaged with the material and, since the child chooses what they’ll learn, that interest is already present. It doesn’t require teachers striving to discover a way for children to connect to the material, because the child has already made the choice to engage. Essentially, unschooling gets other people out of the way.

Alternative learning often makes people uncomfortable—and unschooling, an extreme form of untraditional learning, is no exception. It removes many of the parts that are normally used in our understanding of the idea of learning. But are our current, traditional methods of schooling really that much better?

Opponents say unschooling, like homeschooling as a whole, may be a hindrance to child development. Primarily, critics argue that school is a child’s main source of socialization. Despite there being many avenues where homeschooled children can socialize—the internet has made it much easier for like-minded parents to meet and organize a community, not to mention recreational sports, church, or community events—the mental image of a stunted, socially lacking homeschooled child still persists in the minds of many. A 2011 study, published in The Journal of Unschooling and Alternative Learning, found some validity to this claim. Of 75 people who identified as being unschooled for at least three years in their childhood or adolescence—one of the only studies conducted to explore how unschooled children end up as adults—one out of five respondents cited social isolation as a problem.

Then there is the lack of qualifications and the level of knowledge of the parents themselves. If your child, for example, takes an interest in physics at a young age while you struggled with high school math, your role as a facilitator may end up holding back your child’s development. That said, in the aforementioned study, 83 percent of respondents went on to pursue some form of higher education. In fact, according to the written response component of the study, the biggest issue faced by parents who practise unschooling is feeling they need to convince people it isn’t absurd.

Alison Acheson, a practitioner of this method of learning, herself a lecturer at the University of British Columbia, says she’s often asked about what happens if a child doesn’t want to do anything at all. She finds it odd “how easily accepted the idea that a child, if left alone, will do nothing. And if they do, so what? Let them bore themselves back to life. And sometimes all of us need to sit and stare out a window for as long as needed.”

The ideology of unschooling is also meant to sever the concept that our time spent in school should define our childhood. Think of how many hours are spent in a classroom: 30 hours a week, plus homework, for 12 years until students are ready to start their adult lives. But unschooling argues that life doesn’t begin only after schooling has commenced. Childhood shouldn’t be viewed as a means to an end; it’s not an appetizer with the main course coming only after graduation.

School sets guidelines, most times by necessity due to class size, unruly students, or budget constraints. These guidelines and regulations perpetuate a set type of learning, commonly leaning toward rote memorization: Children learn how to memorize information in order to take tests, not how to apply that information into new scenarios. It’s a style of learning that hinders critical-thinking skills.

Scheduling education also defines a time when we consider ourselves having to learn. The aptitudes or interests of a child are sidelined to the demands required of formal education. Activities and hobbies pursued outside of those school hours are categorized in our mind as “play.” That’s not the problem—we need play.

But, when we internalize a difference between play and work, the pleasure we receive from the latter decreases. It’s well documented that people’s enjoyment of an activity suffers when there is an expected external incentive, such as money, prizes, or in the case of school, grades. We begin to associate the activity as a task instead of as an interest, and we complete it for the reward, the fun of it—not because we really want it completed.

Creating a learning environment without defined schedules and structures reinforces the idea that learning can happen anywhere, any time. And since the student chooses what to learn, he or she views it as a passion. Interest, then, is self-motivated. As is the case with Ben Hewitt’s son and his bows, the measure of success isn’t always what he’s learning, but that he’s learning.

It’s clear I’ve been side-stepping a major, fundamental problem with the subject of unschooling: It simply isn’t feasible for the vast majority of parents, as it involves a constant presence when many cannot provide that due to other constraints, such as work. But that doesn’t mean that the principles at the heart of unschooling can’t be incorporated into a child’s relationship with learning. The components within this school of thought that foster a life-long interest in learning—a focus on intrinsic motivation, self-determination, and cultivating, not regulating, an interest in activities— are not incompatible with a traditional education. For most, schools are required to prepare children for the world—but it shouldn’t define theirs.

A few years ago, at a freelancing workshop, I participated in an exercise about the power of personal branding. I had my doubts but was not quick enough to duck out, like other attendees. It was the dreaded “get to know you” session of the workshop. We moved our chairs to the centre of the room, forming two lines across from one another and sat down. A few extraverts leaned in enthusiastically, while the rest of us glanced longingly at the exit.

The instructions were simple: 90 seconds to tell the person across from you about yourself and your work. After that, a buzzer went off and they got their turn. Then we shifted to the chair on our right and began all over again until we had “pitched” ourselves to everyone in the room. We were advised to make our 90 seconds matter. Be clear, stimulating, and authentic. Go!

At the end of it, my parched throat could barely croak out my name. I remembered no one. Embarrassing snippets of my elevator speech nagged me on the way home: In a breathless, hurried voice, I had said, “I’m a writer with purpose!” and then vainly tried to convince both of us what that meant. Words like “lifestyle,” “content creation,” “specializing,” and “communications” buzzed through the room. I remembered feeling that this type of promoting involved physical stamina and that perhaps I needed to work out more. I was exhausted.

When I returned home, my fatigue morphed into disgust. What had I just done? Why did I feel emptied of personal integrity? What happened to the complexity of the human soul? I had reduced mine to a minute and half of blather. To what end? To commodify myself?

What a concept, personal branding. The private and the personal on the one hand, and advertising and product on the other. How did these two oppositional words ever transform into one concept?

Tom Peters is largely credited with coining the phrase in his 1997 article, “The Brand Called You,” published in Fast Company magazine. He proposed, in an enthusiastic self-help tone, to think of yourself as a company or “free agent,” and to know your “worth on the open market.” Over the years the lines between commercial and personal interests have blurred to such an extent that we no longer appear to notice. Individuals are told to “invest” in themselves; people are considered “markets”; stories are “content”; and corporations have the status of “person” under the law. Dating sites, places designed to foster intimacy, look like catalogues with people to purchase. No wonder we’re confused.

In an age like ours, where many are overworked, overwhelmed, and distracted, there is a panic and pressure to whittle yourself down to a pithy line so you can get on with the business of life. On top of that, less job security and the growing replacement of traditional employment with freelance and independent contract work creates growing pressure to solidify your reputation.

By 2020, it’s estimated freelancers will make up 50 percent of the U.S. workforce. In Canada, almost all of the job growth in 2016 was due to part-time work. People feel compelled to reach out to as many “markets” as possible with information that is pre-packaged, easy to digest, and prepared in small bites.

Even after an hour of personal brand training, I felt the pressure to turn myself into something snackable—not a meal, but a mere morsel, the small snack that you forgot you ate later in the day.

Yet, marketing yourself has only grown in popularity. Books, such as You, Inc.: The Art of Selling Yourself, Me 2.0: Build a Powerful Brand to Achieve Career Success, and the popular and aptly named “Personal Branding Blog,” advise readers on how to build and protect their most saleable qualities.

And personal branding does not just happen during work hours; it also bleeds into your personal life. The real work is online, maintaining profiles on your website, your blog, Facebook, LinkedIn, Instagram, Pinterest, and Twitter. The number one tip from a Globe and Mail article about building personal brands urges us to “be visible and accessible.” The second tip? “Show the real you.”

Of course, promoters of personal branding don’t actually mean that. They’re referring to the best you, the sellable version. The parts that have little or nothing to do with making money are shunted to the side, as are the intriguing facets of the self that contradict one another. Authenticity can’t be possible when the essence of branding is selling yourself.

I’m not saying articulating who you are and what you stand for isn’t powerful. But knowing yourself is a process. It’s fluid; it changes and grows. Part of my difficulty with an elevator speech is that it’s rehearsed and performed. It’s static. Who wants to repeat the same version of themselves over and over? Spontaneity, or at least not rehearsing what you’re going to say, leads to the possibility of real dialogue and connection. It may not be slick, but it just might be memorable.

Clearly, I will never master the elevator speech. My personal brand will suffer. I may miss out on opportunities. But I’m in this life for the fullness of the experience, professionally and personally.

It’s a feast. And it takes a lot longer than 90 seconds.

Illustration by Dave Donald

The importance of thinking before you click

Online media has monetized humanity’s rubbernecking reflex like never before. “Clickbait,” as defined by Urban Dictionary, is an “eye-catching link on a website which encourages people to read on. It is often paid for by the advertiser or generates income on the number of clicks.” Clickbait is now a widespread phenomenon. These highly clickable links to videos, articles or images thrive on the lowest forms of controversy and intrigue, attracting an audience in the same manner as a bar fight or a car accident.

Back in September of 2013, a viral image spread across the internet: Miley Cyrus in a leather bikini, with knobby pigtails and lascivious red lips, twerking into Robin Thicke’s black-and-white Beetlejuice pants. I saw it paired with an ostensibly feminist headline drubbing the performer. Eager to hear what new lows Cyrus had sunk to, I clicked.

Days later, it seemed, I emerged from the haze of Cyrusbait now repulsed by the image, much the way you might react to the sight of tequila the morning after a binge. Had I learned anything new about the exploitation of female performers? No, I’d gorged on sugary listicles like “22 Things That Miley Cyrus Looked Like at the 2013 VMAs.” Had I ruminated on contemporary approaches to feminism? No, I’d watched as discussion devolved into mud-slinging between Miley Cyrus, Sinead O’Connor, and Amanda Palmer. And I was primed for the new Miley Cyrus video “Wrecking Ball” when it came out—with artful timing—just a few days after the controversy. I clicked, yet again, along with millions of other viewers.

Once we were through with Miley, more highly clickable stories arose in her wake: David Gilmour teaching only “serious heterosexual guys”; the Rob Ford crack circus; Brazilian prostitutes taping Justin Bieber sleeping; a toy company suing the Beastie Boys—to name just a few.

Some of these stories touch on important issues—the pervasive power of straight white men in the literary world, dangerously irresponsible civil servants—but mainly it’s a bunch of people doing stupid shit. Why are we giving them so much attention?

The answer, of course, is money. Websites like BuzzFeed, Upworthy, and Huffington Post are figuring out the best way to pair journalism with ads that are designed so that you can barely distinguish the two. BuzzFeed uses an algorithm to determine what people click on, and then marries successful campaigns with “BuzzFeed Partners” like Virgin Mobile. New York magazine estimates this new “advertorial” approach to journalism nets BuzzFeed around $40 million a year in ad revenue (BuzzFeed does not release official numbers). Jonah Perretti, BuzzFeed’s founder, described the relationship between his company and Facebook by saying, “They own the railroad tracks, we drive the trains.”

Upworthy employs a team to run randomized tests and determine the most clickable headlines. The formulaic nature of these headlines has spawned imitators and parodies, but remains shockingly effective. Before the site was two years old, it had 22 million visitors a month and had raised $8 million from investors—cash that these investors want to see returned. Naturally, Upworthy is trying out its own forays in sponsored stories. Unlike BuzzFeed, Upworthy produces no original content at all; it functions through aggregation and reframing, and as of March, partnerships with hard-news sites like ProPublica. Huffington Post uses the same mixed editorial/advertorial approach—also called “native advertising”—as Upworthy and BuzzFeed, and was sold to AOL for $300 million in cash.

We may think we’re getting a great deal with all this free and fun clickbait, but we’re paying for it dearly in other ways. Tech start-ups and advertising companies are colluding to turn us into a bunch of rats in Skinner boxes, primed to click for the next sugary reward, while they make big bucks off “sponsored content” stories about the new Xbox or Chevy Corvette. In a world of narcissistic articles like, “23 Signs You’re Secretly an Introvert,” hard-hitting journalism becomes an endangered species. War reporters in Aleppo can’t afford health insurance and are paid $70 per article—barely enough for a night’s room and board in the war-torn region.

You can fight back by doing one simple thing: think before you click. Don’t click or share what will only make you or others uselessly angry. (No more Margaret Wente columns—we only have ourselves to blame for her continued career.) You can employ online tools, like Rather (GetRather.com), which allow you to filter out clickbait generators and stories. You can follow Twitter feeds like @Huffpospoilers and @Upworthyspoilers which skewer leading tweets and reveal the banal answers behind mysterious headlines. You can support quality journalism. You can choose not to stop and gawk at the spectacle.

Laura Trethewey lives in Vancouver, where she writes fiction and non-fiction for Geist, the National Post and other publications. Her work has been nominated for a National Magazine Award and a Western Magazine Award.