For the last three weeks, I’ve been experimenting with content creation on Instagram. Instagram in my 40’s! Gasp!!

Experimenting sounds more sophisticated than admitting I’ve been checking my phone every two seconds, watching myself talk, deleting videos of myself talking and occasionally deciding the world deserves to see one.

The most fascinating part hasn’t been the algorithm. It’s been the people.

My family, for reasons I still don’t understand, have been overwhelmingly supportive.

These are people who’ve seen me at my least articulate, least glamorous and occasionally least reasonable. They have enough embarrassing material to derail an entire influencer career.

And yet, they’re my biggest cheerleaders. Almost suspicious.

Friends and their reactions have been more interesting.

Some have been wonderfully encouraging. Others have politely suggested this isn’t really my vibe.

Which made me wonder… At what point do other people become the official custodians of your vibe?

Apparently, once you’ve spent enough years being the corporate person who talks strategy and doesn’t invite public criticism, people become attached to that version of you.

Then you make an Instagram video and suddenly everyone has questions about brand consistency.

Some assumed I was doing it for money which is entertaining because spending three hours editing a 40-second reel for a tiny audience is hardly an efficient business model.

Not that I have anything against money. I like money. I’ve never understood why we’re expected to pretend otherwise. Isn’t that the whole point, TBH?

Others said that if something I share helps even one person negotiate better, navigate a difficult conversation or laugh at corporate absurdity, it’s worthwhile.

Although I’d ideally prefer more than one person. I have a competitive relationship with numbers and an obsessive need to check data every few hours. Apparently, Instagram Insights is my new performance dashboard.

Somewhere between the encouragement, scepticism and unsolicited business analysis, I realised something.

Every time you start something new, people react to the version of you they already know.

Supporters are excited about what else you might become. Sceptics are trying to reconcile it with who they thought you were.

And perhaps neither is wrong. There’s comfort in competence and after years of building a career, you know what you’re good at, which battles to fight and which meetings could have been emails.

Then you try something completely different and suddenly you’re a beginner again.

You don’t know what will work, whether anyone shares your humour or whether Instagram finds you interesting or merely tolerable. It’s uncomfortable. But unexpectedly liberating.

Because somewhere in your forties, there’s a temptation to believe you’ve already become who you’re going to be.

You’ve built your career, developed your personality and acquired strong opinions about everything from leadership to hotel pillows.

And perhaps you’ve started expecting the same things from yourself.

I don’t know where this experiment will go.

Maybe I’ll build a community of people who enjoy talking about careers, money, growing older and the absurdities of adulthood.

Maybe Instagram will continue showing my videos to 47 people, 12 of whom are related to me.

Both seem plausible but I’ve spent enough years being competent and I know I can do anything I put my mind to.

It’s rather nice to be a beginner at something that doesn’t have an annual performance review.