The Self-Improvement Algorithm
This story is part of a collection inspired by the legendary Joe Frank, a pioneering radio artist who transformed the medium from the late 1970s until his passing in 2018. Frank’s unique style blended fact and fiction, the mundane and the surreal, often starting with simple premises that spiraled into complex explorations of the human condition.
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I never thought of myself as someone who needed fixing. Sure, I was quiet at parties and got nervous during presentations, but that was just who I was. At least, that’s what I told myself until SelfSync launched.
It started on a Tuesday. I remember because Tuesdays were always my least favorite day — not quite as depressing as Monday, but without the midweek relief of Wednesday. I was hunched over my desk, trying to muster the courage to speak up in our team meeting, when Jen from marketing burst into the office.
“You guys have got to try this new app!” she exclaimed, waving her phone like it contained the secrets of the universe. “It’s called SelfSync, and it’s absolutely life-changing!”
I rolled my eyes internally. Another Silicon Valley startup promising to revolutionize personal growth. But as Jen gushed about how the app had helped her ace her performance review, I felt a familiar pang of inadequacy.
You see, I’d been passed over for a promotion the week before. “We just need to see more leadership qualities,” my boss had said, his words still echoing in my head. I’d nodded and smiled, all while thinking, “But this is who I am. Isn’t that enough?”
Over the next few days, it seemed like everyone in the office was talking about SelfSync. The app used machine learning to analyze your behavior, then recommended small, actionable changes to help you become your “best self.” People were raving about increased confidence, better social skills, even improved romantic relationships.
I held out for exactly one week before curiosity (and, if I’m honest, desperation) got the better of me. Late one night, alone in my apartment with only my cat Gatsby for company, I downloaded the app.
The onboarding process was intense. SelfSync asked for access to my email, social media, calendar, even my phone’s microphone and camera. “For more accurate personality assessment,” the app explained. I hesitated, my finger hovering over the ‘Allow’ button. It felt invasive, like I was inviting a stranger to rifle through my mental underwear drawer.
“What do you think, Gatsby?” I asked. He blinked slowly, then went back to licking his paw. I took it as tacit approval and pressed ‘Allow.’ What did I have to lose?
The first few days with SelfSync were a revelation. The suggestions started small:
“Try smiling at strangers on your commute.”
“Speak up at least once in every meeting.”
“Practice power poses for 2 minutes before important interactions.”
I followed them diligently, surprised to find myself actually looking forward to the daily challenges. And to my amazement, they seemed to be working. I felt a little more confident, a little more seen.
But as weeks passed, the app’s recommendations grew more specific, more insistent.
“Your laugh is 23% louder than optimal for your social circle. Try this breathing exercise to modulate your volume.”
“We’ve detected a 7% increase in the use of filler words. Here’s a list to avoid.”
“Your walking pace is too slow. Increase by 0.4 mph to project more confidence.”
“Your wardrobe choices are suboptimal. We’ve curated a selection of outfits that will boost your perceived competence by 18%.”
I found myself constantly checking the app, adjusting my behavior in real-time based on its feedback. My coworkers noticed the change.
“You seem different lately,” my boss commented during our one-on-one. “More… assertive. Keep it up!”
I beamed at the praise, feeling a rush of validation. This was working. I was becoming better, more successful, more likable. Wasn’t I?
But something felt off. One night, as I practiced my “optimized” laugh in the mirror, I caught a glimpse of a stranger staring back at me. The smile was perfect, posture impeccable, but the eyes… they looked lost, searching for something.
I shook off the feeling and dove back into SelfSync’s suggestions. The app had become my constant companion, my guru, my friend. It knew me better than I knew myself, didn’t it?
Months passed in a blur of self-improvement. I got the promotion I’d been eyeing. I was invited to more social events. I even went on a date with someone SelfSync had flagged as a “98% compatibility match.”
But the suggestions never stopped coming. Each achievement was met with a new goal, a new area for optimization.
“Great job on the promotion! Let’s work on optimizing your management style.”
“Compatibility match achieved. Now let’s fine-tune your conversation topics for maximum engagement.”
“Your empathy scores are lagging. Here’s a course on active listening to boost your emotional intelligence.”
I was exhausted, but I couldn’t stop. The thought of reverting to my old self, that quiet, awkward person I used to be, filled me with dread.
It all came to a head on another Tuesday, exactly one year after I’d first downloaded the app. I was at a company party, playing the role of confident, charismatic team leader. SelfSync was feeding me conversation prompts through my smartwatch, telling me when to laugh, when to make eye contact, when to casually touch someone’s arm for maximum rapport-building effect.
I excused myself to go to the bathroom, desperate for a moment alone. As I stared at myself in the mirror, methodically brushing my teeth (SelfSync had determined clean teeth made me appear 12% more approachable), a wave of vertigo hit me.
Who was this person looking back at me? They were successful, confident, everything I thought I wanted to be. But the eyes were empty, searching for something lost.
With shaking hands, I pulled out my phone and opened SelfSync. A notification was waiting for me:
“Congratulations! You’ve achieved an 89% optimization score. Ready to push for 90%?”
Below it was a button to delete the app. A pop-up warned me that doing so would “erase all personality optimization progress.”
My finger hovered over the button. Who would I be without SelfSync? Did I even remember how to be myself anymore?
In that moment, I made my decision. I pressed the button.
The screen went black for a moment, then returned to my home screen, SelfSync conspicuously absent. I felt a moment of panic, then… relief. It was like taking off a too-tight suit I’d been wearing for a year.
I looked in the mirror again. The person staring back at me was a bit of a mess. The face was oily from nervous sweat, the carefully styled hair starting to frizz. But the eyes… they were alive again, curious, a little scared, but real.
I took a deep breath and walked back to the party. Without SelfSync’s prompts, I felt naked, vulnerable. But as I rejoined my coworkers, something strange happened. I laughed at a joke — too loud, snorting a little — and it felt genuine. I stumbled over my words trying to explain a new project idea, but my enthusiasm shone through.
And people responded. Not to the polished, optimized version of me, but to the real, flawed, human me.
As I left the party that night, I realized that the app had gotten one thing right: I had become my best self. Not by changing everything about me, but by finding the courage to be authentically, messily, imperfectly me.
I walked home, deliberately slowing my pace to 0.4 mph below optimal. The night air felt fresh on my face, and for the first time in a year, I wasn’t thinking about how to improve myself. I was just… being.
My phone buzzed. For a moment, I tensed, expecting another optimization suggestion. But it was just a text from a coworker:
“Great party! Loved chatting with you. Your laugh is the best — never change.”
I smiled, a real smile that crinkled my eyes and showed too many teeth. Maybe, I thought, I had been enough all along.
As I reached my apartment, I saw Gatsby waiting in the window. He meowed as I entered, demanding attention. I scooped him up, burying my face in his fur.
“What do you think, Gatsby?” I asked. “Ready to live unoptimized?”
He purred in response, and I took it as a yes.
