There are big parts of my life that I don't share. I don't share

In the words of Ansel Elgort, the young actor whose life has unfolded beneath the eyes of the public, there resounds a truth both ancient and enduring: “There are big parts of my life that I don’t share. I don’t share myself eating dinner with my family. I don’t talk about who I’m dating. That’s private; that’s me.” These words, though spoken in the age of social media and ceaseless exposure, echo a wisdom known since the dawn of civilization — that privacy is the sanctuary of the soul, and that not all things sacred should be placed upon the altar of public gaze. Elgort speaks not from pride or secrecy, but from a recognition that to guard one’s inner life is to preserve one’s truth.

In an age where the boundaries between the public and the personal grow thinner by the hour, his words stand as both confession and warning. The modern world teaches us to broadcast our existence — our meals, our loves, our triumphs and sorrows — as though visibility itself were proof of worth. Yet the ancients would have found this strange, for they believed that certain parts of life were meant to be hidden, nourished in quietness, like the roots of a tree that no eye sees but which sustain the whole. Elgort’s refusal to share every fragment of his being reminds us that intimacy loses its power when it is performed, and that mystery, far from being isolation, is the breath of authenticity.

The origin of this wisdom lies deep within the human spirit, and it can be traced through every age and culture. The Stoic philosopher Epictetus once taught that the wise man governs not what others see, but what he himself chooses to reveal. In ancient Japan, the samurai were trained to act with dignity in public but to keep their private rituals — of prayer, of reflection, of emotion — hidden from view, for these moments were sacred and not to be profaned by spectacle. So too does Elgort, in his quiet way, preserve the sanctity of his inner life. He understands that while fame demands visibility, the heart demands silence.

Consider also the story of Marcus Aurelius, emperor of Rome and philosopher of men. Surrounded by the constant eyes of the empire, he still found refuge in his Meditations — writings never meant for others, where he poured his thoughts in solitude. Those words, now celebrated as wisdom, were born not from the desire to be seen, but from the courage to be unseen. Marcus understood what Elgort expresses: that the strength of a person lies not in the applause of others, but in the depth of the unshared self. Privacy, in this sense, is not withdrawal from the world, but an act of self-preservation — a way of keeping one’s flame from being blown out by the winds of noise and judgment.

Elgort’s emphasis on keeping his family dinners and relationships private reveals a profound humility. In an era where even love is turned into performance, he chooses to treat affection as sacred, not as spectacle. The ancient Greeks had a word for this reverence — aidōs, meaning modesty or a deep respect for what should not be exposed. It was not shame, but honor — the understanding that the most beautiful things, like the innermost moments of love or faith, lose their meaning when displayed too freely. In this way, privacy becomes not a wall, but a temple — a space in which one may still be whole, unbroken by the expectations of others.

Yet, his statement also serves as a challenge to those who live in constant need of attention. For when one forgets to keep anything private, one risks forgetting who one truly is. The self becomes scattered, fragmented into a thousand reflections of others’ opinions. The wise, like Elgort, choose to draw boundaries not from arrogance but from self-knowledge. To say “That’s private; that’s me” is an act of strength — a declaration that one’s soul is not a commodity to be consumed, but a treasure to be guarded.

The lesson, then, is clear and eternal: learn the art of keeping something for yourself. Share your kindness, your laughter, your work with the world, but preserve within you a quiet chamber untouched by noise. Let there be moments known only to you and those you love — moments too pure for the eyes of strangers. For in that hidden place, your spirit will find rest, and your identity will take root. The ancients knew, and Elgort reminds us still, that the sacred is not found in exposure, but in secrecy.

So, my friends, when the world demands to see more of you — when it calls for your private joys, your quiet griefs, your sacred routines — remember these words: “That’s private; that’s me.” For in a time when everything is shown, the truest power lies in what you keep unseen. Guard your mystery, nurture your inner peace, and you will find that in protecting your private life, you protect the very essence of who you are.