Introduction

I, like many others, cringe slightly when I see old photos of myself.

During a recent attempt to declutter—my so-called pre-September cleanup—I stumbled upon an old skateboard of mine. Coated in dust, it lay behind a stack of old books as a relic of my short-lived “skater girl” phase: back in 2020, my friends graciously gifted it to me, thinking I’d become the next TikTok star. I used it about four times before claiming I wasn’t cut out for extreme sports, and since then, it has claimed a permanent spot in… Well, my heart, but mostly my storage closet.

This sudden trend extended to other realms, too. Filters became overly saturated, everything became ten times more colourful in a world that was otherwise bleak. In a way, it seemed that when nobody was physically present to judge you, fashion was suddenly much more eclectic, much more ambitious.

We all participated—until we didn’t.

The Pendulum of Trends

I picked up skateboarding because TikTok told me it was the cool thing to do. It was unique. It was different. It was “alt”. I appreciate it’s been around a while, but in the same way that pilates is trending now, it was the activity during lockdown.

As if overnight, the world grew bored of this ‘aesthetic’. Out went the fluorescents and fishnets, replaced by minimalist matching sets and muted shades of beige. All of a sudden, what was ‘different’ was being minimalistic: healthy living, ‘clean girl’ makeup, journalling. All the ‘grown up’ stuff that went against our 2020 style. The shift felt sudden, but in reality, it was just another swing of what I like to call the pendulum of trends: a back-and-forth switch between two lifestyles, in a hopeless pursuit of happiness.

Think about pretty much every trend that has come out of social media.

• ‘Muscle mommy’ to ‘pilates princess’.
• ‘Clean girl’ to ‘brat summer’.
• ‘Girlboss’ to ‘trad wife’.

Each shift represents a rebellion against what came before: a pendulum, swinging from side to side, from one extreme to the other. It really is the pinnacle of this obsession of going against the grain, of constantly believing the grass is always greener on the other side.

We’re obsessed with people who live different lives to us. Whilst we’re working in a city, probably suffering from equal bouts of chronic stress and a lack of leisure time, we see these people online living in cottages in the countryside, making loaves of bread with all the time and care in the world. We yearn for a simple life, away from all the overstimulation of social media. Until, of course, “city life core” starts trending and all of a sudden, living in the rural country is the muddiest, most unappealing thing in the world.

In my case, it was the volume of TikToks applauding “skater girls” that subconsciously convinced me it was the right path. I followed these skater girls blindly until I caved and ended up with a skateboard I used, as previously mentioned, quite literally four times.

Peer pressure is not “If your friends jumped off a cliff, would you?”. Now, it’s simply: “If everyone is posting about it, why aren’t you doing it?”.

In this metaphorical scenario, jumping off a cliff is like following the skater girls into skater girl abyss. ‘Falling into the ocean’ would equate to wasting the £50 it cost my friends to buy me a skateboard– but what if it wasn’t as trivial as skateboarding? What if the trend was much more dangerous? Now, we’re not talking about a loss of money: we’re talking a loss of health, a loss of identity, a loss of environmental sustainability.

For example, in terms of health, some researchers point towards the concept of “mass sociogenic illness”.

To sum up this article in the most consice way possible, studies showed an increase in functional tic-like behaviours (FTLBs) diagnoses after the pandemic, possibly due to the increase in social media portrayals of these tics. These researchers claim that while there may have been a multitude of factors that contributed to this rise, “it is hard to ignore the similarities in pattern and behavior between the social media influencers and the patients presenting to movement disorder clinics around the world.”

Obviously, this correlation is multifaceted (for more depth, read this summary), but if people are picking up these traits because of social media, it gives a much more dangerous power.

It’s a much more discreet form of peer pressure. More discreet because it pops up everywhere in subliminal messages: product placement, trends all over social media, and so on. And it’s dangerous because we’re unaware we’re practically leaping off the cliff, heading straight into the ocean.

We’re constantly, vainly, searching for an answer to our unhappiness. Or rather than an answer, an escape. An identity.

Young people are particularly susceptible to this phenomenon. In general, we need to feel a part of a community (which is probably an evolutionary mechanism) and social media only exacerbates this. Before, there may have been cliques in high school, but now these cliques are everywhere, all the time. You’re stuck in a box labelled ‘clean girl’ or ‘thought daughter’ or whatever term is trending, but you’ll never quite feel like you’ll belong.

Because here’s the thing: these labels are made to sell things, not to welcome you into a like-minded community. You want to be a runner girl? Running obviously isn’t enough; you need two pairs of Hokas, cool shades, and an Apple Watch — a Garmin if you’re really into it.

Social media isn’t inherently social, and that’s why it’s free. It’s a platform for selling and for buying. It’s no wonder we never feel satisfied, because we’re always told there’s something else we need to buy, something else we need to do — only now, it’s happening faster than ever.

Influencers have personal brands. Alix Earle, for example, rose to fame because of her perfect encapsulation of the college party girl experience. Every successful influencer has their ‘aesthetic’ and it makes people want to become an aesthetic, too– which is impossible, because they’re a business brand and you’re a multifaceted person. They’re selling what you believe will give you an identity. And oftentimes, this is far from the truth.

Think of the words we use in social media. “Friends”. “Likes”. “Followers”. We’re redefining what it means to stay connected. Mutual connections (“friends”) are no longer meaningful relationships: they’re simply two people who have clicked a button. Being “liked” is no longer a personal judgement, it’s a number next to the Instagram post you just put up. And “followers”? There’s almost a religious connotation to the term. It’s as if we’re blindly following a new generation of messiahs who will dictate what’s ‘good’ or ‘right’ (the product they’re selling).

Perhaps we’re also particularly susceptible to these trends because of the pandemic. These key developmental years were defined by short-form content and increasingly pitiful attention spans: social media, in all its glorious inauthenticity, was our only form of contact with others. It’s as if the speed at which trends change reflects the speed at which we consume content, as if the algorithms online dictate our lives outside of our phones.

So, how much of who we are is truly us, and how much is just what’s trending?

Conclusion

In the end, my dusty skateboard is more than just a relic of a short-lived phase—it’s a reminder of how easily we can be swept up in the currents of social media trends, chasing an identity that isn’t actually ours. The rapid rise and fall of these fads leave us constantly searching for the next big thing, often without stopping to ask if it’s what we really want. As trends continue to cycle, the challenge is to stay grounded in who we are, rather than who we’re told to be, and to discover what makes us ‘us’.

I hope this gave you some food for thought. If you have any questions, suggestions, or simply want to give your opinion, feel free to comment down below. Otherwise, have a lovely rest of your day, and see you soon.

• Carlota xxx