It’s okay not to be okay.
This phrase, now ubiquitous across social media, has become a comfortable mantra for those who struggle with mental health. It seems like a sweet reminder, a gentle nudge to embrace our imperfections and struggles. But in reality, it is much darker–an empty catchphrase hacked by an influencer-driven culture that profits off emotional labor and personal trauma. The rise of the Mentally Ill Girl aesthetic” has transformed mental health struggles from personal battles into visual trends, “personality trait quizzes” to talk about with friends, and worse, marketable commodities. This essay will explore the rise of the “mentally ill girl aesthetic” and the way it reflects the troubling commodification of mental health in the age of social media. What started as an expression of vulnerability has been twisted into a performative, profit-driven identity–one that trivializes mental illness, turning real pain into an aesthetic to be consumed.
My first personal introduction to mental health came when I was sixteen, during a moment that still feels absurd in retrospect. At my high school, the same girl who once whispered insults behind people’s backs was suddenly leading a campaign for “mental health awareness.” They filmed a promotional video–reminiscent of Mean Girls– for a schoolwide “mental health week,” complete with Pinterest-worthy quotes, trendy but shallow self-care advice, and mindfulness tips pulled from the first page of Google. What was meant to be a safe, inclusive space felt like a performance. Surrounded by classmates who suddenly wore their trauma like their accessories. The exact ways where breakdowns were once a source of gossip were now lined with pastel posters reminding us to “Just breathe” and “Be kind.” Something didn’t feel right; it wasn’t that mental health was finally being discussed. The language was curated and sanitized. The faces behind the campaign had slogans of confessed surface-level experiences of mental health issues and missing themselves without the proper information. Making others who suffer so profoundly feel even more alone.
That moment was not only the first exposure but also an understanding of the commodification of the struggle. It was mental health awareness without the mess, the nuance, or the accountability. It was activism as an aesthetic, where vulnerability was encouraged only if it was pretty, palatable, and Instagrammable. What I witnessed in the High school hallway has since exploded into a digital phenomenon: influencers crying on TikTok between sponsored posts, the glamorization of trauma on shows like Euphoria, and a generation that learned to self-diagnose to feel seen in a world that rewards performative pain.
I intend to unpack the cultural machinery behind the Mentally Ill Girl archetype by examining media theory, internet feminism, and real-world pain.
When the hit HBO Max show Euphoria aired, I remember watching it with a strange mix of awe and discomfort. The visuals were nothing I had ever seen; the soundtrack played repeatedly on my phone, and the characters, especially Rue, felt painfully honest. But what was so unsettling about the show wasn’t just what was on the screen but how everyone around me responded. Friends began to post quotes from the show, filming with glitter tears and romanticizing the numbness. Some related sincerely, and that made sense. But others seemed to perform their sadness like a trend, slipping into archetypes they hadn’t lived but wanted to wear. It was as if vulnerability had become fashionable, and “being broken” had been rebranded as edgy.
I saw it in myself as well. There were moments I caught reflection, half asleep, mascara smudged, and hadn’t left my bed, and thought, I look like I am in Euphoria. I don’t look tired or need help, but I look cinematic. I was disturbed by my realization: we sought aesthetics instead of healing. Instead of talking about our pain, we were trying to make it palatable. That is the danger of the Mentally Ill Girl Aesthetic” –it blurs the line between expression and limitation, between lived experience and performative identity.
In the age of participatory media and influencer capitalism, the rise of the Mentally Ill Girl aesthetic on platforms like TikTok or shows like Euphoria reflects a troubling shift: mental illness is no longer just a personal struggle but a marketable identity shaped by algorithms and fandom culture and encoded for consumption. This ultimately blurs the line between authenticity and performance in both digital and real-life spaces.
I remember scrolling through Tumblr at thirteen, watching girls turn their sadness into something shimmering. Crying selfies, cigarette ash on a mood board, and much more. We weren’t just watching each other suffer but participating in it. As stated in Henry Jenkins’s Fandom Participatory Culture Textual Poachers, “Fan culture production is often motivated by social reciprocity, friendship, and good feeling rather than economic self-interest” (Jenkins). For many of us, reblogging these images wasn’t about attention. It was trying to belong. Participatory culture meant we found each other through these visual codes of jittery despair; in doing so, we confused performance with truth. We were learning how to be seen, and sadness got us noticed.
This aestheticization of mental health struggles didn’t remain confined to Tumblr. As platforms evolved, so did the manifestations of this trend. On Instagram, for insurance, the curated portrayal of distress becomes more polished yet no less performative. A systematic review examining Instream’s impact on mental health found that “exposure to idealized images and curated content can exacerbate feelings of inadequacy and depressive symptoms among users.” (Fardouly & Vartanian, 2021) This suggests that our platforms for connection and expression also contribute to our emotional turmoil. Blurring the lines between genuine self-expression and the commodification of our struggles.
That confusion between performance and authenticity, between reaching out and showing off, set the stage for what would later emerge as a fully branded version of emotional vulnerability. The Tumblr girl’s glittered grief matured into the Instagram wellness aesthetic and eventually into the rise of the “therapy influencer.” What once felt like mutual recognition of pain turned into content strategy. Here, the language of healing,” inner child,” “safe space,” and “triggered” aren’t just shared but are sold. Platforms that once offered refuge now blur with consumption, and we’re left to decipher which parts of our feelings are genuine and which are just well-filtered performances.
Uncredentialed individuals often dispense generalized advice, blending personal anecdotes with sponsored content, thereby monetizing vulnerability. This phenomenon is reflected in Stuart Hall’s Encoding and Decoding Model, where audiences interpret media messages in varied ways–sometimes accepting them as intended, sometimes negotiating their meaning, or outright rejecting them. In this context, followers may either embrace these influencers as relatable figures or critique them for oversimplifying complex mental health issues. In a published journal by Human Behavior Reports, portrayals can raise awareness and perpetuate stereotypes, depending on audience interpretation. This concern is further supported by findings from a systematic review on Instagram and mental health, which indicate that “exposure to upward comparison material has detrimental effects” (Human Behavior Report, 2021) and that the intensity of Instagram use can impact well-being differently depending on the mental health indicator examined. The review also notes that while the number of followers doesn’t consistently predict well-being, the content consumed plays a crucial role. This duality is evident in HBO’s Euphoria, where the characters’ struggles are glamorized and critiqued, prompting viewers to reflect on the authenticity of televised mental health narratives. The intersection of media representation and audience reception underscores the need for critical engagement with online cognitive content.
I think back to my experience at sixteen– the pastel posters, the whispered slogans, the way pain was suddenly widespread, but only if it was polished. I didn’t have the right words back then, but I knew something fell off. Now I understand it wasn’t that mental health was finally being seen–it was that it was being styled. Packaged and sold. What I felt in that moment has echoed across every platform since, from Tumblr mood boards to TikTok breakdowns to glittered-streaked Rue Bennett tributes.
This is the danger: in the age of participatory media and influencer capitalism, mental illness has been transformed from a deeply personal struggle into a consumable identity.
The mentally ill girl’s aesthetic promised connection, but it often delivered performance. It taught us that suffering was beautiful, as long as it looked a certain way. And I admit I played the part, too. I saw my pain through a cinematic lens instead of a compassionate one. But healing doesn’t look like an HBO scene or a well-curated selfie. Healing can be messy, invisible, and authentic. Maybe the most radical thing we do now is stop trying to look like we’re okay– or like we’re not– and take action to heal, not for the likes, the algorithm, but for ourselves.

Work Cited

Duffy, Brooke Erin. “Having It All” on Social Media: Entrepreneurial Femininity and Self-Branding among Fashion Bloggers – Brooke Erin Duffy, Emily Hund, 2015, journals.sagepub.com/doi/10.1177/2056305115604337. Accessed 1 May 2025.
Gill, Rosalind. The Amazing Bounce-Backable Woman: Resilience and the Psychological Turn in Neoliberalism – Rosalind Gill, Shani Orgad, 2018, journals.sagepub.com/doi/abs/10.1177/1360780418769673. Accessed 1 May 2025.

Jenkins, Henry. Convergence Culture: Where Old and New Media Collide on JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/j.ctt9qffwr. Accessed 1 May

Jenkins, Henry. “Textual Poachers: Television Fans and Participatory Culture.” Routledge & CRC Press, Routledge, 6 Nov. 2012, http://www.routledge.com/Textual-Poachers-Television-Fans-and-Participatory-Culture/Jenkins/p/book/9780415533294.
Pavlova, Alina. “Mental Health Discourse and Social Media: Which Mechanisms of Cultural Power Drive Discourse on Twitter?” Social Science & Medicine, Pergamon, 6 Aug. 2020, http://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S027795362030469X?ref=pdf_download&fr=RR-2&rr=93912b5d59db51ef.
Stuart-Hall-1980.Pdf – Encoding/Decoding, spstudentenhancement.files.wordpress.com/2015/03/stuart-hall-1980.pdf. Accessed 1 May 2025.
“The Relationship between Instagram Use and Indicators of Mental Health: A Systematic Review.” Computers in Human Behavior Reports, Elsevier, 28 July 2021, http://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S2451958821000695.

There was a dream I saw you in,
Telling me to be cool, don’t let the devil win .
Where I am I’m good, you can let me go.
Where I am it’s peace, something we din’t know.
Where I am, I’m not confused or mad anymore.
Where I am, they can’t hate me for being great…. You know?
Where I am, I eat good like we do on a Thursdaynight.
I wish you could be here with me but you have to keep fighting your fight.
You have to keep going for all those babies who need you in their life.
You have to stay strong to keep our parents together through this flight.
Patience is what you’ll need to grow.
Your biggest flaw is not listening and since I have to say it again this shows,
Where I am, I’m good big sis, you can let me go.

“For Every Mama”

I ain’t forgot the hands that held me,
Through storm clouds, broke nights, and empty bellies.
To the woman who birthed me, through pain and pride,
You gave me life, even when the world ain’t give you a guide.

And to the mamas who stepped in when mine couldn’t stand—
You ain’t share my blood, but you reached out your hand.
You fed me truth, served strength with no disguise,
Taught me how to rise, even when hope dies.

To the aunties, godmamas, them sisters who saw me—
Who showed up when the world tried to flaw me.
You ain’t need a title, you just showed love,
Taught me faith, how to fight, how to rise above.

Whether you nursed me, raised me, or prayed from afar,
You left fingerprints on the map of who I are.
So this for you—the tired, the tender, the tough—
Who gave when it hurt, who loved me enough.

You are the rhythm in the song of my name,
The calm in my chaos, the light in my flame.
I carry your lessons in everything I do—
This ain’t just Mother’s Day, every day’s for you.

IMAGE: MY MOM IN THE MIDDLE. MY AUNT ON THE LEFT AND ME ON THE RIGHT

Dear Mom,

These flowers are a symbol of how YOU have been AND WILL CONTINUE to be SUNLIGHT for ME!

YOU ARE MY WATER, KEEPING ME BLOSSOMING,

Giving ME a PEP TALK when my motivation dwindles, AND EVEN THOUGH I would like the ARGUMENTS /YELLING to WHITTLE away, I KNOW the ROOT cause STEMS FROM LOVE!

MOM, YOU ARE ALWAYS THERE, ROOTING ME ON, SEEING the IMPACT I can PLANT BEFORE ME!!

THANK YOU FOR BEING YOU! LOVE YOU!!

Many many, MANY MORE!

Jakey!

This wound that I have within
Is one that only makes sense to me
This wound may or may not be fixed
And if it is
I can’t tell you when
I can tell you
It was given to me
As a kid
I of course did not know of such
So all I did was push it off
Years would go by
Days even slipped by
Until one day
I got hit like a drive by
Hit with words
Hit with reality
Hit with heaviness that ended up
Opening that old unsure wound
The mother wound

Dear Unsealers,

It’s the second Sunday in May.

For a good part of the world, it’s Mother’s Day.

This day can bring up all sorts of emotions. From joy, to sadness and longing. It’s okay to feel all the emotions.

I want to wish my mom, Lauren’s mom and all the mom’s in The Unsealed, a Happy Mother’s Day! I hope it’s a good day.

And now, for a poem marking the day:

On the second Sunday of May
We honor all of the mothers

Mothers-to-be, grandmothers. My friends who are moms.
Aunts, stepmothers, new moms, and pet moms
All motherly figures. Mi mamá

With all the love and grace
For those who have difficulty celebrating this day
And the mothers who are no longer with us

As mothers are the backbone
Of our lives and the world itself

I wouldn’t be who I am if not for my mom
Tenacious, spirited, and kind
I can’t be grateful enough for her

Mothers need to be honored.
On this day, and every day

From me to you, from NYC to the world…
Happy Mother’s Day!

Its the glow that speaks to me.
There was a time this woman
Did not know what that glow was.
Never spoke of such.
Dark clouds.
Black self esteem.
Sabotaging dreams.
Those consumed her days.
Her soul.
Her heart.
This glow that now radiates
Over her body puts the mind at ease.
The body at rest.
The heart in safe mode.
Glowing heart.
Radiating mind.
Healthy body.
All for the little girl
Who did not know what that glow was.

There are two special moments that I experienced that helped change my mindset. Both happened in the state of California, but on different trips. The first trip I ever made to California was for my highschool graduation, the other was to visit some family I haven’t seen in years. Both trips happened within one month though, but before I tell you about those trips, I have to give a bit of a backstory for you to really understand why these moments were so special for me.

Before I had made any of those trips, I was a mess. It was during my senior year of highschool. I was only a few months in the year when my life went through some major developments, and I didn’t know how to handle them. My mom had gotten in a relationship, and let’s just say it wasn’t a good one. They moved too fast, and before I knew it, he and his kids were basically living in our tiny apartment. My life was turned upside down. My home was my safe place, my comfort. Now I didn’t have that anymore. They even put the responsibility of taking care of his kids on me. I already had my other two siblings to comfort during this time. I had to do all that, plus try and finish my senior year so I could even graduate. It was a lot for me. I felt overwhelmed and tired. I didn’t know it yet, but I was pushing myself to my breaking point. When I did try to explain these feelings to my mother, she turned a cold shoulder to them. Saying I was being ‘dramatic’ and being a ‘brat’. When I would cry to her about how I felt, she would say I’m being sensitive. She didn’t say it, but her actions made me feel that whenever I wanted to cry or express my feelings I was being weak. Strong people don’t cry. If you cry, then your weak. If it’s too much for you then your not strong enough. You can’t cry. You can’t express your feelings. You can’t. This was my mindset back then.

Fast forward to my graduation trip in June, that’s when I reached my limit. I didn’t know it yet, but that was when I couldn’t be strong anymore. I couldn’t keep a brave face. That weekend I broke down. Tears and all. All the way to my tia’s (aunt) house I cried. I cried while my dad held my hand while he was driving, trying his best to comfort me. He held my hand all the way to his sister’s house. It must’ve been difficult for him to drive that long way with only one hand. I’m grateful he did though. When I got to my tia’s house, I went to the restroom to gather myself together, to put on my strong suit of armor and act like everything was ok. I couldn’t. I couldn’t do it anymore. I sat on the bathroom floor and cried, telling my sister that it was all my fault over and over again. My tia found me crying in the bathroom. She took me to her room and then my tio (uncle) came in. I was crying still, my hands in my face. This is where the moment happened. He came up and wrapped one arm around me, brought me to his side, and kissed the top of my head. That’s it. That’s all he did. But I couldn’t believe he did that. I haven’t seen him in years, since I was a baby. He felt comfortable enough with me to kiss the top of my head like that? Really? I was shocked. Surprised that he did that.

The second moment happened when I went down there the second time, wanting desperately to escape my toxic household and responsibilities. I stayed a week at my tia’s house and during my stay there she wanted to make it as much fun as she could. She got my cousin and I tickets to go to the amusement park. I had so much fun with her. We were gone the whole day, and didn’t get back until midnight, almost 1. The next day, I slept in until ll, tired from my day before. My tia came in the room where I was staying and said we were gonna go to the outlet mall. I would have been up for it if I wasn’t such an introvert and needed 3 days to recover from a big day out. I just agreed with her, but inside I was dying. I was so grateful that she was doing this though. Later on, my cousin came into the room and said that her mom changed her mind and I wasn’t gonna go to the outlet mall today, but I was going tomorrow. I was grateful for this, but she then said that her mom wanted her to take me somewhere, like bowling or something. I could tell in my cousin’s eyes that she was tired too, and didn’t feel like going anywhere. She had mentioned that she had just started her period, and her mom was pressuring her to take me someplace fun. I was grateful that I even got to come here. I didn’t care where I went, or if I had to stay in this house for a day. I was just happy I was away from all of the chaos back at home. I told her this, saying she didn’t need to take me anywhere, that I was grateful for just being here. I told her she didn’t need to feel bad. She was on her period. I completely understood. I never want to do anything when I’m on my period. Just sleep. This was where the second moment happened. She looked at me for a second. Then she said, “I don’t know why but I always feel like everyone hates me.” Her eyes were glistening with tears and she layed down on the bed next to me. I told her not to feel that way, and I was ok with just staying in and watching a movie. She looked at me with a grateful smile, eyes still watery, and she reached for my hand. I instinctively grabbed it, and she have me a firm but gentle squeeze. I don’t remember if I squeezed back, if I did it was probably only slightly, but this moment stayed with me. I couldn’t believe she was crying in front of me. Showing her raw and unfiltered emotions. Being vulnerable like that in front of me. How could she do that? How could she feel safe enough to do that with me? How? Those were the questions I asked myself in my head.

Fast forward to present me. The me who is writing this right now, I think I understand why those moments impacted me so much. I was used to never showing my feelings. I used to never crying because if I did then I was weak. I was used to keeping it all inside. I didn’t want to cause trouble or make things harder for my mom. I wanted to be a good daughter. I wanted to help my mother in anyway I could have and make her life easier. I did do that, but at the cost of myself. My feelings. My sanity. I put everyone else first but myself. I neglected my feelings and my needs. I didn’t love me like I loved everyone else. These moments taught me that it’s ok to feel. It’s ok to cry, to be vurelable with someone. To feel your emotions and welcome them with open arms, not pushing them away or burying them deep down within yourself. Just because you feel, you cry, it doesn’t mean you are weak. It doesn’t mean you’re not strong. It’s being on the ground, screaming your lungs out, and still deciding to get up and move forward. That’s real strength. You break down and fall, but still choosing to carry on, broken pieces and all. That’s real strength. I still struggle with this sometimes. I catch myself falling back to my old ways, and I have to remind myself that it’s ok to feel. I still don’t fully have the expressing feelings or vulnerability down yet. I’m still learning to embrace everything I just said. But when I need to cry, I try to let myself have that moment. Or even when I’m angry, I try to feel that anger. I try to understand why I’m feeling it. All this is new to me. I’m still trying to figure it out. But I’m glad I’m trying to do better and change from my old way of thinking. It’s hard for me though, trying to change my old behavior. But I’m grateful to my family in California. I’m especially grateful for my dad. I’m grateful for all of them for helping me realize the damage my old way of thinking was causing me, even though some of them didn’t even know they were helping me.

I shape, I form, I break.

I learn that the colors I show

need to be changed.

My habits need rearranged.

I mold, I bend, I snap.

All this pressure makes me restless, I think

I need a nap.

I crush under the rock of self hatred I’ve made.

But look at all I’ve gained….

It’s not enough, I need more

I need to be more

Do more

Pile high

And higher

And even higher

Until

And once again, I fade into the darkness.

I may never come out of this emptiness.

Everything feels so impossible today.

And just like it was never there, you look at me and it all fades away.

She’s not a duck
Stop feeding her breadcrumbs.
Give her the food she deserves.
Connection. Communication.
Give her the snacks she craves.
Honesty. Respect. Love.
Give her the desserts she fantasizes.
Intimacy. Intelligence. Stability.
She’s a one in a million soul
With so much potential.
So much aspiration.
So much love.
If only you weren’t addicted to carbs!

In the quiet of the world, I never sought,
But found a softness in you, like a tender thought.

Not in the making, not in the plan—
But in the way you hold me, just as I am.
Like a warm blanket, a gentle embrace,
Where time slows down and hearts find their pace.

Not a house to build, but a feeling to keep,
In the quiet of your love, I fall deep.
It’s the brush of a cheek, the softest kiss,
A quiet promise of eternal bliss.
With every touch, I am made whole,
You are the home that fills my soul.
In you, I’ve found a place to rest,
A love that swaddles me— even when it’s not at it’s best.

Not a journey of seeking, but falling true,
I have found softness in you.

In the warmth of a love that’s tender and kind.
Together we’ve found, not a place, but a way—
A soft, sweet home, where I hope to always stay.

Invite the unsavory versions of you to
the table, angry, bitter, resentful; pour
them tea and settle their queries.

Give each of them grace, they did what
they could with what they knew.

& now that you know what you do, no
longer invite those women to the table;
they no longer serve you.

I have shared all of my parts with you
I have disassembled myself
Piece by piece
My unity, compassion, empathy, sympathy
My sanity
All harvested for your amour propre

I thank you for releasing me
I would have followed you to hell
And yet —
Without sharing my best parts of me with you
I suddenly feel so alive

Do everything you
Feel like is gonna be,
A good time.
Take a chance, don’t worry
About what’s About
To happen next.
Ride the vibe
Chill through the day
Wild’N at night.
Be~U~Til~Full
Because we’re all
BEAUTIFUL!

As I sit on this backyard swing feeling the satisfying Arizona Spring breeze on my face,
I’m confronted by the little girl who loved swings.
Found joy from the schools swings.
Who found safety from the big brown wooden swing at her grandmother’s.
I’m confronted by the little girl
who wished for clarity
while pumping her little feet as fast as she could.
Who wished for love
while gripping the metal handles tightly.
Leaving her tiny palms as red as a tomato.
Who yearned for acceptance
while matching the speed from the other swings.

As I sit on this backyard swing,
I let that little girl know
It’s okay to feel every emotion
While pumping those tiny feet.
While gripping the handlebars so tightly.
While racing for the acceptance from that next swing over.
It’s okay!
I also let her know
she’s okay to let that tight grip go.
I let her know
She doesn’t have to have to pump fast anymore.
I got her.
I let her know
she’s finally accepted by the one person
Who will never let her go.

As I sit on this backyard swing,
I’m no longer confronted by the little girl
Yet, confronted with peace.
With understanding.
With love.
I’m confronted with the best version of myself!

As a child, we crave small talk.
Let’s us be heard for a brief moment.
Until we’re quickly silenced by,
“Go find something to do.”

As an adult, we crave deep conversations.
Small talk annoys us.
We want to know one another on a deeper level.
Time is a valuable thing.
Small talk takes too much of it.

As a child, we ask the most silliest childish questions.
“Why’s the sky blue?”

As adults, we ask the impossible questions.
The cut throat get to know you on a deeper more intimate level questions.
“What has been your most humbling experience?”

As children, we crave small talk.
Adults, we want the impossible.

The young lil girl who fought to wear glasses
Yet loved to help put the butter
In the mixing bowl for those chocolate chip cookies, wrote a book.
The young lil girls hero wrote a book.

* 3 word prompt: Book. Butter. Glasses. *