i invited an old friend for coffee today
i was about fifteen minutes late
and
she was about twenty
i called her up, but she forgot to answer
she told me she was practicing a YouTube tutorial
that she will never post
her skin was fresh and bare
picked raw at the sight
bulls eye across her forehead
what is plain to see for change and a face wash
taking a sip of my black coffee
and her frappuccino
I offered her my half-eaten coffee cake
she pushed it away and typed in her calories
she tells me she would never inhale
and sip the poison of pressure
i say more like pleasure
we looked at similarly colored eyes
we both sat in silence
she glances down at her phone to see that plans fell through again
with foes guarded by tight pants
she’ll have people to tell her stories about
if her cards play out right
i almost recognize her from the tiny jewelry box dancer
twirling delusion
she assures me that she is too wild, and friends will take another course
i hope she always dances
I’m envious of the girl sitting in front of me
both are sipping from an overpriced cup of coffee
the colors are brighter through her eyes
music seemed light until the music died
i’m only twenty-two
and she is only thirteen

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

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.

I am not Palestinian.
But I watched the sky collapse through a screen—
a child’s name turned into ash
before the world ever learned to pronounce it.

I don’t speak for them.
I listen.
To lullabies drowned by sirens,
to the hush after impact,
to a silence that roars louder than any flag.

They don’t need my voice.
They need my volume.
So I turned comfort into confrontation,
ink into artillery,
and every poem into a siren that never shuts off.

I was mid-bite,
wrapped in safety,
when the news showed fathers holding dust
where their daughters used to sleep.
I choked on privilege.
Felt rage boil beneath my ribs.

You ask where I stand?
Not neutral—
because neutrality is just cowardice with a clean face.
I chose the ones who bury their children
and still find a way to pray.
I chose the ones
the world keeps trying to silence.

This is not charity.
It’s reckoning.
Because silence is comfort.
And comfort, when others die, is betrayal.

So from a distance,
I send fists full of reverence.
Love with its sleeves rolled.
Truth with no filter, no leash, no apology.

I won’t be the poet
who rhymed for praise
while Palestine screamed in the background.
I’ll be the one who built a stage from my spine,
so their stories could echo louder than mine ever could.

I am not Palestinian.
But I saw.
And now—
the world will too.

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!