Once upon a time, influencers just wanted you to watch them do their makeup. Maybe they’d throw in a little story about their weekend, a bad date, or a weird dream they had about Timothée Chalamet. It was casual, light, and, most importantly, entertaining.
Fast forward to today, and suddenly, we’re not just sitting in their bedrooms; we’re in their therapy sessions, listening to them unpack childhood trauma while sipping on a matcha latte.
What started as harmless “get ready with me” (GRWM) videos has evolved into “come to therapy with me” (CTTWM), where influencers film their most intimate struggles in real time. At first, it seemed like a step forward for mental health awareness. But as social media’s obsession with authenticity pushes the limits of personal sharing, it’s time to ask: is this vulnerability, or is it just content?
The rise of oversharing as a brand
It all began with relatability. The more influencers peeled back the layers, the more we connected. We loved seeing them take off their makeup, rant about exes, and ugly-cry over TV shows (because, same). And, of course, the algorithm loved it too.
Then, brands caught on. Suddenly, a “bad breakup” video was seamlessly followed by an ad for a weighted blanket, and panic attack vlogs had discount codes for therapy apps. Vulnerability wasn’t just refreshing; it was profitable. The more personal the content, the higher the engagement. And so, influencers leaned in. At first, it was surface-level confessions: “I have anxiety.” “I struggle with body image.” But then, the stakes got higher. Full-blown breakdowns, trauma dumps, and unfiltered pain became regular content. Why? Because on the internet, emotional exposure sells.
And now, we’re at a point where influencers don’t just tell us their problems; they take us inside them. They don’t just say, “I’m going to therapy”; they literally bring us along. The line between openness and oversharing is blurrier than a camera at 2% battery.
"Come to therapy with me": Too much or just enough?
At first glance, the “come to therapy with me” trend seems like a good thing. Mental health? Being openly discussed? Love that for us. But there’s a thin line between breaking down stigmas and oversharing online.
• Is this self-expression or self-exploitation?
Therapy is supposed to be a safe space, not a set. When your deepest struggles become episodic content, does healing take a backseat to engagement?
• The parasocial struggle is real.
Watching someone sob through their trauma with soothing lo-fi beats in the background makes followers feel close—maybe too close. But influencers aren’t our besties or therapists, and social media isn’t a group therapy session.
• The monetisation of meltdowns.
We’ve officially reached the era where trauma comes with an affiliate link. And while mental health sponsorships can be helpful, there’s a weird ethical dilemma when someone's breakdown is brought to you by a brand.
The burnout of being too real
The problem with turning pain into content? You have to keep performing it. Many influencers who built their brands on raw vulnerability eventually hit a wall; either they get overwhelmed, or their audience turns on them for being "less real." Because once you start oversharing, people expect everything.
Think about it: when influencers build their brand on openness, any attempt to set boundaries is seen as gatekeeping. If they don’t share enough, people call them fake. If they share too much, they risk serious emotional burnout. It’s a lose-lose situation.
And let’s not forget that trauma isn’t something you just “get over.” Healing is messy, non-linear, and, frankly, boring at times. But in the content game, boredom doesn’t trend. So, what happens? Influencers feel the pressure to stay in their pain because that’s what keeps people watching.
So, what’s next? Maybe the future of digital wellness isn’t “come to therapy with me”; it’s “let’s log off together.”
Lead Image: Netflix
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