I watched Off Campus (a total of eight hour-long episodes with commercials on Prime Video) in two sittings. I stayed up until midnight both nights to finish it, and didn’t look at my phone once. When I started watching the show, I was skeptical. I didn’t watch The Summer I Turned Pretty or Outer Banks. I also didn’t read the books based on the show. And the first episode didn’t catch me completely. It felt very classic cheese-ball-captain-hockey-player-nepo-baby-falls-in-love-with-a-mouthy-nerdy-girl. Did I have time for this mild nonsense? Despite my first impression, I was quickly sucked in.

Reader, I did have time.

If you’re not cued into the hype, let me spell it out in one paragraph for you. Off Campus follows a glittering college fantasy life where the hot jock meets a dorky music major and their tutoring arrangement and fake-dating scheme slowly turn into a very real relationship. Based off Elle Kennedy’s bestselling BookTok novels, the show feels like One Tree Hill and a John Hughes movie had a sparkly baby. It’s giving Rachael Leigh Cook in She's All That and Heath Ledger in 10 Things I Hate About You.

During the show, I spotted callouts to Legally Blonde and Mean Girls, and every football movie there ever was, tuned to hot-headed hockey smut. There’s tropes all over the place: Tutor vs. Student, Enemies Turned Lovers, Popular Jock Falls for Ordinary Girl, He Falls First, Found Family, Only One Bed; and Hot Halloween Party is the Turning Point for Romance (Writer’s Note: I made that one up). But, the list goes on.

Quickly though I realized: unlike all the tropes scratching to get out of the early 2000s romantic comedies, this series had something different.

Let’s unpack.

For one, Off Campus was written by mostly women. The TV series was created by Louisa Levy, with Gina Fattore serving as co-show runner and executive producer. The writing staff appears mixed, but many of the key creative leadership roles are held by women. If you're wondering whether Off Campus was written "for the female gaze," the answer is largely yes.

The show has exactly what women are looking for: accountability, vulnerability, naked dude montages (full frontal penis?? Since when??), and the fearless and beautiful guts to let the leading man drop the ‘tough guy’ act. For once, a romantic comedy doesn’t showcase a male character that’s cool and detached, rooted in conquest, charmed with manipulation, or using possessiveness as a form of love (ehem, Twilight). Off Campus values a man that’s ready to show up who he cares for, in his romantic relationships, and his friendships.

After watching the show, I slowly morphed into the person I felt like when I was 13 and obsessed with *NSYNC. Young, desperately free, always thinking about kissing sensually, and as urgent and squirrely as ever.

Back then, I used to tape (yep, with a VCR) every single segment that interviewed the boy group live. I bought every magazine they were on, and rewatched said tape recordings a dozen times, decorating their cardboard sleeves with magazine cutouts. I never stopped thinking about my short-breathed crush on Justin Timberlake and always felt this left-out FOMO pit in my stomach for not being able to exist in the band’s orbit. They looked so fun. They looked so famous and free and hilarious.

So … why was I feeling this adolescent obsession with a TV show at 38-years-old?

Because ‘Off Campus’ redefined male masculinity as I once understood it.

[start of spoiler alert]

For example, if you’ve seen the show, you know that there are multiple scenarios where a man could have ruined everything. I thought Justin was going to steal Hannah’s song she wrote. I also thought that Garrett’s best friend, Logan, was going to try to sabotage Hannah and Garret’s relationship because Logan had a crush on her. But none of that happened. Justin helped Hannah finish the song. And Logan ended up standing by Garrett to help his friend get through something tough and personal. I thought, is my perception of men in television ruined?

The answer is probably, yes.

[end of spoiler alert]

That’s the very nice and unique twist about Off Campus. We’re used to seeing the worst behavior portrayed in men on television. Consider The Notebook, one of my favorite movies as a teenager, and all of the emotional swings and jealousy that led to its grand romance. In How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, both learned how to manipulate each other. In Off Campus, conflict exists, but it’s handled through honesty and accountability. Every day respect is also portrayed in Off Campus, while older movies accentuated love through one big moment, like a boombox scene in Say Anything, or the sweeping rescue fantasy in Pretty Women. I could go on forever.

And we’re used to seeing the worst behavior in women, too. Yes, there’s drama on this show, but it’s healthy drama. There are no mean girls. There’s no viscous backstabbing. Healthy communication is being portrayed constantly. And it’s still entertaining.

The show normalizes the idea that consent is something you talk about, and it’s not an awkward topic to avoid. It preaches the notion that not all safety is physical; and that a lot of it’s emotional. One of the most realistic parts of Off Campus is how heavily the characters rely on friendships and community during difficult moments. Friends in the show call on emotional changes and step in to help when something feels wrong. Media always romanticizes jealousy, obsession or dependencies. Which, is likely why this show pushes against those stereotypes and FEELS SO GOOD.

Moreover, the show introduced its viewers to an entirely different view of masculinity. One I’ve honestly never seen on a television show before. Intimacy is never treated like entitlement. When Garrett learns his partner is a survivor, he slows down. He asks. He listens. The locker room is different. The men hold each other up instead of dragging each other down. Cycles break everywhere. The show proves that characters are malleable, and don’t turn out like their abusive parents. The characters have real fears that they marinate in. Men don’t run from things. They sit inside of them.

But, there’s more. Ella Bright, the actor who plays Hannah Wells (the female lead) has a beautiful and average body type. In fact, her body type is exactly like mine — curvy and big-chested, the most refreshing thing I’ve seen in a world of Ozempic and since going to college in a Britney Spears low-rise jeans kind of world. Hannah Wells wears clothes that are modest and sexy. Her outfits changed based on her mood. She can dress sexy and comfortable. And it’s freeing to watch.

And don’t even get me started on the chemistry between characters. If you haven’t seen the show, all I’ll share for now is this short clip of Allie (Mika Abdalla) dancing with Dean (Stephen Kalyn) to “On the Floor” by J-Lo. Put this in the Lourve, as they say.

Every sex scene on the show is strictly character-driven and highly emotional. Instead of being unjustified or random, the sex scenes are an extension of each character individually, and how they’ve grown throughout the show. The sex scenes are intentional and consensual. For example, if a character isn’t as confident, they wear more clothes and every detail is reflective of where they are personally. It’s intricate and meaningful.

Because of all this, I’m embarrassed to admit that my crush on every character of the show, but especially Garrett Graham (Belmont Cameli), felt a lot like the boy band crushes I had 20 years ago. Everything made sense to me. Everything was safe and believable and real.

My “For You” page on Instagram quickly became only Belmont and interviews with the entire cast. The day after I finished the show, I couldn’t stop consuming them all like a sweet treat. I couldn’t work. I couldn’t think about my grocery list, putting away my clothes, or anything remotely normal. I tried to secretly rewatch the first episode before bed (if my husband is reading this, I know you caught me). I wanted to relive the forward-feeling of crushing on someone like a tween again.

The characters, and their safe and comfortable way of carrying their masculinity or their strong femalehood, became my obsession.

I loved watching videos with Belmont Cameli because his TV character seeped blissfully into real life videos. He refers to Sauvingon Blanc “Savvy B,” LOVES Orcas, can quote “Princess Bride” like a king, and isn’t afraid of busting an absolute shameless rug in any scenario. He also has a very effortless, suave way of being in that comfortable boy-essence that is fun to love. Protect this respectable, quirky man at all costs.

And honestly? I figured out what’s so hot about him. He isn’t afraid of showcasing his feminine side. And a heterosexual man who is comfortable with their feminine arch — through dancing, things they love, how they talk and make jokes — something happens to my psych when I see that. Belmont isn’t afraid of showing his girlish quirks.

After an entire day watching Instagram reels with the cast and how the show came to life (they had an Intimacy Coach for sex scenes), listening to the entire Off Campus playlist on Spotify, and researching the storylines in the books, I was a little startled when I had to go pick up my daughter from daycare. Wearing gym shorts and an old Lululemon long sleeve, I couldn’t shake a heaviness, a yearning. Oh, you mean I wasn’t at Briar University and effortlessly attractive and young again? Oh, you mean that’s not the experience I had in college? It had been a long time since a source of entertainment had made me felt such desire and (pause) is that … jealousy?

That’s another thing. The show is all about wanting.

In Off Campus, almost every major trope is designed to manufacture yearning:

• Fake dating → they’re acting like a couple before they’re a couple.

• Friends to lovers → feelings exist before they’re acknowledged.

• Grumpy/sunshine → emotional barriers delay intimacy.

• Trauma and trust issues → characters want connection but are afraid of it.

• Team dynamics and college life → constant proximity without resolution.

Culturally, yearning is having a bit of a moment right now. Critics and trend-watchers have noted that audiences seem increasingly drawn to stories built around emotional buildup and longing rather than immediate gratification, partly as a reaction against hookup culture and hyper-fast digital relationships. And for married millennials like me, the storyline feels like a blast from the past, and packaged with an emotionally healthy bow. 🎀

Now, don’t get me wrong. The show itself has it’s oddities. Playing with a charred turkey on an ice rink? That’s criminal. Additionally, does everyone have ongoing access to the hockey rink at this college? I can imagine a working staff would love that in real life. Also, I’m not sure why there’s a theatre room with a piano inside the hockey rink … but whatever works for a fairytale storyline, I guess. That kind of stuff is just par for the course for a cheesy rom-com based off a BookTok tale.

I can allow unrealistic moments if a show is a refreshing, system-wide reframe of personal and shared relationships. When men show that emotional safety and growth matter to them, that’s the sexiest shit I’ve ever seen.

It’s a dreary Tuesday at 6pm. I just finished feeding my 2.5-year-old dinner (praying to the Lord Jesus she eats more than a pouch and a mozzarella stick). Autumn has hit its stride. The sun falls faster, the nights are colder. We celebrated the October Sports Equinox™ the night prior: early season hockey, Monday Night Football, a Timberwolves basketball game on Peacock (wtf), and the World Series.

We’re about to settle down in our living room, glowing with autumnal pumpkins and a warm kitchen lamp. I can feel my couch potato status building like a deep breath. I haven’t felt this excited to settle into a TV viewing experience since … (okay, Love Island). Either way, we’re about to sink in our couch divots and watch America’s latest weekday obsession: Dancing With the Stars (DWTS).

But first, a history lesson.

DWTS premiered on a warm, June day in 2005. I was still in high school, driving my Ford Escort aimlessly around town, blaring “Candy Shop” via cassette, because gas was $1.13/gallon. This was also the birth year of YouTube, Google Maps, and Reddit. The Motorola Razr V3 was a massive pop culture icon. I dreamed of owning the LG Chocolate, which I eventually got as a gift in 2008.

Basically, 2005 was an ancient long time ago. And when you voted on DWTS, you had to do it via text or phone call.1

I have not watched a single episode of DWTS in all of its 20-year glory. Until this year. This season, I cannot miss an episode. And apparently, neither can America. In one episode this year, a record-breaking 55 million people voted. And the ratings momentum keeps growing.

Is DWTS [literally] tapping into a timeless need?

DWTS has spanned generations. It bloomed in my adolescent years, drummed along through my collegehood and well into my adulthood, and burrowed itself safe into my soul as a mother. It’s a warm, sparkly television space to be with my daughter (it’s broadly known that toddlers are obsessed with the show). It has finally found a safe spot in my heart after all of these years. And I am delightfully stunned by its wholesome delight.

According to Hollywood Reporter, the show delivered 6.63 million viewers for its Wicked-themed night of dances, a season high and the largest same-day audience for DWTS since the start of the 2020-21 season. It also hit a season high among adults 18-49 with a 1.38 rating, which is also its best in several years.

So, why now? Why the sudden spike in popularity?

Here’s my thesis: DWTS’ sudden popularity is due to a multi-fasciated list of things: 1) a desire for scheduled, collective effervescence (especially on social media), 2) a societal need for community, 3) a maximalist nostalgia for our past, and 4) the American happiness imperative.

First, let’s talk about TikTok. In 2022, the median age of viewers was 63.5 (New York Times). But in the past two seasons, the show has clutched it’s poised fists around Gen Z viewers by casting younger dance pros and viral “wow moments” on reels and TikTok.

But I think there’s something psychological to its popularity. There’s something more heartfelt here than going viral as a “happy accident.” Happy accidents don’t happen because of an algorithm. They happen based from need. The algorithm listens to that need.

And folks: we need DWTS.

I’ve always been intrigued by collective effervescence. The term, coined by Émile Durkheim, describes the feeling of a powerful, shared emotional experience — like being “swept away” or feeling “one with the crowd”—that can arise during concerts, religious rituals, or sporting events.

Do I think this is happening with DWTS in our living rooms? Most certainly! That’s the woo-woo way of describing anything that goes viral anyway, especially when it includes a type of performance art (like dancing or music). And while social media brings us to an inward space, a selfish place, we have been craving a feeling of social bonding, and a sense of “us” for a long time. DWTS gives us that. When Robert Irwin perfected a foxtrot to “Footprints in the Sand” and burst into tears when his late father, Steve, bloomed on a dance floor video, every American watching floated above themselves and felt something ethereal.

Glamour wrote that DWTS’ deep fandom has increased because of a “savvy social media strategy” and an “electrifying army of pros.” There’s also been a shift in tone.

“What once felt a little cringey now feels knowingly campy, a subtle but crucial difference. The show is still sparkly and over-the-top, but it’s owning it instead of being embarrassed by it. In a cultural moment where pop-culture maximalism is back … the kitsch of the ballroom doesn’t seem so analog. The stars genuinely seem excited to be there, and the camaraderie is more palpable in recent seasons, which sends viewers a message that this is low-stakes fun and maybe even a cool thing to do—because anything is cool these days if you own it.”

But why is cringe off the table? Why does suddenly, DWTS work for a broader audience? Perhaps it’s the message itself: embracing cringe; embracing what it sought out to be twenty years ago: a recital. Maximalism is back. The early 2000s are nostalgic serum again. And DWTS is everything big and sparkly captured in a bottle. And we want opulence injected into our veins.

Furthermore, social media has shown a spotlight on individuality. For years, the audience (us) has become addicted to ourselves. We’ve been primed to be perfect, sharing our flawless moments online. Cringe, is a no-go. In fact, Gen Z views this closeness to self as surveillance culture. And suddenly, everyone feels like they’re being watched.

Like a false spring, we’ve been briefly warmed by the light of separate existence social media has offered us. Social media has pulled us further from one another and deeper inward as we edited ideal versions of ourselves and wait eagerly for double taps and comments. But, likes aren’t forever. And a “false spring” gives us a deceptive sense of security. From this, we feel desperately alone. We are thirsty for community and reality.

It’s so, DWTS is a house of coterie. We want to see the same people tearing up in the audience every night. Robert Irwin and his shiny empathy to make us feel likeminded and kind. Andy Richter to wow with a soft eagerness. Alix Earl to glaze her glossy sheen all over every performance and our decade-long crush on Val. Themed dances to make us feel part of a story filled with themes and emotions. Sparkly outfits and mistakes to make us feel real. The underdog story and the comeback story. The romance. The rags to riches story; the overcoming the monster story. Every element feels accounted for; something about it feels like we’re part of a family.

Societies sudden obsession with DWTS could also be a prelude of what’s to come. I love “The Money with Katie Show” podcast, particularly this episode. The host and Tressie McMillan Cottom, sociologist and NY Times columnist, discuss Bama Rush. If you don’t know, Bama Rush is a phenomenon that went viral on TikTok in 2021 documenting rush for the University of Alabama. Tressie wrote in a 2023 op-ed that Bama-Rush-Tok was counter programming to the Northeastern elite university brand of culture. And that Bama Rush, that college/vision of the world is “wholesome, nonthreatening, traditional femininity.” Furthermore, they noted that there’s been a weird resurgence of gender role orthodoxy; how it’s tied up with economic precocity. They go on discussing how unconsciously, media that goes viral can be a, “Canary in the coal mine for where things were headed [where the country is headed].”

The moral here is that popular culture could be a economic indicator. Could this mean that we’re craving an inflated type of hope [an underdog story] in our country and our culture? Could loving DWTS indicate that our society, as a general collective, desperately wants a pendulum swing back into how things felt in 2005? Sure! It could probably mean more, too. But I’m not a sociologist.

“We live our politics out in the crap we buy and the stuff we perform,” Tressie said. “That’s political too.”

I don’t think DWTS is political or a prediction of the future. I do think, however, the sudden obsession with the show tells us something about what our culture is craving. And today, I think we are desperate for community and camaraderie and cringe-maximalism.

When times are hard, don’t we gravitate towards something timelessly joyful? Something/someone that’s unapologetically brash and themselves? And when technology becomes too much (AI, social media, smartphones), don’t we want to face something more genuine? I hear everywhere: people are buying flip phones again. Is DWTS a metaphor to this? Is it a way to tune into a pop-culture event that everyone has to view at the exact same time? Are we searching for nostalgia?

Or maybe, it’s also about learned behavior as a collective.

Americans have an uncanny ability to remain positive in tough times. The Week wrote about America’s untenable happiness imperative, arguing that COVID-19 exposed our culture’s relentless pressure to be positive.

“By the 20th century, this American hunger for happiness had gathered momentum. That century brought us the Walt Disney Company (1923), the advent of laugh track for radio (1940s) and television (1950s), the Norman Vincent Peale mega-bestseller The Power of Positive Thinking (1952), Harvey Ball’s iconic smiley-face logo (1963), a board game called “Happiness“ (1972), the McDonalds Happy Meal (1979), the hit Number One Billboard single, “Don’t Worry, Be Happy“ (1988), and countless other tangible and not-so-tangible directives to cheer up. In 2001, the writer John Perry Barlow wrote, ‘nearly everyone in this country feels the weird, invisible pressure to pursue happiness,’ and he further noted that, by the time he turned 30, it became ‘apparent that my wariness of the pursuit of happiness might be a subtle form of treason.’”

So, it seems, DWTS is simply part of the happiness momentum. It’s a cog in the wheel of American’s desire for joy. And it, figuratively and literally, hits all the right notes.

1. This quote, from ’ “After School” about the new social currency for Gen Alpha, made me feel really old and weird.

   “While millennials grew up coveting designer bags and Gen Z made wellness mainstream, Gen Alpha has turned tweendom into a micro-prestige economy. These kids know how to signal their taste at a very young age, via $89 Pink Palm Puff hoodies and $10 Touchland hand sanitizers. “Sephora tween” culture has normalized skincare routines before puberty, with lip gloss hierarchies functioning as portable status symbols in the school hallway.”

2. Some fun Etsy finds: a cute Moroccan rug for a bathroom, this tender nursery mobile, this farmhouse blanket (we have one in our living room and Lila loves it), and this antique washstand.

3. A few items in rotation that I will never stop buying: cocoa butter oil, this toothpaste for toddlers, a basic Vitamin-C serum, and this facial mist.

4. This quote, from Cheryl Strayed’s book “Brave Enough,” sends me every time.

   

5. Someone recently wrote that Substack should be less “hot take” and more “chaos.” Which, I support. A good example of this kind of writing is everything in ‘s Substack, haterade. The writing is delightful in every way.

6. Discovered this song on TikTok yesterday and I want it … injected into my veins?

7. Where can I get some RICOTTA DUMPLINGS so I can make this chicken soup?? Also, I want to try these pumpkin lasagna rollups. YOWZA. People don’t say “YOWZA” anymore, do they?

8. As a quick follow-up, I will probably be listening to this Ralph Lauren Christmas playlist while cooking/baking this season.

9. A cute gift idea for grandmas: Buy them this personalized bracelet with the name your kids call them.

10. A very good read: “Why We Idolize People Who ‘Move in Silence,’” in . I’ve always been a little envious of people who are quiet on social media. What does the “offline aesthetic” signal? In a way, social media portrays a deep wound. From the article:

    “In this way, social media is one big cesspool of projection, of wounds, of mommy issues, of daddy issues, of uncharted insecurity, of financial envy, of financial trauma, of reinforcing the thing we need to believe about ourselves to survive, and of forgetting the things we wish we never heard.”

11. BRB, thinking about ’s perfect, glowy desk.

12. Actually, the cutest holiday champagne flutes.

13. Shay Mitchell is launching skin care for 3-year-olds; and the discourse around this is fascinating. I COMPLETELY agree that this superfluous feels tone-deaf. On the other hand, my 2-year-old loves to partake with me in my morning beauty routine. Should I be letting her use witch hazel on her cheeks? Why not find a (safe/healthy) way to include her? (The Cut)

14. This is the cutest holiday card design I have found yet. Part of me is leaving this here so I can come back to it when I want to order our holiday cards!

15. I’ve been recently obsessed with the idea of “de-influencing” where people share real-life videos of their homes, morning routines, shopping experiences and more. And this phenomenon is being further driven by Gen Alpha. From :

    “Already, younger [social] users are seeking out “de-influencing” content, exploring offline activities like mall crawls, and even returning to retro tech like digital cameras. This is the beginning of a cultural swing toward earned over fed discovery, where experiences feel less programmed, even if they’re still digitally shared.”

I think about the summer of 2016 a lot.

I won’t say it was the “best summer ever” (don’t get me started on the early 2000s, the elitist of nostalgia years for me). But the vibes were certainly immaculate. And there was something definitive about 2016. The air was different. It felt liminal, in a way. In fact, 2016 even changed Taylor Swift forever.

I was born in 1987, so by the time 2016 rolled around, I was one year shy of thirty. I spent a majority of the summer populating my “Wedding Inspiration” Pinterest board with flower crowns, brass candlesticks, flower palette walls, blush gold, novelty donuts, and eucalyptus everywhere. When I close my eyes and imagine the summer of 2016, I see tea cups with whiskey, sparklers, baby’s breath wrapped in brown paper, chokers, and McChickens for under $3.

Why do I idolize the summer of 2016? I’m a late millennial. In high school, when I got my first cell phone, I had to beg my dad to buy 300 texts/month. I went from Xanga to MySpace to Facebook to Tumblr, Pinterest, Twitter, and finally Instagram within a decade. In short, summer 2016 felt like the peak of onlineness before “everything changed” and I entered my thirties chapter of life: pandemic, marriage, kids, election (in that order). Also, before social media became the algorithmic, shadow-banning, unhinged meta-devil.

Also, in a few months, 2016 was a decade ago??? 😯

@_rileycroninWhat #2016

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The summer of 2016 was the end of something. According to of Embedded, millennial culture “died in 2017” and “millennials [a defining generation] only got four years on top.” So, perhaps the summer of 2016 was a millennial swan song.

She writes,

“No generation is as thoroughly stereotyped as Millennials. Boomers can’t use technology, Gen X are the forgotten middle children, and Gen Z are unserious, but only Millennials can give away their generational affiliation with something as subtle as a facial expression. There’s a long list of minor and major infractions that fall under the umbrella of “millennial cringe.” Girls and The Office and girlbossing, as a whole, have been othered as a purely us thing…”

Le sigh, let’s pour one out for millennial cringe.

2016 summer core

"CAN'T STOP THE FEELING!" by Justin Timberlake was released late spring (trying to market itself as the ‘song of summer’). That mere fact alone tells me that we were so filled with saccharine, we embraced the cheap vibrancy of uptempo Walmart disco pop. In a way, pop music was exclusively bad and simple but we didn’t mind. The Chainsmokers blindfolded themselves and spliced together generic beats that hummed through an idyllic summer of vulnerable love. This was also the summer when we all (safely) dove into augmented reality with Pokémon Go.

Pokémon Go pulled people out of the house and gleaned with nineties nostalgia. It felt instantaneously good to be on a mission, to throw a Poké Ball, and to love what everyone loved at the same time. It felt like a syndicated television show that way or like a new McDonald’s beanie baby release. Everyone wanted one thing: to catch Pokémon.

People argue on Reddit that 2016 was the millennial’s last real summer of dominating pop culture before Gen Z took over. Others debate that the takeover happened closer to 2018/2019, when TikTok released. In short, 2016 summer was one of the last seasons without that sort of reality: curated videos, constantly refreshed feeds, centralized and specific algorithms, and coordinated dances at sororities. No matter what, 2016 summer felt like the peak of the 2010s era, the tipping point, when millennials and older Gen Y were the core audience of pop culture. Twenty-sixteen was also the last summer we had Vine (it sunset January of 2017). Vine had a slapstick creative energy, a feeling that was snug inside the summer of 2016. Dumb, stupid free play on the internet thrived, as did the peak of meme culture. Who knew that a small 2D dog engulfed in flames, the year’s most relatable character, was foreshadowing?

We thought we were going to elect the first female president. In which, 2016 was also the most self-referential year in a long time. We were introspective, self aware. We knew what we wanted and expressed our ease about that, assuming the election would purely go one way (Reader, it didn’t). Being a woman, a raunchy and loud one at that, was trendy and beautiful. We scoffed at fear and turned negativity into feminist rally cries. Remember NASTY WOMAN? The Pussyhat Project? Such innocence!

In so, we had so many opinions and recommendations. Thus igniting many foodie revolutions. Very specifically, the Minnesota State Fair food revolution. It felt like 2016 was peak “share your favorite fair food” on Instagram. New food lists launched in 2008. By 2016, we did extensive food research and shared what we were loving on social media. The Carpe Diem at Midtown Market topped newsfeeds (buttermilk miso and strawberry puree stuffed in a waffle shaped like a fish). Everyone was becoming their own comedic food writer. Here’s the coolest bar! Here’s where you can find the best coffee! 2016 Instagram was a rush competition to what was deemed “the best of” everything.

We had all the time in the world to recommend and offer advice. We loved brunch (!!!) Oh my god, 2016 summer was the “summer of brunch flat lays.” We’d push all of our plates into the center of the table and make sure our sunglasses were in few shots. Big slabs of bacon and avocado toast and lavender mimosas and anything paired with a donut were lens bait. Do you remember the surge of the breakfast waffle? I ate so many fancy waffles that summer. We paired our photos with Beyonce lyrics like “she murdered everybody and I was her witness” like each post was also a cool reminder that you listened to good, edgy music.

Oh, the 2016 summer Instagram caption. They were sarcastic, short and felt a bit like a comedy contest. Who could come up with the most kitschy caption for this flat lay of dinner food? In one Instagram post from me, it’s just a photo of a beer with a river in the background, the caption touting: “Coping with this I guess.” In another, it’s a flat lay of brunch and a donut topped with avocado and crab, with the caption “bout to dick in.” Reading them now is a bit cringe, like I was a spoiled brat that didn’t really appreciate anything. Captions were their own uncouth schtick, a reminder that we didn’t want to be taken too seriously for our humble brags.

[I think] we were optimistic as a culture and that reflected back in our Instagram captions, memes, music, and brunch obsessions. Some argue it was the last year of physical trends, as we spent the summer dabbing, trying to flip a water bottle, and getting outside to catch Pokèmon. We were outward. TikTok dances hadn’t taken over yet and instead we reveled in the physical. Politics weren’t scary; and we didn’t need to cower into our phones completely. We were there, on the cusp of augmented reality and the light of our phones deep into the night. But, we hadn’t spent three years hiding inside, wondering about dying. We hadn’t fell into conspiracy theory TikTok or said good bye to our millennial youth.

In short, we couldn’t be bothered. We were too busy enhancing our selfies with overly edited Snapchat filters of flower crowns, living the 2016 summer princess fantasy we’d all imagined we could live inside forever.

1. Bloomberg published a story recently about how, in a post-Ozempic world, detox-focused resorts are rethinking how they attract customers. In 2021, a fitness and weight-loss retreat called Movara in the red rocks of Utah was sold out for 18 weeks straight. But with the ubiquitous use of GLP-1s, there’s been a dip in attendance at some of these weight-loss-centric retreats. In response, they’re refocusing on longevity, menopause, and weight maintenance. (Feed Me)

2. For the hot mamas (all of you), Rihanna wants you to buy puma slides. Sign me up!

3. has me wanting to buy a Caboodle for journaling and annotation tools. (Underlined)

4. Hello, this book looks divine.

5. This tip from ’ newsletter “Downtime” about finding art.

   “Try using Google Lens! I use this tool all the time. For example, if I spot a piece I love hanging in, let’s say, an Architectural Digest spread, I’ll grab a screenshot and feed it into Google Lens to find out more about the artwork and artist.”

6. It’s Vermont Country Store season!! I love everything about this homey little store. I want this ghost bubble light, some Portuguese flannel, and this perfect woodland friends quilt.

7. Poll time! How often do you wash your pajamas? In a Good Housekeeping article, they advise washing after 3-4 wears.

8. Madeline Donahue’s art on motherhood really is the most stunning visual collection. She captures the ecstasy and agony so well. “I have this urgency about being a parent, that it’s something that I’ve chosen to do, and I love being a parent, I love my children,” she says. “But there’s a melancholy to it because it’s a very short period of time that we’re parents. And I’m very aware of the shortness of it.” (The Cut)

9. Welp, thinking about this forever.

10. My husband and I recently celebrated our five year wedding anniversary. I wanted to get him something special and found Lime and Lou. They have lovely couple gifts! I got this music memories frame with our first dance song. We have a record player; and I thought it would be a good add near the shelf.

11. From (bracelet walks!!):

    

    “One idea that I loved in particular: taking your daughter (or son) on “bracelet walks.” Use duct tape and wrap it loosely around your wrist, and encourage your child to walk around the park, neighborhood, etc. and tape any “treasures” they might find.”

12. Can I get my toddler to wear this adorable toadstool outfit for Halloween?

    

13. This essay by is a beautiful telling of early motherhood ten years later, a perspective she stresses we don’t hear enough from/about. Middle-stage moms, can you please stand up. ❤️ This quote is heart balm:

    “In the early stages of parenting, caring for them was motivated mostly by primal instinct rather than deep affection. This didn’t feel like an altogether bad thing; in fact, I kind of marveled at the drive to care and protect being distinct from conscious thought or decision. Never in my life had I felt so animal. But it was not the intensity of love I feel now, which didn’t fully turn on until, roughly, my kids turned 2.”

14. I just read Annie Hartnett’s latest book “Road to Tender Hearts” and let me tell you: IT WAS ABSOLUTELY PERFECT. Just … go read it. Gift it to everyone.

15. Phoebe Waller-Bridge stan forever.

I told my husband the other day, “I think social media makes everything feel like it’s worse than it is.”

“And same for as good as it is,” he replied. To which he makes a good point. “Everything is pretty normal. Pretty base line.”

I find this quite comforting. Life is a big butter sandwich. Small things are big things. Nothing is as bad or good as it feels. We’re all roaming around our houses wondering what’s for dinner and our baseboards are dirty.

Perhaps that’s why everyone is so mad about the Taylor Swift album.

In short, I think we all need to cool it about Taylor Swift.

I’ll start with this: I like the album. It makes me want to move. It has a joyful gleam to it. I tend to love anything Max Martin makes. I’m a millennial. Moreover, I can’t stop listening to the damn thing.

Let’s be honest, “The Life of a Showgirl” is millennial cringe serum. It’s vapid and kitschy. The beats BEAT. The bops BOP. Like a lingering ear worm, the songs last when they aren’t even playing. I hear them in my sleep. And yet, “But I’m not a bad bitch, and this isn’t savage” in “Eldest Daughter” isn’t awful to me. In fact, I get it. Lyrics are subject. They could be satire. Maybe they’re not satire. They mean different things to different people. Did we forget that our holy Backstreet Boys wrote lyrics like: “You’re the reason that cavemen drew on the walls” from “Love Somebody?” And it SHOOK THE CORE OF EVERY MILLENNIAL POP OBSESSED?

I have so many feelings about this discourse online and everywhere, I can barely log on anymore. The discourse is so negatively charged. She’s greedy! She’s rich! She’s racist! She loves dick TOO MUCH! Duh, being a billionaire pop star with a personal jet isn’t revelational! Do you remember what we did to Britney Spears?

God, I’m tired.

Why can’t people just *like things* and *not like things* quietly anymore? When does a pop star’s album have to turn into political discourse beyond a cover song?

Moreover, these negative critics brought me to a little thought: Why are people so critical about loving things that happy people make? When Taylor Swift was explaining “Opalite” on Jimmy Fallon, she said, “Opal can be man-made just like diamonds. .. [Opalite is] a man-made opal, and happiness can also be man-made, too. So, that’s kind of what the song is about, kind of the juxtaposition of those two.” Taylor Swift is happy. Happy on her own account. And people are calling her burnt out and washed up. There are a million reasons people have to hate a billionaire dating a big, dumb football player. But, why do we care so much?

There’s more here than what I can physically write right now but, we’re judgmental when people are happy and blissfully stupid about that happiness. We don’t claim the art they make is really beautiful. We look at happy people like they’re tone deaf, unrelatable, ignorant. We have to be in the trenches, miserable, heartbroken to make art. Sure. When we’re hurting, we can turn that beautiful. But, I can’t get myself to believe that art created by someone that’s a happy billionaire isn’t good because it “sounds cocky.” Why, in this society, aren’t we able to appreciate art that comes from every version of someone?

Maybe that’s not the problem. Maybe our society can’t ENJOY ANYTHING AT A MEAT-AND-POTATOES LEVEL ANYMORE.

I have two words for us: rage-bait.

I’m writing this, after all.

Have we become incapable of casually loving anything?

In our world, we always have to have an opinion. And our opinion has to be one extreme or the other to get clicks. We have to say “I hate this” or “I love this.” We can’t be middle-ground about anything.

Sad people don’t listen to happy music (at least they don’t want to). Art (music especially) is powerful when it reflects who we are in the moment. Our world is hurting. And this album might have felt wrong for so many. And that breaks my heart.

I also really like this quote about “art critics” from the latest book I’m reading by Fredrik Backman, “My Friends.”

“You can be whatever you want to in life, as long as you don’t become a critic! Not of other people, and not of yourself. It’s so easy to be a critic, any coward can do that. But art doesn’t need critics, art has enough enemies already. Art needs friends.”

It sparked a small debate with my husband and I. “Of course art needs critics, Brittany.” And, yes, I agree. Art can be analyzed by anyone. And it should. In fact, it could be argued that art is meant to be misunderstood.

But, in today’s world, negative critics get clicks. And perhaps that’s why hearing about this Taylor Swift album all the time is making me feel like the room is on fire. Does social media make the negative commentary feel inflated? Too loud? Abusive? Redundant? Probably. Suddenly, to me, all the rage-bait makes everything feel just plain mean.

I wish we could reframe the discourse. For me, the Fredrik Backman quote means that being a friend of art is discussing what’s different about it; what it might mean. It’s not about picking on the artist, or saying “no good art comes from greed.” Instead, we must ask: Why don’t we understand this art? Why does art confuse us sometimes? Why might I like one thing more than the other? Art is inward: Why don’t I like this right now? We make the discussion about the art, not the messenger.

This quote, from a review in Defector, reads to me like it has nothing to do with the music itself at all.

“Despite my hopes, The Life of a Showgirl is the weakest and least interesting album Swift has ever made. It has no heart, no purpose, no emotional core. And it is transparently clear why that is: because Swift clearly cared more about producing something—anything—that could be sold for profit than about making an album worth buying. It’s not an album. It’s a product for sale, and it sounds like one.”

MAKE IT STOP!!!

I welcome others opinions, but this is just a figurative review. Because this album is not the “weakest” to others. To others, it has heart, purpose, and emotional core. And how are we supposed to know that Taylor Swift cared more about producing something for money? Versus the music itself? While this quote may be true for that person writing, it isn’t true broadly. So, why can’t we discuss art like friends, instead?

I don’t like music by Bruce Springsteen, but I’m not going to run around saying he’s a nationalist asshole because one of his songs was a politically coded. Or, maybe I’ll have a conversation with it with my friends; and it won’t become a Reddit thread or an excuse to get engagement on my latest post.

I’m not typically one to feel so passionate about art that’s critiqued. People can like what they like. They can write about it, share why are made them feel uncomfortable or unhappy. In fact, most art is misinterpreted. But, that’s not the point of this article.

The point is, the reviews about this Taylor Swift album feel different. “She’s scamming us. This album is only to feed her greed. She has a man fetish. She’s a MAMA trad-wife. She’s re-investing in the patriarchy. She doesn’t understand women. Or, that she’s obsessed with black women.” These were the headlines I read this morning. One Substacker even wrote, “Taylor Swift has betrayed women everywhere with her humiliating tradwife pivot.”

What???

The art has become less about the music and more about her. Her music, and who she is as a person, has morphed into click-bait and broad assumptions, conspiracies even, a lot like the discourse that blooms from all those Taylor Swift’s easter eggs. And, yet, the discourse feels like bullying.

Hate for “The Life of a Showgirl” doesn’t mean it’s a bad album. It’s a sign of the times. It’s a sign our culture wants to cling onto what’s hateful. It’s trend to be disdainful online.

In short, I fear we are all just monkeys, swinging from one extreme branch to the next, consuming art and news like having a big opinion is going to scratch an itch the internet has diseased us with.

Is Taylor Swift asking for it? Maybe. Bad news is good news in show business. Right?

What’s true about Taylor Swift is that, every time she releases an album, it feels like a cultural event. Taylor Swift has sparked conversations I’ve had with my husband about feminism, gender roles, billionaires, the demise of the NFL, race, and more. But I think that’s okay. Discussion is good. But, we have to be careful. These kinds of critiques can turn us miserable. The demise of beating the dead horse that is hating Taylor Swift gets us nowhere. Taylor Swift isn’t the problem. And hating Taylor Swift is not a review of her music. It’s a distraction from what’s meaningful.

Despite a billionaire songwriter getting “bad press,” the social media fodder that feeds her sales, and the art she makes — the majority of people don’t care about what Taylor Swift is doing at all.

Life is rudimental. We all lead simple, uncomplicated days. We enjoy art that is reflective of what is happening in our broader life. I just wish the online discourse could reflect that, too. Or maybe, I just need to log off.

1. Moonlight yoga and spirit-free bars and full moon parties are the new nightlife. Why does this make me so sad? (Bloomberg)

2. Anyone want to buy me this bougie roller suitcase? I’ve been telling myself there will be a “right time” to splurge on a new suitcase. And you know what? I don’t see that time coming soon in my young mom life!!! Blah.

3. Where did I go wrong that I wasn’t invited to the new Nashville Hermès opening?

4. This incredibly hot take:

   

5. I don’t remember where I heard this quote, but it still randomly pops up in my brain: “We are a puddle; and music is the rain.” Somehow, it’s the loveliest metaphor to how music makes my body feel.

6. Ya’ll. We all need to watch “Task” on HBO so we can talk about it. This show is divine. Also, it’s 95% on Rotten Tomatoes and Mark Ruffalo is so vulnerable and good.

7. This is a pretty fascinating telling about how Gen Z is embracing the more simple things in life like casual walks and fun meals. Charlotte Ward, 22, has built a devoted following by simply posting three photos from her daily walks and a snapshot of her dinner on X — amassing over 170,000 followers in her “today i walked…” community. (New York Times)

8. I always love a essay. In this one, she writes about how are 48-hour memories “are are a collection of subjective truths that both challenge and reinforce our understanding of ourselves and the world.”

9. I tested this new fragrance at a boutique a few weekends ago and I am still thinking about it.

   

10. So “writer-coded:”

Maybe I’m insufferable online. It’s just what I’ve been thinking lately. Maybe no one gives an absolute fuck about the flowers I saw at Trader Joe’s that were a perfect collage of yellows and pinks or the cute crocheted framed bunny at the antique store. Perhaps, nobody cares about the stupid, fucking sunset because they saw it too. Or, moreover, that I went to the gym. Why can’t I live my life with some private dignity?!?

I’ve lost friends because they found me annoying on Instagram. I don’t remember the exact story. It was told by another friend of mine in between drinks. I said, “I haven’t heard from [this person] in a while.” I had been suspecting of her absence for quite some time. I think it was some time during COVID and I was posting a lot of selfies and writing. I started to become addicted to validation through my writing and sharing on Instagram. It felt good to hear people could relate, so much that I fear it became performative. But isn’t everything we post on social media performative? We don’t … do it for other people.

“I think she just thought … or she said … that you got a little … annoying?”

Some questions/truths:

• Do we really need to post everything? The most normalizing (and comforting) truth about life is that nobody gives a shit about yours. Nobody cares about you. All they care about is themselves; seeing themselves through who you are online. And yet, social media doesn’t allow us to believe that. Think about it inwardly. When I’m scrolling through Instagram stories, sometimes I tap and tap and tap and when I’m done I’m like, “What did I just even see?” Even if I do retain something (Eminem finding words to rhyme with orange, for example), five minutes later, it’s ash in my brain because I’ve already answered an email/opened up the Weather App/walked into another room/forgot what we’re doing there/and had a miniature identity crisis all under five minutes. Don’t even get me started on the people are enjoying vacation while I’m perusing through Instagram stories. I get so jealous, I swipe past those every time.

• Does social media make us obsessed with being perfectly woke? During the George Floyd riots in Minneapolis, white women became excruciatingly performative in their social output (I was guilty too!); their rage about racism felt inauthentic and brash. I’m still embarrassed by it today. Beyond people posting black boxes on their newsfeeds in, what felt like, an rehearsed egomaniacal scheme — some were accused of lifting intellectual property from Black people online. A few of those girls (with upwards of 20K followers), deleted their Instagram accounts that summer. Lesson learned: Can’t we do supportive things for our community … quietly?

• I always thought I used social media for a few reasons: 1) to promote my writing and explore my creativity; 2) to keep up with friends; 3) to use it as a virtual photo album in a way and go back here and there to reflect. But I am a lying sack of shit if that’s the full truth. Social media has become the notebook I used to decorate with magazine clippings in high school and pass along to my girlfriends. It’s a fabricated mood board of pride, aspirations, accomplishments, aesthetically pleasing beauty fragments, and my life in a perfect vortex.

• I will admit, 70% of the time I’m on social media, I’m looking at my own archive or viewing my stories over and over again, imagining how I am perceived by others through my own eyes.

• Do we all become blowhards?? Elevated versions of ourselves? Once I tried to be funny online. And to be honest, what a cringe moment for me. I shared videos pretending to be an insufferable, boisterous spin instructor, trying to be like those naturally funny people that can spin out an SNL skit like it’s second nature (Kristen Knutson and Taylor Wolfe, who both share hilarious skits like “moms of the Pacific Northwest trying to make Valentine’s Day boxes.”) I remember thinking, I’m going to be one of those funny people online. Like … I can’t even tell a joke in public? Who? How?

• We [clap] are [clap] not [clap] who we are on social media in real life. We talk about this all the time, but the thing is, we don’t showcase “who we really are” anyway (hunched over skin and bones floating through space wearing two-day-old sweatpants). We all have dirty baseboards, a “coveted laundry chair” and a shit ton of leftovers we’ll never eat in the fridge. For that matter, I’ve become obsessed with a few “unaesthetic” moms on TikTok. There’s Alexandra, under @alexbabi97, who makes “unpleasing-looking” meals for her children and shares her bumpy weight loss journey openly. She’s doing her best, but her pans and her kitchen are so messy/unkept I watch with such soothing pleasure, I can’t stop. Alyssa Jane, under @adam.sandler.moms.only, is a single mom living in Wisconsin who does chaotic cleaning videos in her boring beige home. She often hides her unfolded laundry from guests, trips over her garbage can and throws away old milk bottles from her toddler that she finds behind the bed. It’s glorious. I wish I had the guts to share my life through that lens, and I’m honestly just too full of shit not to?

• Are we all hate-consuming content on social media? I mean, yea? We’re a bunch of judgmental assholes. I had this conversation with friends once that we all followed a collection of people that we disliked; only followed them because we absorbed this sense of masterful/conceded pleasure watching them post overly-vulnerable or senseless content on their feeds.

• What glorious serum is being injected into the veins of Gen Z? I am fascinated by their behavior on social media, who happily archive a majority of their posts, keep about 3-6 photos on their Instagram profile, rarely post anything at all, and (on their stories) only repost sensual photos of their friends. They primarily use Snapchat and seem to thrive in the social media space that will forever disappear. Did the pendulum swing so far into millennial self-righteousness that the next generation is clawing to get away from themselves? WHAT IS THIS DETACHED POWER THEY HAVE OVER ME?

• The way I see it, we all need to start sharing our Truth(TM): That we are all SO LAME on social media. Our lives are boring. We don’t care about anyone but ourselves. We’re insufferable. We’re blowhards. We’re so goddamn judgey. We’re abiding by the rules of a self-serving internet; obsessed with who we are through a lens made of rose-colored glass. And yet, on the other side, nobody cares.

And I had to write this equally insufferable Substack essay about it all.

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1. A perfectly imperfect article about a woman finding herself through motherhood. And the quote below, which casually destroyed me.

   

2. I want these sunglasses so bad.

3. This is a fun way to frame some of your mother’s/grandmother’s recipes.

4. I can’t wait to watch this movie.

5. This:

6. This tomato candle that (apparently) has that prickly, fresh garden smell.

7. I want these cutesy little organizers for my office desk.

8. People swear by this affordable blush stick.

9. My husband and I watched “The American Movie” last night on Amazon Prime and it was … really something. It’s a 1999 documentary about a guy from Wisconsin (while he was trying to make a horror film). It has a 94% on Rotten Tomatoes and it is GENUINE.

   

   @rich.84256flame broiled #bk

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