Written by Sophie Rose
Illustrated by Sylvain Chan
Deinfluencing, consumerism, doomscrolling. TikTok’s latest favourite buzzwords. Words that have been used less to describe systems and more to judge individuals – shorthand for moral failure, a lack of self-control, poor discipline. Something which should be a comment on society and its failures has turned into a social sorting tool, one that says ‘I’m better than you’.
The rising ‘anti’ trend on TikTok claims to reject consumption, technology, and excess. In practice, it reframes participation as an ethical test, reinforcing years of entrenched elitism disguised as progress – a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Rather than challenging platforms and corporate power, the burden of ‘doing better’ is placed on individuals who were never meant to win, while the system that benefits from their participation goes untouched.
In a space built to reward attention, consumption, and participation, it’s worth asking who benefits when opting out becomes a moral standard – and who is left carrying the shame when they can’t.
The Performance of Opting Out
TikTok’s latest cultural shift is defined by what it claims to reject: consumerism, technology, and endless scrolling. ‘Anti’ content presents itself as corrective – a return to intention, restraint, and mindful living. The platform increasingly romanticises analog life, framing less consumption and less screen time as not just healthier choices, but moral ones. But beneath this guise of awareness, something else is taking shape.
What often goes unnoticed is the irony at the heart of this trend. TikTok as a platform promotes hyper-consumerism, driven by algorithms and dependent on cutting-edge technology. Yet, the culture relies on being against all of this. And instead of blaming the platform – algorithmic manipulation, attention extraction, and deliberately addictive design – failure is framed as a lack of discipline, personal weakness, and bad habits. It says ‘if you haven’t stopped, it’s because you’re less evolved’. It’s virtue signalling dressed up as ‘wellness’. Self-improvement becomes less about health and more about signalling discipline, taste, and moral distance from others. Opting out has become a performance and restraint has replaced ‘excess’ as a new status symbol. This is where content becomes a form of moral weaponry.
This is nothing new. Capitalism has long been adept at absorbing its own criticism and selling it back as a lifestyle. Wellness, clean living, and now deinfluencing follow the same arc – a legitimate critique emerges, it gains traction before becoming aestheticised and monetised. The language changes, but the structure remains intact. TikTok’s ‘anti’ trend is simply the latest iteration of a system that does not collapse under critique – it rebrands itself through it.
Shame as Social Currency
On TikTok, consumerism isn’t being dismantled; it’s being moralised. It turns everyday behaviours into evidence of personal failure, rather than symptoms of a system designed to extract. This ‘anti’ content isn’t really about helping people stop doom-scrolling or consume less – it’s about drawing a line between the enlightened and the unenlightened. Shame becomes a shortcut to authority.
This culture of moralised restraint doesn’t end when the app closes. When everyday behaviours are framed as ethical failures, users are constantly evaluating themselves: how much they scroll, what they buy, how often they rely on convenience. Guilt stops being corrective and becomes ambient. The culture thrives on the promise of purity. There is always something to cut out, another habit to optimise, another indulgence to feel ashamed of. The result is not liberation from consumerism, but an internalised form of control.
A Performance of Superiority
Anti-consumerism on TikTok often isn’t about reducing harm or rejecting capitalism, but performing distance from mass culture. Comments like ‘consumerism at its finest’ aren’t critiquing systems – they’re separating themselves from the consumer. The subtext is that they see through the guise. They are above the herd mentality, yet they still monetise content and recommend alternatives. The critique is less anti-consumerism and more anti-being-seen-as-a-consumer. Yet these rejections are rarely absolute. They are selective, reversible, and publicly performed. Anti-technology does not function as resistance, but as cultural capital, signalling taste, discipline, and distance from mass participation. The irony, of course, is that this rejection is broadcast through the very system it claims to be above – this is where the real problems get lost.
Minimalism used to be framed as a necessity or survival. Having less meant you couldn’t ‘afford’ more. Now, it’s being reframed as refinement. Having fewer items is tasteful; having less clutter is disciplined. Owning less has become a flex, but only because the absence is chosen, aesthetic, and reversible. For many, having less isn’t a philosophy or an aspiration, but a stressor, with TikTok minimalism erasing that reality and replacing it with a clean, calm aesthetic that says ‘I am above excess, and above you’. This misses the heart of the problem. Who can afford to buy fewer, high-quality items? Who can choose slow, analog alternatives? Who can opt out of convenience without consequence? Oftentimes, people with money and time. This is where elitism lives – not in the idea of consuming less, but in who gets to make that choice without risk.
Who Gets to Opt Out?
Anti-consumerism on TikTok ultimately functions less as a critique of capitalism and more as a way to signal moral superiority while remaining fully embedded in the system being critiqued. The content often lacks any mention of labour conditions, environmental policy, corporate accountability, and focuses entirely on individual purity and personal restraint. And because it’s framed as personal choice, it avoids any form of class analysis, disability needs, and culture differences.
The fantasy of opting out assumes a body, schedule, and safety net that not everyone has. Convenience, affordability, and technology are not indulgences for many people, but necessities shaped by disability, caregiving, shift work, or poverty. Fast fashion, delivery apps, and screen-based leisure are often framed as moral failures without the vital acknowledgement of the conditions that make them functional. Anti-consumerism becomes cruel when it ignores the labour and limitations it depends on, turning survival strategies into evidence of personal failure.
People who cannot afford to buy-in to these trends shame themselves for using affordable conveniences and relying on tech that makes life manageable. Meanwhile, the people setting the tone still profit, monetise, and have options. Anti-consumerism becomes a way for non-elites to discipline themselves on behalf of elite values, missing the true inequalities they perpetuate. Anti-consumerism becomes a disciplinary tool: non-elites internalise elite standards and police themselves accordingly. The result is not redistribution or reform, but deeper self-regulation on behalf of a system that remains untouched.
Judgement is easy. Change is not.
What began as a true critique of capitalism on social media has been misconstrued, warped from advocacy and change into shame and judgement. TikTok didn’t free us from overconsumption – it just changed how we’re judged for participating in it. The heart of the matter remains as it always has: such trends perpetuate the systems they attempt to dismantle, ignoring deep-rooted inequalities.
A genuine critique of consumerism would not begin with personal purity. It would interrogate platforms, supply chains, labour conditions, and regulation. It would question why attention is extracted so aggressively, and why responsibility is consistently displaced onto individuals. TikTok’s ‘anti’ culture avoids these questions, not because they are inaccessible, but because they are inconvenient. Structural critique does not translate easily into content; moral certainty does. And so the focus remains on who is doing enough, rather than what needs to change. Until the critique moves toward collective accountability, ‘anti’ culture will remain less a challenge to power and more a performance of distance from those with less.
