The 'I met my 12-year-old self' trend is not just cringe - it’s bleak
If your social feeds are anything like mine, right now they’re dominated by the ‘I met my 12-year-old self for coffee’ trend.
This sees people writing emotionally charged captions or scripts, detailing what they’d tell their younger self if they met them today, over stylised videos of, say, a slow-moving tide or of themselves applying make-up while looking reflective.
Those joining in have opened up about their brutal teenage experiences and how far they’ve come since. Life lessons range from overcoming bullying, resolving uncertainty around having kids and body image issues, to reassurances that yes! former self, you will make it out of your stifling small town one day (and may even come to miss it). All sparked after a poem with similar sentiments by writer Jennae Cecelia went viral.
On the surface it’s a borderline cute-cringe trend that serves as a reminder that we’re all human. Bad things happen; no season is permanent.
But to me it also felt kind of bleak. Evidence of the current loneliness epidemic that’s sparing no age group but is acute for young women. Data from the Office for National Statistics found that one million people aged 16 to 29 experience 'chronic loneliness' and further research found those who lack meaningful connections are 2.25 more likely to be diagnosed with depression.
Add to this the ongoing geo-political hellscape dominating the news. Plus the fact that life feels particularly savage right now (are all your friends currently in secure employment, stable housing and able to pay their bills, because way too many of mine aren’t). Is it really any wonder this form of throwaway confessional content has taken such a hold?
Why the online vulnerability market is booming
Against this backdrop, it’s clear we’re craving some form of hope, validation and connection – the engagement in this trend is testament to that.
In fact, this practice of tapping into your inner child is a tried and tested therapy technique, says Dr Gayle Watts at Turning Tides Psychology, when putting the idea under a microscope for Cosmopolitan UK.
“The idea is that by revisiting past experiences with the wisdom and compassion you have now, you can reframe negative beliefs, offer yourself reassurance, and acknowledge how far you’ve come,” she explains.
“We’re living through a time of widespread loneliness, financial pressures, and uncertainty, and people are looking for ways to process their experiences.”
Intellectually, I get it. But it all leaves a sour taste. The more that these kind of clips drench my algorithm, the less empathetic I feel. Perhaps I’ve got empathy burnout right now, but too many of them smack of insincerity.
Some of these videos actually give off the vibe of trying to cultivate trauma that wasn’t even there in the first place, in order to join in and have something to say to a room full of strangers, hopefully bagging some followers along the way.
And in the face of real-time horrors playing out side-by-side (see: President Trump's approach to foreign policy; the rise of far right ideologies that mean nearly half of Gen Z men now think ‘women’s rights have gone too far’ despite there being no country in the world where women have achieved equal pay and a rape being reported every hour) these romanticised journeys of struggle and self-actualisation can feel painfully myopic. Such is the bizarre nature of life online in the 2020s.
Even those who post with genuine good intentions can fall flat when trying to navigate a trend like this in our current era of ‘McVulnerability’ – a perfectly coined phrase by psychologist Maytal Eyal in her recent article about crying TikTokers on The Atlantic.
It denotes the disingenuous commercialisation of trauma in order to gain followers, attention or to sell an audience something and Eyal describes this type of content as “a synthetic version of vulnerability akin to fast food: mass-produced, easily accessible, sometimes tasty, but lacking in sustenance”.
Much like fast food, performative oversharing seems to be on every corner right now and just as intent on making me bloated and irritable. Maybe it's the combination of the earnest nature scenes or clips of the self-shot heroine in full winged eyeliner glam sitting beside the ‘raw’ thoughts that leave me cold.
Caring vs (over)sharing
I wonder if we're all so busy looking inwards as a response to rolling horrors - making it about me-me-me and being focussed on the self - that we're actually getting further away from doing anything about them. Have we forgotten how to reach outwards, into our communities in non-performative ways that won’t see us rewarded with likes?
I'm also curious if rehashing trauma (what counts as such is a conversation for another day) to a cutesy tune and aesthetic visuals is genuinely helpful for anyone: those of us scrolling and eyerolling, the culture at large - and the poster themselves.
Per Dr Watts, the utility of such sharing depends on the intention you approach it with.
“Authenticity is key when sharing personal experiences online,” she tells me, noting that while vulnerability can be a powerful tool for connection, it’s important to ask yourself why you’re sharing in the first place. “Is it to help others, to seek validation, or to process something you’re still working through?”
Her advice is to only share things you’ve already processed, as opposed to using social media in real-time to unpack emotional issues (and ideally to work with a therapist when attempting to heal any inner child wounds, not the TikTok masses).
“It’s also helpful to engage in genuine conversations rather than simply posting for likes; reply to others, share lessons learned, and acknowledge that healing isn’t always linear,” adds Dr Watts. “Ultimately, vulnerability is most meaningful when it’s shared with intention, rather than performance.”
So here’s where I’ve landed: we need to continue the much-needed conversation around poor mental health - the shocking state of services, included. We should be emboldened to know that keeping hard times to ourselves helps no one - and that people feeling able to voice their distress saves lives.
We should continue to take a sledgehammer to stigmas so that more people feel able to seek the help they need (that’s something I’d be nudging my 12-year-old self to do over a latte; she’d have a hot chocolate with all the trimmings).
But also we need to be very, very careful how we go about it. Meaningful, healing and systemic change - forged by connection, not performance - is the way forward.
If you’re feeding the internet’s insatiable hunger for female vulnerability for little more in return than a shot at virality, I’m not sure it’s worth it.
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