By skyforbes 
First, it was buy, buy, buy. Now it’s “stop buying!”
If you’ve spent even five minutes on TikTok this year, you’ve likely seen a new kind of influencer: the deinfluencer. They’re telling you to put down the Stanley Cup, reconsider that $600 Dyson Airwrap, and stop getting duped into another Amazon impulse buy. It seems like resistance. A shift. A movement toward anti-capitalist values.
But is it really?
Deinfluencing is still influencing. It is still content. It is still monetized. It is still rooted in trends that cycle through the same consumerist logic: rejection, rebranding, and replacement.
The Trend Cycle Rebranded
From the early 2010s Tumblr “grunge aesthetic” to the rise of VSCO girls, to the 2022 explosion of TikTok hauls and microtrends, social media has always turned identity into a product. The aesthetics may change, but the underlying behavior doesn’t: buy more, consume more, flex more.
Deinfluencing only appears to challenge this pattern. In reality, it relies on the same infrastructure. Influencers now say, “Don’t buy this lip gloss,” only to suggest an alternative that is cleaner, vegan, or more expensive. It is not non-consumption — it is curated consumption.
Consider the rise of the “sustainable haul” or “ethical swap”. One replaces plastic containers with glass jars, fast fashion with linen or thrifted finds, and convenience food with homegrown herbs. But all of these require money, time, and access — resources not equally distributed.
Minimalism, in this light, is not an ideology. It is an aesthetic. And as with every aesthetic on TikTok, it’s monetizable.
When “Less” Is a Privilege
Here is the uncomfortable truth: the majority of the world has always consumed less.
People in the Global South don’t call it minimalism — they call it life. Reusing packaging, fixing broken items, wearing hand-me-downs, and using a single appliance for multiple tasks are everyday realities, not trendy choices.
But when Americans or wealthy influencers do it, it becomes a performance. A brand. Something to photograph in soft beige tones and post on Instagram.
The irony is painful:
My mother and grandmother have always saved takeout containers, jars, and packaging — nothing goes to waste. In our kitchen, food is often stored in mismatched jars and reused boxes, not the sleek, uniform mason jars that influencers buy and label for aesthetic appeal. But that’s just how many of us grow up in the Global South, regardless of class — it’s less about income and more about a mindset of practicality and resourcefulness (or simply, common sense). Still, when we do it, it’s called “cheap” or “unrefined.” When an influencer does it — with new glass jars and minimalist labels — it’s suddenly “eco-conscious” and chic.
This is the aesthetic colonialism of the internet — where the practices of the poor and marginalized are only valued when filtered through white, Western lenses.
DIY and the Gentrification of Labor
Take the recent rise of DIY culture and the “make it from scratch” trend, largely attributed to influencers like Nara Smith. Nara, known for her ethereal lifestyle vlogs where she makes everything from bagels to shampoo at home, is praised for her commitment to slowness, intention, and self-sufficiency.
But is this really radical? Or is it simply the commodification of immigrant labor?
For generations, immigrants have been making everything from scratch — not because it’s cute, but because it’s cheaper. Growing herbs on the windowsill, sewing clothes at home, reusing yogurt containers, and cooking elaborate meals with bare minimum ingredients were not acts of rebellion — they were survival.
Yet these same behaviors were long mocked or seen as signs of backwardness. When immigrant families cooked from scratch in public housing kitchens or repurposed pickle jars for spices, they were labeled poor, dirty, or unhygienic.
Now, when the same behavior is performed by white or upper-class influencers, it becomes an aspirational lifestyle. This double standard is not just aesthetic — it’s rooted in classism, racism, and cultural imperialism.
The Environmental Cost of Performative Consciousness
The Global North — especially the U.S. — is responsible for the lion’s share of global waste and emissions:
- The average American produces 2.58 kg of waste daily (World Bank, 2018).
- The U.S. contributes 15% of global carbon emissions with just 4% of the world’s population (Climate Watch, 2023).
When American influencers speak about climate guilt and reducing overconsumption, they do so from a position of excess. They are repenting for a lifestyle that the Global South never had the privilege to live.
This guilt is turned into content. The solution? Buying better. Replacing plastic with bamboo. Ordering compostable packaging from overseas. Shipping “sustainable brands” halfway across the planet.
This is not sustainable. It is capitalist self-soothing.
The Truth About “Ethical Consumerism”
There is no ethical consumption under capitalism. That phrase is not just a slogan — it’s a structural truth.
Swapping a Shein shirt for a $90 organic cotton one does not end exploitation — it just relocates it. Most so-called sustainable brands still outsource their labor to the Global South. The difference? The marketing is prettier.
Anti-consumerism cannot be based on curated aesthetics. It must be rooted in structural change, global accountability, and a deep reckoning with how the West consumes — and who pays the price.
Reclaiming Resistance Beyond the Algorithm
Deinfluencing, if done critically, could be a gateway to deeper conversations about consumption, privilege, and accountability. But in its current form, it’s more reflective of branding than rebellion — another digital performance cloaked in aesthetics.
To move beyond this cycle, we have to shift the focus away from individual choices and curated lifestyles toward collective responsibility and systemic change. That means confronting the unequal global systems that allow overconsumption in the Global North to be subsidized by labor, land, and lives in the Global South.
It means listening to — and centering — the voices of those who’ve been living sustainably not by choice, but by necessity.
It means calling out the romanticization of immigrant survival strategies when they’re repackaged for clicks.
And it means refusing to mistake content for consciousness.
Because true resistance is not about what you buy — or don’t buy. It’s about what you’re willing to dismantle.
Works Cited
World Bank. (2018). What a Waste 2.0: A Global Snapshot of Solid Waste Management to 2050.
Climate Watch. (2023). Country Profiles: United States.
Tajja Isen. (2022). Some of My Best Friends: Essays on Lip Service.
Hartman, Saidiya. (2007). Lose Your Mother: A Journey Along the Atlantic Slave Route.