Starting this week, the 35-year-old will travel in an inflatable kayak through waters inhabited by crocodiles and hippos, potentially encountering gorillas and elephants along the way. Consisting of 500 million acres of land and the second-largest river basin in the world, the Congo Basin is a hotspot for tropical diseases and is classed as unsafe to travel due to health, crime, unrest, terrorism and kidnapping risks, according to the State Department.

In a social media post outlining the challenge, Dykes warned he could be "days away from proper medical help" at some of the most remote points of the journey.

With more than 4.5 million followers across social media, Dykes has built a reputation for undertaking increasingly extreme adventures, including becoming the first person to trek across Mongolia solo and unsupported, and the first person on record to walk the entire length of the Yangtze River in China. His adventures have attracted huge audiences, including followers genuinely concerned for his welfare.

Dykes is documenting his Congo Basin journey online as it unfolds, turning an extreme expedition into episodic social entertainment with no guaranteed outcome.

While some social media users seem to be watching the footage through their fingers, others appear torn between excitement and anxiety.

"I hate that we all have to do this," one TikTok user commented on the adventurer's arrival video. "I'm stuck between wanting to experience this and blocking you because I don't want stress," another added.

As audiences follow these extraordinary missions in real time, why do we become so invested in watching a stranger take on a potentially dangerous challenge — and why does finding out whether they make it begin to feel so personal?

Why we love watching extreme adventures

For those watching Dykes navigate the Congo Basin from the comfort of their homes, the appeal of such a dangerous expedition may go beyond simple entertainment.

Our fascination with watching others face danger is rooted partly in what psychologists call "morbid curiosity," an interest in threatening or potentially dangerous situations that allows us to learn about risks without experiencing them ourselves.

"There is no better way to safely learn about something dangerous than to witness it," Coltan Scrivner, an author and psychologist at Arizona State University, told Yahoo. "Our mind treats these opportunities for high-consequence learning as particularly valuable, which draws us to stories of danger."

But curiosity is only part of the appeal. Pamela Rutledge, director of the Media Psychology Research Center in Boston, said watching someone voluntarily undertake an extreme challenge also offers the excitement of danger without the physical consequences.

"Watching from a safe distance lets us experience the excitement of danger without facing the consequences ourselves," she said.

For some viewers, particularly those drawn to sensation-seeking, that can make following a risky adventure especially rewarding. Yet it doesn't entirely explain why audiences continue watching when the experience makes them anxious.

Mary Beth Oliver, a professor of media studies at Penn State University, points to a media theory known as "excitation transfer," which suggests that the heightened arousal created by suspense can intensify our emotional response to what happens next.

"Ultimately, I don't think people want to experience anxiety, but that anxiety can heighten our feelings of elation when the character wins or avoids danger," she said.

Oliver compared it to watching a close sporting match. While a win usually feels good, a last-minute victory can feel far more satisfying than an easy victory because of the way the tension builds until the final moment.

Why we need to know if someone makes it

Dykes' followers will be left in suspense as they await the next update. As the expedition unfolds, each new social media post offers a snapshot of his progress while leaving the outcome of the wider journey unresolved.

"Each post is a mini-cliffhanger that encourages continued engagement," Rutledge said.

The serialized format is not unique to Dykes and has a long history in entertainment. Victorian novelists published their stories in installments, keeping readers coming back for the next chapter while creating a lucrative publishing model.

More recently, adventure creators such as British YouTuber Ed Pratt, who documented his journey around the world on a unicycle, and British YouTuber GeoWizard, known for attempting to cross countries in a straight line, have built audiences around ambitious, self-imposed challenges.

For Rutledge, the episodic nature of these adventures is part of their appeal.

ash_dykes/TikTok

"Each post is one installment of the journey and becomes a piece of a puzzle leading to the next post," she said.

While the creators' missions differ, each has a clearly defined goal and obstacles to overcome. Dykes has taken this a step further by releasing social media clips documenting his adventure in real time. 

When spectators become emotionally invested

As viewers become familiar with Dykes' personality, decisions and setbacks through repeated updates, their curiosity about the adventure can develop into genuine concern for his welfare.

"The question moves from being outcome-oriented: Can this guy kayak 434 miles through the Congo Basin? to a more relational perspective as we get to know Dykes as a person and become more sensitive to the risks he faces," Rutledge said. 

This can be explained in part by parasocial relationships, the one-sided connections audiences develop with people they repeatedly encounter through the media. 

"The uncertainty and danger threaten someone the viewers feel they know," she said.

But that emotional investment is not necessarily unhealthy. 

"Parasocial relationships are, for the most part, beneficial; they can create feelings of belonging and decrease loneliness," the academic said.

While the relationship with Dykes may be one-sided, sharing his journey on social media allows those interested in the adventure to connect and share their anticipation.

"The journey becomes both a vicarious experience and a shared social event," Rutledge said.

For the millions following Dykes' journey, the adventure is far from over. Until the next update arrives, they'll have to keep waiting to find out.

Over the summer, I got a text from a cousin whose daughter was almost 7.

"I found a Kirsten American Girl doll on Facebook Marketplace in a town not far from you," she wrote. "I was wondering if you might have a chance to grab it before someone else snags it?"

Her hunt for a vintage Kirsten made by Pleasant Company, before Mattel bought the brand in 1998, had been underway for some time. Her daughter had been saving her lemonade stand profits toward a purchase. Mom had seen a newer version of the doll for sale, but she was holding out.

"I'm finding an OG," she told me.

The retro doll was listed for $90, but she talked the seller down to $75. "This doll exchange is serious business," she told me.

Then came the relay: I picked up Kirsten and drove her home. My husband took the doll on the next leg of its journey, handing her off to one very happy little girl and her mom, who live over an hour away. Three adults and over three hours in the car — all to get one childhood favorite into a new pair of tiny hands.

Yahoo

As American Girl marks its 40th anniversary this year, the girls who once played with the originals are now raising children of their own. Some are taking their old dolls out of storage for them. Others are searching Marketplace and eBay for the Kirstens, Samanthas and Mollys they remember. And then there are those who are buying newly rereleased versions of the historical dolls in stores for the anniversary.

But sharing a cherished childhood favorite means handing it over to someone with their own ideas. Their Gen Alpha kids decide what happens next — swapping Kirsten's prairie dress for a modern outfit, loving Samantha but asking for a pink-and-purple-haired doll for Christmas or packing the dolls away before Mom is ready.

Why the originals still matter

Dorothy Sasso tells Yahoo she was introduced to American Girl by her librarian at age 7. She tore through the historical fiction books that put girls at the center of the story before discovering a postcard advertising the dolls.

"Oh my God, there are dolls!" Sasso, 45, remembers thinking.

BRENDAN SMIALOWSKI/AFP via Getty Images

Sasso was gifted Samantha for Christmas in 1988 and took her everywhere. An avid reader and future history teacher, she was drawn to the character's rich story: an orphan living with her wealthy grandmother in New York in 1904.

It was mom-approved. Sasso's mother bought herself a Molly, whose story is set during World War II.

At 10, Sasso saved up for Felicity, whose story is set during Colonial Williamsburg circa 1774, and cared meticulously for both dolls. Part of the appeal was the detail of their miniature worlds. Sasso remembers high-quality wooden furniture and ceramic accessories that she treasured and held on to for decades. The dolls even made a cameo in the background of Sasso's wedding day photos. 

Launched in 1986 as Pleasant Company, American Girl grew from mail-order catalogs to stores, and the dolls evolved too. Today, historical characters share space with contemporary lookalikes (Truly Me dolls with varied skin tones, eye colors and hair textures), baby dolls, Girl of the Year characters and even Disney princesses.

For children's author and former American Girl magazine editor Aubre Andrus, the attachment goes beyond the dolls themselves.

"They've always taken girlhood seriously," she tells Yahoo. "I just remember feeling so safe and understood, and felt like the things I cared about mattered."

Passing down the dolls

When Sasso's parents sent her childhood American Girl collection to her, she brought it out for her daughters, Claire, now 12, and Audrey, now 10.

Marvin Joseph/The Washington Post via Getty Images

"They loved it," she says. But watching little hands playing with the wooden and ceramic accessories made her anxious. "My 3-year-old should not be handling this," she thought. Still, she set up pieces in the kitchen and let them play.

During COVID, they read the historical books chronologically, from Kaya's world in 1764 through Julie's in the 1970s. The girls recognized the outfits and accessories in the illustrations. 

"'Wait, you have that in the other room,'" they would say, before running to get the pieces. "'Oh my God, that's from the picture.'"

The first dolls the girls got for themselves were lookalikes. Later, gift cards from their Molly-owning grandmother allowed each of them to choose a historical character as well, making it three generations of American Girl fans. 

Alexi Rosenfeld/Getty Images

Sasso then started searching eBay and resale listings for additional historical dolls and older accessories for the girls, entering what she calls a "very thriving buy-sell market." (One seller is asking $2,500 for a set of six original dolls.)

The girls have since packed all the dolls away in the attic, "which was so sad for me," Sasso says. "I was very emotional about it."

She had expected the doll years to last longer, as they had for her. But her daughters are on their own timeline. The dolls still come out now and then — like when Audrey's friends visit — but they're otherwise preserved with Claire and Audrey already imagining passing them down to their own children someday.

Andrus says passing her original Kirsten down to her daughters, ages 8 and 4, comes with a different worry: getting the doll safely from her parents' house in the Midwest to her home in California. 

"I'm so precious about her," she says. "If she were to be lost, it would be so sad."

Her daughters already play with Andrus's '90s clothes and accessories. She feels that sharing them means "giving your daughters a piece of girlhood that meant so much to you."

Old favorites, fresh out of the box

For some families, bringing back that classic piece of childhood means buying new. American Girl's anniversary rereleases offer a route to the historical characters their moms grew up with — with a brand-new box, no musty attic smell and no fear of it going missing during shipping. 

American Girl dolls have always been a substantial purchase: In 1986, one with a paperback book cost $68. Today, a rereleased Kirsten with a book and accessories sells for $175.

Influencer Mary Orton Scudellari posted a lighthearted recap of her trip to American Girl Place with her daughters, along with some nostalgic ground rules.

"'You may choose any doll* you want,' I said, gesturing exclusively to the historical dolls," she wrote. She added the footnote, "*Dolls introduced after 1997 are not recognized by this administration, obviously."

She also described her daughters' store visit as "every mother's dream" of "using her children as plausible cover to revisit the defining obsession of her own girlhood."

Other moms' visits take a different comic turn: They arrive picturing their child getting Kit only to go home with Rapunzel.

Andrus says taking her older daughter to American Girl Place to choose her first doll "felt like a rite of passage." She understands why moms are thrilled to "open that door again and be back in that world."

The experience has led the former American Girl magazine editor to campaign to revive the publication, which folded in 2019. Her daughter turning 8 made the mission even more personal. With renewed interest in nostalgia and analog experiences, she believes the timing is right.

"It just feels like this cultural moment," she says. "What strikes me is that people aren't only saying, 'I miss this,' they're saying, 'I want this for my daughter.'"

Their dolls, their rules

Kids may be introduced to the dolls through mom, but the play experience — whether the doll is old or new — is all their own. 

My cousin was "gutted" when her childhood Molly disappeared during an apparent cleanout of her parents' basement. For her daughter, though, she saw a match in Kirsten: a girl discovering a new world, much like her almost-7-year-old.

But Kirsten didn't have to stay in the 1850s. By summer's end, the doll I'd delivered in her original blue floral dress and apron had a modern wardrobe, including two ice-skating outfits. Mom had introduced the toy. Her daughter decided what came next.

Marvin Joseph/The Washington Post via Getty Images

My Yahoo colleague, Kate Murphy, 41, relates. She tells me she saved her childhood dolls, hoping to pass them down someday. During an impromptu visit to American Girl's New York City store last November, she pointed out Kirsten and Samantha to her 6-year-old daughter, Jackie, and asked whether she would like the ones she'd saved.

"Her eyes lit up," Murphy says. The dolls came out of storage in her parents' attic upstate and arrived that Thanksgiving, along with furniture and bedding Murphy's own parents had made for Kirsten.

Jackie enjoys the originals, reports Mom, but the doll at the top of her Christmas list this year has pink and purple hair — her two favorite colors — and eyes that match hers.

"She told me, 'It looks just like me, but I'm just pretending to have purple and pink hair, Mommy,'" Murphy says.

Murphy absolutely loves Jackie's choice, which the girl spotted in a catalog. 

"The two dolls belonged to me, and I want her to be able to have a doll of her own that looks like her," she says.

For Murphy, passing down the originals also means letting go of some childhood rules. When she played with the dolls as a child, she never wanted to undo Kirsten's braids or brush out Samantha's hair. So far, Jackie has only been interested in changing their clothes, but Murphy knows that might change.

"I might twinge a bit at first if she decides to brush out their hair, but if that's how she wants to play, let her," she says.

"These dolls belong to her now."

The exchange quickly went viral, with some viewers describing the fans' behavior as "parasocial" and accusing them of crossing a boundary. "Some of you are so parasocial with this gillian play you're actually turning into real life STALKERS like no it is not normal to go to a play and wait for the celebrity outside for 36297 nights in a row!!!! It gets to a point you guys have no boundaries," one person wrote on X.

Anderson, however, soon complicated that characterization. She defended the fans and explained that she had known them for more than 20 years.

"The video doing the rounds is me talking with women i go back over 20 years with - so please don't say anything negative to or about them," she wrote in a note shared to X.

"We're thrilled to be doing this show but for people in the front row, please be aware that in such an intimate venue we can all see you and sometimes, it can be a tad distracting! That's all."

Anderson's exchange is one of several recent celebrity-fan encounters that have reignited questions about where the boundaries of fandom should lie. The Pitt actor Isa Briones asked fans to stop shouting references to her television character while she was performing on Broadway. Simone Biles asked fans to show her "love from afar" after people repeatedly photographed her while she was traveling. Heated Rivalry actor Hudson Williams confronted autograph seekers who had followed him to his temporary residence in Paris in August, telling them, "You guys aren't fans. You're being really creepy."

While the fans' behavior in these encounters was markedly different, the same word has repeatedly surfaced in discussions about fans overstepping boundaries: "parasocial."

Once a relatively obscure academic term for the one-sided relationships audiences form with media figures, "parasocial" has become part of the internet's everyday vocabulary — and, increasingly, an accusation.

What 'parasocial' means

The concept of "parasocial interaction" dates back to 1956, when American sociologists Donald Horton and R. Richard Wohl coined the term to describe the apparent face-to-face relationship audiences could experience with media personalities, especially those who spoke directly to the camera, according toMerriam-Webster.

The word has since moved out of academia and into widespread use, a shift Merriam-Webster recognized when it added "parasocial" to its dictionary in 2026.

"In its origins, the term simply means that a relationship is mediated: you aren't engaging with someone directly but are relating to them and feeling like you know them (in whatever sense) in a one-sided way through the media," Mel Stanfill, a professor who studies fandom and digital culture, told Yahoo.

But as the term has entered everyday language, Stanfill said, it has taken on a more judgmental meaning.

"Now it's used to describe intense fandom, but specifically intense fandom that people disapprove of and want to frame as inappropriate."

That shift mirrors what has happened to other terms that originated in academic contexts before they became words repurposed on the internet, Stanfill said.

"This is in the same way pop psychology language generally is distorted from what it meant in its original context," they said. "This is a term that has escaped academic language and become something people throw around, like 'triggered' or 'gaslighting' and the other clinical words that have entered everyday speech in recent years."

The blurring of boundaries

Social media hasn't just made celebrities more accessible to fans; it has also changed what celebrities are expected to share about themselves.

"There is now an expectation of self-promotion and self-branding through social media, a kind of manufactured intimacy that is simply part of being a star," Stanfill said.

That intimacy is different from the publicity that has long surrounded famous people, Stanfill said, because it is both "always-on" and something celebrities are increasingly expected to manage themselves, whether personally or through their teams.

"When celebrities don't participate in it, they're often seen as shady or as hiding something," they said. "That supercharges the sense of intimacy fans have always had in these parasocial relationships."

Sameer AL-DOUMY/AFP via Getty Images

At the same time, social media may have made it harder to distinguish between knowing someone and simply knowing about them.

"I think what modern social media has done (in part) is to blur the boundaries we are able to perceive between ourselves and strangers (not just celebrities)," Gayle S. Stever, an academic and coauthor of Parasocial Experiences, told Yahoo.

That doesn't necessarily mean fans have become worse at respecting those boundaries. "The largest percentage of fans I have observed and talked to and interviewed respect boundaries and are annoyed with the fans who don't," Stever said.

The people who do overstep, however, are also more likely to attract attention.

"Of course, the fans who repeatedly come on the radar of a Gillian Anderson are most often the ones who don't respect boundaries," Stever said. "But that can be true in any social situation. We just notice this one more because these people are famous and thus more reported on."

She compared it to encountering a coworker or acquaintance who doesn't respect personal boundaries. "This is an unfortunate but common part of social life in general."

For Stanfill, the tension is partly the product of stars being encouraged to cultivate intimacy with their audiences.

"I don't want to blame celebrities for the responses they get by any stretch of the imagination, but it is something of a perfect storm," they said. "The realities of promotional culture and the realities of fan culture at this moment are colliding to produce an often-harmful set of interactions."

Who decides when fandom has gone too far?

While feeling a strong connection to a celebrity isn't unhealthy, the harder question is where ordinary fandom ends and problematic behavior begins.

Stanfill believes "the problem is the behavior, not the feeling behind it."

"As with gambling or other compulsive behaviors, fandom becomes a problem when it causes problems for somebody's work, school, sleep, finances, etc., when it causes problems in their life and is no longer just recreation. It's also a problem when it harms other people, whether other fans or the celebrity," the academic explained. 

However, there are no "hard and fast rules" for determining where that line falls. While some examples are clearly unacceptable, there is a gray area in what is acceptable from one celebrity to another. 

"It is deeply contextual, and that's what makes this so difficult," Stanfill said. "It's why boundary-drawing and separating one kind of fandom from the other are so hard."

There is another complication in Anderson's case: If her relationship with these particular fans is reciprocal, Stever said, it may not be parasocial at all.

Parasocial relationships are, by definition, "non-reciprocated," Stever said. Once a fan and celebrity actually develop a reciprocal relationship, she said, it no longer fits that definition.

The debate surrounding Anderson also prompted some of her other fans to scrutinize their own behavior.

One fan, who said they had visited Anderson's stage door three times in a week despite attending the show only once, resurfaced an earlier message in which they acknowledged that they were "not entitled to a stage door experience" and described deliberately trying not to draw attention to herself.

"While this doesnt exonerate me from being a part of the crowd, i want it to be clear i've always been respectful and tried to keep myself small,"they wrote on X after the Anderson video circulated.

Now, the word parasocial does more than describe the relationship between a fan and a celebrity. The loaded term has given fans a new vocabulary through which to judge themselves — and each other.

"Every time we would pass like an airstream trailer on the side of the road, he would make us stop and look at the price and go inside," she tells Yahoo. "It's been something I can't remember not hearing about."

For decades, though, the realities of life prevented Frank Babcock's travel fantasies from becoming a reality. He was widowed when Conner was 10 years old, which meant there was little time to do anything but support her and her younger brother.

"I did the cooking. I did the cleaning. I ran them everywhere," Frank tells Yahoo. "Summers were always booked."

At 69, Frank finally got his wish last month. As he set out from his Northern Illinois home, heading west toward the scenic National Parks of the northern U.S., he sent Conner a text message to let her know that "Big Frank's Excellent Adventure" had begun at last. 

She was so moved by the moment that she shared her father's story with her more than  150,000 TikTok followers. 

From there, the post took on a life of its own. Thousands of strangers commented, many of them offering to host Frank if he found his way to their towns. To date, the post has been viewed more than 1.7 million times and collected more than 370,000 likes. Conner also started a separate account for Frank, where she edits and curates posts of the updates he sends her from the road. 

"He has been so resilient and gone through so many things, it's so cool to watch so many people be invested and want to support him as someone that I just think is really deserving of support," she says. 

'Proud parent moment'

After retiring earlier this year, Frank had a lot to get done before he could hit the road. He had multiple back surgeries, including one to fuse the joint connecting his lower spine to his pelvis. He also had to put in the work to convert his aging 2008 Chevy Suburban into makeshift mobile lodging.

"My thought was, well, I'm gonna do it the 'poor boy' way first … and really see if I do like it," he says.

He installed a camping cot, blackout curtains, storage containers, portable heating and a fan. He also built a custom wooden platform to make the back of the SUV more livable. 

After decades of waiting and months of patient preparation, he headed out on his big adventure in late September. The trip didn't get off to an auspicious start. 

"I started out that first night and… I stayed in just the rest stop," he says. "I thought, 'Oh, I don't know if I like this.'"

But things all came together once he traded rest stops full of big rigs for campgrounds full of fellow travelers. 

"I'm a people person," he shares.

Over the course of the last few weeks, he's visited some of the country's most beautiful natural sites: Glacier National Park, Rocky Mountain National Park, Yellowstone, the Wind River Valley, the Grand Tetons and more. 

"Look, I'm not in a hurry. I can take my time and look at the country," he says. "Oh man, I am so glad that I'm doing this."

Along the way, Frank has sent back videos to Conner from his various stops, which she cuts together to share on the TikTok account dedicated to chronicling his trip, which has nearly 30,000 followers.

"He's watched us for all these years do things," she says., right?"

The first leg of Big Frank's Excellent Adventure will last a few weeks, but he has several trips in his future itinerary, including a long drive south to visit the Grand Canyon.

A flood of support from strangers

Frank says he doesn't fully grasp why so many strangers have become interested in his travels, but appreciates their support.

"It's a cool deal," he says. "It's very nice."

Conner believes her dad's story has resonated because a lot of people who encountered her post see pieces of their own lives in it. 

"The older you get, the more you understand the sacrifice of your parents," she says. "A lot of my followers know about our mom passing away and will follow me because they have widowed parents … so I knew it would be relatable for them."

Courtesy of Frank Babcock

Both of them were particularly inspired by the many comments from people all over the country inviting Frank to visit them where they live. 

"If he comes to NYC, drinks on me!"

"Tell dad if he wants to do some camping in Arizona I'm down!!"

"If surfing is on his bucket list, I'll give him a free lesson if he comes thru LA."

Frank hasn't had the opportunity to connect with anyone who made those offers, but says he plans to.

"I'm gonna take some people up on that," he says. "There was somebody in New Mexico or something with a hot air balloon. Absolutely, I'm gonna call you. That's something I always wanted to do."

Of course, Frank's ideal travel companions would be his children. Though there are no concrete plans for Conner and her brother to join him on the road at the moment, it's something all of them are looking forward to.

"We have to find a spot where we can all connect … but we would love to [join him] at some point," she says. 

Posting as LimpBroozkit, a play on the band Limp Bizkit and one of her first ALS symptoms, Eby built an audience of more than 720,000 social media followers by candidly chronicling what it was like to live with the disease.

Eby described her posts as a "dying diary" — a record of dating, humor, frustration and her refusal to pretend she felt grateful for her condition.

Millions of people were first introduced to ALS in the summer of 2014, when the Ice Bucket Challenge went viral. The highly influential challenge meant millions learned what ALS was. Through Eby, many learned what it was like to live with it.

What living with ALS means

Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS), also known as Lou Gehrig's disease, is a progressive illness in which the brain loses its connection to the muscles, gradually taking away a person's ability to walk, talk, eat and, eventually, breathe, according to theALS Association.

The Centers for Disease Control and Preventionestimates that close to 35,000 people in the United States have ALS and that about 5,000 are diagnosed each year. There is no cure, though a small number of treatments can modestly slow progression. Most people live two to five years after symptoms develop.

Between 5% and 10% of cases are hereditary. The rest have no known family history or genetic cause.

In the summer of 2014, the Ice Bucket Challenge dominated social media feeds, with people around the world dousing themselves and their loved ones in ice-cold water to raise money for ALS.

The challenge existed in various forms before it became associated with ALS. It was taken up by people connected to the disease, including advocates Pat Quinn and Pete Frates, whohelped turn it into a global phenomenon.

"The Ice Bucket Challenge awoke the world to ALS," Olga Moshinsky Woltman, the vice president of the ALS Association, told Yahoo. "That led to funding for research, care, and advocacy. We've also been able to significantly expand our network of ALS clinics providing multidisciplinary care, which is proven to extend life and improve its quality."

The ALS Associationsays it raised $115 million that year alone and has since awarded more than $155 million in research grants. That more than doubled the association's research investment compared with the previous 23 years, helping fund the discovery of new ALS-linked genes, therapeutic targets and biomarkers.

"Before the Ice Bucket Challenge, no one was talking about ALS. Afterward, everyone had a connection to the disease," Nancy Frates, Pete Frates' mother, said on the challenge's 10th anniversary in 2024.

By the early 2020s, a different form of ALS awareness was emerging online.

Living life in 'dog years'

While most people with ALS are diagnosed between the ages of 55 and 75, Eby was diagnosed in March 2022 at 33. She first felt symptoms at 29, when she noticed tightness in her calf.  Eby figured it was because she didn't stretch enough after workouts, and spent four years searching for answers.

From early on, Eby used her trademark levity to describe how she reached a turning point. In 2024, she filmed a "get ready with me," applying makeup while she described finding out about her "death sentence."

After spending two months in bed "crying and eating M&M's," she went to one of her best friends' weddings, arriving with a walker identical to the bride's grandmother's.

"I turned to my friend and said, 'Let's leave,'" she said in a video she posted at the beginning of the year. "She was like, 'Or we can make this really fun.'"

A friend persuaded her to stay, and by the end of the night, guests were limboing under the walker while the bride sat on it.

Eby described the event as a turning point, committing to living her life "in dog years." Given a prognosis of two to five years, the idea was to pack more living into each one, she explained on theBrain & Life podcast.

Before her diagnosis, Eby said, she had associated ALS with older men, a perception that made it easy to dismiss the disease as someone else's problem. Now, she wanted people to understand that ALS could affect someone like her too.

Brooke Eby/Instagram

"I have ALS at a relatable age … I could be someone's daughter, sister, mom, girlfriend, wife. I think people see me and it's a little more real," she said.

Eby made it clear that she tapped into trends and wanted to live her life just like any other 30-something. Her dating profiles included her diagnosis and a line hoping matches were looking for a "2- to 5-year relationship,"GoodRx Health reported. She also taste-tested a medication on camera and made a "Pimp My Ride: Wheelchair Edition." 

"Brooke gave people access to the everyday realities of ALS in a way that made them care before they necessarily realized they were being educated," Elle Potruch, her talent manager, told Yahoo. "Early in her journey, she realized that laughter could make daunting subjects more approachable and memorable." 

While Eby found some humor in her condition, she was also keen to share the reality of it. 

In one August 2025video, she described losing mobility as feeling like cement had been poured over her body, starting with her feet. "I don't feel grateful for s*** right now," she said, joking that her followers should be on guard for when she starts acting grateful: "Code red."

Additionally, discussing ALS became a way for Eby to share experiences that resonated far beyond the disease.

After her diagnosis, doctors encouraged Eby to gain weight. In her People essay, she said the advice made her reconsider the years she had spent worrying about keeping weight off, including nights in her 20s when eating pizza meant spending the following week at SoulCycle. Now, she said, she had zero appetite for the foods she once denied herself.

"Our culture has gotten to the point where women aren't willing to gain weight unless they're dying," Eby said.

Whenever she posted about her changing relationship with food, she wrote in the essay that women flooded her comments to tell her: "This is me too."

'Hit post and hope'

Taken together, those everyday posts did more than document Eby's ALS. They formed a record of the life that continued around it and gave her a say in how her illness was understood.

"There is real labor involved in being that visible, particularly when your health is declining," Potruch told Yahoo. "Until the end, Brooke maintained creative control of her content, even when she could really only use her eyes and voice to control her phone. Over the years, I offered to scout editors or find other ways to support the production side, but Brooke always declined. It mattered to her that what people saw still came directly from her."

Eby's advocacy also raised more than $1 million for research,according to the ALS Association.

In her People essay, Eby said what she posted was less deliberate than it might have appeared.

"This disease is kind of doing the content creation for me," she said. "I'm just sharing certain parts of my day, and every day is a new challenge, so I just talk about how I've overcome it, hit post and hope."

She said she wasn't particularly concerned with her own legacy.

"I don't really care so much about how I'm remembered as an individual … It truly isn't about me specifically," she said. "I just hope the memory of someone with ALS who looks like me will stick with people."

But Eby said that she saw a purpose in the record that would remain after her death.

"My TikTok presence will live on after I die, so I hope it serves as a visual diary for anyone who gets diagnosed and needs a guide," she said.

"Being able to narrate the true experience of suffering gives people who live with illness an opportunity to make their own experiences legible, grants them a sense of agency and control in telling their story and destigmatizes the disabling experiences of being sick," Samira Rajabi, an assistant professor of media studies at the University of Colorado Boulder, told Yahoo. "These everyday stories are crucial; they're chances for people to see lived realities rather than stereotypes."

It was the kind of resource Eby wished she had herself as she tried to understand what the later stages of ALS might look like.

In its statement, the ALS Network said that "Brooke changed how people understood ALS."

"With extraordinary honesty, irreverent humor, and vulnerability, she invited millions into her life and helped people see the person beyond the diagnosis," it said.

In itstribute, the ALS Association said we can all help ensure Eby's legacy lives on.

"The best way to remember Brooke is the way she'd want: talk about ALS. Say her name. Share her videos. Ask the questions she made it okay to ask about ALS. And keep going until ALS is livable for everyone, and then cured."

That was my thinking heading into The Toy Insider's Holiday of Play event at Chelsea Piers in New York City on Sept. 23, where I scouted holiday toys for Yahoo. I sprung my 11-year-old from school an hour early (apologies to the math teacher) to be my plus-one and chief researcher. It was like Christmas in September for her — and me.

We entered under a balloon arch and found a room full of toys billed as some of the hottest gifts this holiday season. The toy curator's gift guide includes some 400 different products from more than 190 toymakers. The best part: We were encouraged to get hands-on with everything. Well, except for the small batch of the wildly popular NeeDohs, which were stashed just out of reach.

A few things stood out: Mark Rober's star has risen — and the CrunchLabs booth had a fan club. Crazy Aaron's putty had my daughter wide-eyed. We couldn't get near a Harry Potter game. And old favorites like Play-Doh and Crayola still drew her in.

But kids' wish lists change fast. The toys collecting dust in our homes are proof of that. Here's what caught my daughter's eye that day — and what she hasn't forgotten about a week later.

Mark Rober's toys drew a crowd — and the Barbies came with pink goggles

Rober is a former NASA engineer whose big, often ridiculous science experiments have made him a YouTube and Netflix favorite with kids. His CrunchLabs subscription kits give them projects to build at home — and time to tinker. At the fair, the CrunchLabs booth was several kids deep, with a line for The Crunchinator, a toy that does exactly what its name promises. You load in an object — in my daughter's case, a soda can — and crush it. As the kids say: satisfying. Other toys drew on his popular videos, including Elephant Toothpaste Blast, which she still really wants to try, and Squirrel Dash.

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The science theme extended beyond Rober's booth. Nearby, National Geographic had an Epic Circuits kit with a copter my daughter kept launching into me. Repeatedly. On purpose. Even Barbie is in on the science action, with a line ofSTEAM kits for making slime and growing crystals. Don't worry, everything is still pink, including the safety goggles.

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More to squish than NeeDoh 

Despite people still lining up to buy NeeDoh (me, it's me in those lines), there was only one tiny display and surprisingly few squishies overall. SQZY Gel Gems added a light-up twist, but they were still in their packaging, so we couldn't fully give them a test drive.

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My daughter got her sensory fix later when she spotted a ginormous tub of Crazy Aaron's Better Butter Thinking Putty. She went wide-eyed, then got to pull and stretch it to her heart's content. This wasn't the little $10 tub: The giant version is 2.5 pounds of putty and starts at $200. It's getting a limited release in October, with a berry scent available, too.

The table with Wigglitz, 3D-printed in Utah, was another fun stop. A trading board showed kids how to swap them. Trading keeps coming up in my conversations with kids, whether they're swapping Pokémon cards, squishies or 3D-printed toys.

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The Clickeez keyboard is one she has her heart set on getting for Christmas. It looks like an actual computer keyboard, with slots for little collectible characters you can press up and down.

One disappointment: She was bummed there were no Clicklets, the backpack fidgets she'd hoped to find. (I know — similar name, but different toy.)

Famous faces everywhere

My daughter was excited to see a life-size cutout of Paris Hilton holding a dog. "Paris & Pups!" she said, referring to the animated series inspired by Hilton. I had no idea she knew who Hilton was. She jumped right in, playing with Hilton's toy dog (Slivington, of course) and a miniature DJ deck toy.

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Ms. Rachel was there in Tonie form; the audio system lets kids choose what to hear by placing a character figure on a speaker. Then there was Just Ameerah, a YouTuber I hadn't heard of, with her own slime line.

Familiar fictional faces were plentiful too. KPop Demon Hunters showed up in dolls, games (Spot It!) and a Bitzee toy. There was a Harry Potter wizard chess set — with real-time computer coaching —  we couldn't get near because the adults wouldn't stop playing with it, plus a Star Wars LEGO set and plenty of Bluey and Pokémon merch.

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Bots, babies and a jumpscare

EmotoBot came with a pitch aimed at parents: no Wi-Fi or AI. The robots, which respond to touch and music, perform dances, tell jokes and display animated expressions. There are cat and dog varieties.

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I was drawn to FurReal's Gabby the Grow & Roar Tiger, which grows as kids play with it. I kept saying, "They didn't have anything like this when I was a kid." Another novelty was the Primal Hatch Megalodon Interactive Hatching Egg Shark Toy, which supplied a jump scare. Add water to its tank, watch it foam and fizz, then the shark pops out. Plus, it's reusable.

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I was more inclined to say yes to a Bitzee Aquarium, which my kid didn't want to put down.  It's something parents can get behind: no actual water needed. Kids hatch, feed and interact with virtual aquatic animals.

My daughter lined up alongside the many kid influencers in the room to hold the Baby Born Real dolls, which had the heft of an actual newborn. No two looked alike, with different eyes, skin tones and features.

The pleasure of a surprise remains 

Sometimes, the selling point is that you don't know exactly what you're getting. Mystery toys were everywhere, from Disney Doorables to a Winnie the Pooh honey pot with a surprise inside. Opening the package is part of the play.

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At the event, there were also Barbies concealed in plastic balls, waiting to be opened. Miiloo, kawaii blind boxes, Care Bears Sparkle with Care and Sour Pouts were also alluring blind boxes. 

Don't count out old favorites

My 11-year-old still wanted to stop and play with Play-Doh. She made some "pasta." Crayola also drew her in. What she was most hung up on was Tickle Me Elmo. The toy is celebrating its 30th anniversary with a new version, Giggle Max. There are more places than ever to tickle him now. And she tried them all. 

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Then there were butts

King Toot is a dancing butt that makes fart sounds. My daughter laughed — and I did too. There was a Rump Race, a game in which two players try to pop balloons with their butts. Balloon explosions filled the room as kids who didn't know each other came together to "race." Potty humor had a solid showing — and we were an appreciative audience.

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The verdict is in

My kid is back to the real world — and math — but hasn't moved on from the Clickeez Bubble Pops Keyboard. That's been the No. 1 toy discussed. It'll be a Christmas buy, but only if the mentions continue.

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Elmo (or "ELMOOOOO!") has also come up in conversation — I'm insisting only as a gift for a younger cousin.

A couple of toys have already had a trial run. ZipString's creator showed us the brand's Aracna web shooter, and my daughter hasn't been able to put it down. (It's our second ZipString. Those things, which got backing on Shark Tank, are fun and addictive.) 

Cross the Line, a party game that tests how well you know the other players, has become an after-dinner activity. Anything that prevents an ask for the iPad gets a greenlight from me.

Crayola Globbles we bought before the fair remain a favorite — provided you're OK with your kid throwing them at the ceiling and them getting stuck for days. I am. I've given up over here.

Also, I caved and bought a small tub of Crazy Aaron's butter putty. She loves popping it, but her one issue is that it has a strong scent. That's better to learn with the $10 tub than a $200 one, am I right? (She has said the smell dissipates the more you play with it.)

Finally, I keep hearing about CrunchLabs — and she seems serious, which I gleaned from the fact that she kept the squished soda can that she flattened with The Crunchinator as a souvenir. Our Rober fandom grows stronger. 

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So, yes, we have 31 NeeDohs, and now we're keeping crushed cans too. Take it from me: "Just looking" is how it starts.

Jolie addressed the letter to the staff at a luxury resort in Greece, where she reportedly stayed while filming Maria, the 2024 Maria Callas biopic. Millions of people have viewed the viral note, with many puzzling over what her cryptic script actually says.

While some have argued that Jolie's handwriting is difficult to decipher "even if you read cursive," others have wondered whether the reaction says more about our changing relationship with handwriting than simply her penmanship. "Gen Z needs to learn to read cursive so they can read Angelina Jolie's notes!" one commentator said.

Other celebrities' handwriting has provoked similarly strong reactions, though for different reasons. Jacob Elordi fans were surprised to see the actor's handwritingin a promotional video for last year's Academy Awards. Some commenters said the writing looked like "someone who holds a pencil like a child drawing with a crayon," while others said it was a joke, as he had responded to the Academy's writing prompt with "be funny, when you can."

For many millennials and members of Gen X, learning to write in cursive was a part of growing up. But as keyboards and screens increasingly replace pen and paper, our relationship with handwriting is changing. So are we simply getting out of practice, or are handwriting skills at risk of disappearing altogether?

How handwriting was taught in schools

Cursive became a fixture of American classrooms inthe mid-1800s, with children typically learning to write in print first, then learning to connect their letters around the third grade, allowing for "quicker writing with fewer pauses," according toEBSCO's Research Starters. Rules on good penmanship turned handwriting into a disciplined skill. By the early 20th century, there were strict instructions on how to write, with students taught through specific methods to copy uniform letters with rhythmic motion and left-handers required to use their right hands, according to theSmithsonian's National Museum of American History.

Technology then began to change the classroom. Typewriters started appearing in schools in the 1930s and computers followed in the late 1980s, the Smithsonian said, with educators adding typing and keyboarding alongside handwriting. By 2010, cursive was falling out of favor. The Common Core State Standards, which set academic benchmarks for K-12 students, did not require schools to teach cursive. Instead, they emphasized keyboarding skills for students in third through fifth grade.

That shift may help explain the reaction to Jolie's note. Shawn Datchuk, a professor of special education at the University of Iowa College of Education, said he was not surprised that it appeared to divide readers by age.

"With the rise of computer technology over the past decade, many K-12 students are only briefly exposed to cursive handwriting, if at all," Datchuk told Yahoo. Because cursive letters can look drastically different from their printed counterparts, he said, people who haven't learned to read or write them may struggle to understand handwritten notes or historical documents.

The apparent generational divide may therefore have less to do with young people's abilities and more about what they were taught, according to Zoe R. Smith, a psychologist at the University of Denver who has spoken publicly about handwriting vs. typing in education.

Smith, a millennial herself, learned both cursive and typing in elementary school, but only typing continued after sixth grade. "A joke among many millennials is that we were told that we would need cursive for the next educational milestone and never did," she told Yahoo.

Even so, Smith said she could read only about half of Jolie's note, working out the rest from context clues.

Cursive's comeback

Cursive, however, has made something of a comeback in recent years, with some lawmakers and parents concerned that children are missing out on a valuable skill. Republican Indiana state Sen. Jean Leising, for example,has spent more than a decade trying to pass a state law requiring schools to teach it.

Leising argued in a2018 press release that omitting cursive from the Common Core had left some teenagers unable to sign their names on documents and driver's licenses. She also said there is now a "huge disparity" between public and private school students, pointing to astate survey in which 91% of private schools that responded teach cursive, compared with 52% of public schools.

Now, more than 20 states have passed laws requiring public schools to make time to teach cursive. North Carolina was among the first, with a2013 law requiring students to write legible cursive by the end of fifth grade. New Jersey'slaw, signed in January, requires all public school districts to teach cursive reading and writing in grades three through five, starting this school year.

Mary Jean Tecce DeCarlo, a clinical professor of literacy studies at Drexel University, said that while there might be a renewed interest in cursive, reintroducing it could prove challenging. In an essay forthe Conversation, she noted that many of today's teachers, and many of tomorrow's, never learned cursive themselves. Teaching it properly can alsotake roughly 70 minutes a week, she wrote, raising the question of how to fit it into busy school days.

DeCarlo also argues the science is "shakier than cursive's champions let on." There issolid evidence that handwriting beats typing for learning and memory, she wrote, butwhether cursive specifically has an edge over ordinary print is much less clear.

That is where Smith lands too. She cautions that bringing cursive back into the curriculum could result in another skill being shelved. "Any time we prioritize something it typically means we should ask, what is being de-prioritized," she said.

For her, the key issue isn't cursive vs. print. "It does not matter if a student is learning cursive or print writing, what matters is that they are learning how to handwrite," she said, arguing that writing by hand helps people learn and remember at every age because it uses motor skills alongside memory.

Is Jolie's note really legible?

Whether handwriting is legible may depend as much on the reader as the writer, Datchuk said. While people broadly agree on how letters should look, there is a large range in what they find acceptable. "What appears readable for some people can be unreadable for others," he said. Practice matters, he added, but so do motivation and audience: people tend to write more carefully when a message matters to a loved one, and less legibly when pressed for time.

So is the decline of cursive — and our ability to read it — something to worry about? Datchuk sees three reasons learning cursive may be important. For one, fluent handwriting can help students become better writers and learn advanced writing skills more easily. It may also help reduce screen time in schools, a growing concern for educators and parents.

The third reason, he said, is social. Because the cursive alphabet looks so different from print, children who aren't taught it would struggle to read foundational texts or the handwriting of loved ones, "such as grandmothers or other authors." Ultimately, he said, whether students learn it "is likely influenced by the value (or lack of value) we place on it."

It seems that whether Jolie's handwriting is hard to read may depend less on her penmanship than on who is reading it.

Melissa Urban may be best known as the cofounder of Whole30, a popular elimination diet in which you cut out added sugar, dairy, grains, alcohol and more for 30 days, then gradually reintroduce them to see how they impact your health. But her 369,000 followers know that Urban shares more than just healthy eating tips and fitness routines. She's outspoken about supporting women, setting boundaries and protecting your mental health. 

These days, however, she's speaking out about a topic that hits close to home: sextortion — specifically, financial sextortion, in which predators, typically pretending to be young girls, message young boys on social media and gaming platforms, convince them to send sexually explicit photos, and then demand money not to publicly release them.

The National Center for Missing & Exploited Children calls sextortion a "growing threat." In 2025, NCMEC received more than 50,000 reports of financially motivated sextortion — an average of 137 per day and a sharp increase from the more than 36,000 reports in 2024. The threat of exposure, which may leave kids feeling isolated and trapped, can have serious consequences. The FBI is aware of more than 20 deaths by suicide resulting from financially motivated sextortion.

Predators often target teens ages 14 to 17. But with multiple platforms allowing messaging and cash apps to be so easily accessible, even younger boys are being impacted by this crime. That was the case for Urban's son's close friend, who recently became the victim of financial sextortion at just 12 years old.

Urban posted a series of videos on her Instagram last week explaining the harrowing situation involving her son's friend. She helped the family navigate the ordeal and is passionate about raising awareness among parents, especially those who think it couldn't happen to their child. The friend's mom, who wishes to remain anonymous, gave Urban permission to share her son's story here in a conversation with Yahoo's Rachel Grumman Bender. 

When my son was around 11 years old, I talked to him about how people can pretend to be someone they're not online, whether it's on Roblox or social media. I told him that some grown-ups do this so they can harm kids. He kept saying to me, "Why would adults do that? Why would they pretend to be kids? It doesn't make any sense." And it's hard to explain to an 11-year-old about predators and grooming.

Then I saw an ESPN article about a young man named Jordan DeMay. He was in his room late at night. He got a DM from a girl [it was actually an extortionist in Nigeria]. They went back and forth. He sent her a [nude] photo. And then "she" began to extort him. Before his parents woke up in the morning, he had sadly died by suicide. And so, reading that and then diving a bit more into it, I realized that this was quite an epidemic, specifically with boys — and athletic ones in particular. [Boys who play sports tend to have a larger online presence, making them easier to find. They're also perceived as having more to lose since a scandal could impact their reputation and recruitment prospects.]

My son really struggled to believe that people did that. But I showed him this article and explained what had happened. We talked about sextortion, what it looks like and the red flags to look out for.

The biggest part of the conversation that I wanted him to understand was this: If anything like this ever happens to you — if you (or a friend) are talking to someone online or you get a message that's weird — end the conversation as soon as possible and come to me. You won't be in trouble. You won't have done anything wrong. I'm not going to be mad at you. You're not going to be punished. As a child, you are not prepared to navigate this. But I will know how to handle this in a way that you won't.

'Hey, this is happening, and I don't know what to do'

Over the summer, my son called me from his friend's house and said, "Mom, my friend just had one of those situations happen on social media." The friend was friended by someone on the app BeReal. She looked like a teenage girl. The extortionists [behind the fake profile] had gone to the trouble of friending this kid's friends on this social media network. So it seemed as though she was a known entity, that she was a safer person to talk to.

The conversation started with, "What are you doing?" "Not much. How about you?" She sent photos of herself, like a selfie, hanging out in bed. And then it escalated to, "Can we send sneaky pictures? Can you send me a picture in your underwear?" His friend kept saying no. He didn't end the conversation, but kept saying no. And finally, this "girl" persuaded him to send a selfie. And he did. He sent a selfie in the mirror, fully clothed in a T-shirt and jeans.

The extortionist took his selfie and used AI or Photoshop to put his face on a naked body. Then they threatened to send it to friends, family and coaches unless he paid them a few hundred dollars. The friend showed my son the interaction and said, "Hey, this is happening, and I don't know what to do."

He was freaked out. So, I got on the phone with him. I asked him to send me screenshots of the messages. Then I explained that this was sextortion and it was illegal. I asked him to preserve the screenshots because on some platforms, when you block someone, the conversation history disappears. I told him to end the conversation immediately and tell his mom. I said, "Your mom and I can definitely keep you safe here."

His mom handled it. She told her son, "You're not in trouble. You didn't do anything wrong. This is a grown-up trying to manipulate a child." They kept the screenshots. They blocked the person. They reported it to the police. The police were able to track down that [the extortionist] originated in Nigeria, so there was very little that they could do. But thankfully, the extortionist never sent out any photos.

I'm not glad we had this as a learning opportunity, but I'm glad it turned out the way it did — because it could have gone so horribly wrong.

The tactics sextortionists use

Extortionists like these truly behave like a 13-year-old. One of the text messages sent to my son's friend was like, "just hanging out at home, HBU." I don't know a single adult who would text, "how about you" as "HBU," but a kid would. So again, that adult has really infiltrated the language and syntax of teenagers — they really work hard at this. This is often a full-time job.

The extortionist also bombards these kids with message after message after message to add to that sense of fear and urgency [making them more likely to pay them money to make them go away].

While the extortionist could have taken a selfie off a public social media feed, I think the reason they want the child to send the photo themselves is because it's easier to make the child feel culpable. "You sent this to me. You engaged in this interaction. It's your fault that this is happening."

If it's ripped off a school page or social media page, the kid might think, "Well, I had nothing to do with it. My photo was stolen." But in this case, he participates in the exchange. And I think that adds to that sense of guilt and shame for the child.

I thought to myself, But why are they asking children for money? A 12-year-old doesn't have a credit card or a bank account. But what I've read from the FBI and NCMEC is that these kids will often clear out their savings or steal from their parents in order to make this payment, which only furthers that shame and guilt cycle. A lot of my kid's friends have cash apps like Venmo or Zelle or some way for parents to move money back and forth, as well as debit cards for kids like Greenlight.

What parents need to know

You tell kids not to talk to strangers on the internet, but social media was literally built for strangers to talk to each other. So that advice is kind of outdated at this point. Parents really have to talk about some of the nuances of internet safety.

I think a lot of parents just aren't aware of the very real risk sextortion poses. It's happening to kids at school. It's happening to your friends' children and kids on sports teams. And it's not just social media, by the way. This is happening on gaming apps like Roblox or Call of Duty. It is happening on message boards like Discord. It's happening on chat apps like WhatsApp or Google Chat.

I read a story about a young girl who was groomed via Spotify because the music app now allows you to send messages. One mom wrote to me after I posted about this, saying, "I just realized my daughter's chess app has a message function."

So it can happen anywhere your child can chat with a stranger on the internet — not just on social media. Even if your kid doesn't have a phone, his friends do. Other family members do. You might have a messaging app on your laptop and not realize that your kid is accessing it. So the most important thing is to have this conversation early and keep having it.

I've heard some comments from parents who are like, "My kid would never. I've talked to them about internet safety." And what I say is this: When it's a child up against an adult dead set on manipulating them, the child is going to lose every time. You cannot expect your kid to be savvy enough at 12, 13, 16 or even 18 when this person's full-time job is manipulating children.

This interview has been edited for length and clarity.

If you or someone you know is the victim of sextortion, contact your local FBI field office, call 1-800-CALL-FBI, report it online at tips.fbi.gov or contact local law enforcement. If sexually explicit images have been shared, visit the National Center for Missing & Exploited Children's Take It Down tool or Is Your Explicit Content Out There? for potential removal.

If you or someone you know is in suicidal crisis or emotional distress, call or text the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline at 988.

The internet has had a lot to say about influencer Alix Earle’s disclosure that she has never read a book.

In a rapid-fire Q&A posted by Interview magazine on Monday, the 25-year-old was asked to name the last book she read. “I’ve never read a book,” she said. “Like, maybe Dr. Seuss.”

Earle’s frank admission has sparked a conversation about whether her reading habits are unusual among Gen Z.

"PSA during this literacy crisis: READING MAKES YOU HOT AND COOL," one commenter wrote. "Alix babe you gotta pick up a book," another urged.

While Earle’s answer taps into broader concerns about young Americans’ reading habits, the data tells a more complicated story.

Reading for pleasure

Evidence shows that Americans are reading for pleasure less often than they used to.

The share of Americans ages 15 and older who read for pleasure on an average day has fallen by more than 40% over two decades, according to a2025 study of more than 236,000 people by University College London and the University of Florida. 

Researchers found the share of people reading for pleasure dropped from 28% in 2003 to 16% in 2023, with steeper declines among Black Americans, rural residents and people with lower incomes and less formal education. 

The decline is also apparent among younger readers. Since 1984, the federal government'slong-term trends assessment, part of the Nation's Report Card, has asked 13-year-olds how often they read for fun. In 1984, 35% said "almost every day." By 2025, only 14% did. The share who said they"never or hardly ever" read for fun rose from 22% in 2012 to 31% in 2023.

Reading test scores have also declined. The average reading score for 12th graders in 2024 was three points lower than in 2019 and 10 points lower than when the assessment was first given in 1992, according to theNation's Report Card, which measures students' comprehension of literary and informational texts.

“Generally, when people say they are reading less, it's not a terrible jump to infer that reading comprehension is dropping too, but it's far from a one-to-one relationship,” Daniel Willingham, a cognitive scientist and professor at the University of Virginia who studies reading comprehension, told Yahoo.

“Reading is the main way we are exposed to new vocabulary and to unfamiliar ideas. And knowing the words and having at least some familiarity with the topic of what we read is a huge support for comprehension,” Willingham said.  

The internet generation

While there is no single explanation for the decline in reading, researchers have pointed to several factors that may be shaping young people's reading habits.

Gen Z is the first true generation to have grown up with the internet, with social media and smartphones becoming an increasingly central part of everyday life. In 2022, Pew Research found that nearly half of teens said they were online "almost constantly,” up from about a quarter in 2014 and 2015.

The COVID-19 pandemic didn't help. By spring 2022, students from third through eighth grade had lost the equivalent of about a third of a grade level in reading, and students in districts that stayed remote longest lost more ground, according toresearchers at Harvard and Stanford. But reading scores had beenslipping for years before the pandemic.

Habits formed early in life may matter too. Just 2% of Americans read with a child on an average day, according to theUF/UCL study, even though about one in five had a child under 9 with them. The researchers noted that regular reading in childhood is a strong predictor of reading ability and engagement later in life.

Is Gen Z really abandoning books?

While some researchers have suggested that scrolling could be crowding out reading, Kathi Inman Berens and Rachel Noorda, Portland State University professors and the authors of "How Gen Z Discover and Consume Books," argue that people panicking over Gen Z's reading habits get things wrong.

They say a lot of long-standing studies on reading fail to account for the ways younger people read, including using different formats — like print, e-books and audiobooks — to finish one book. In the academics’ 2025 survey, 66% of Gen Z identified as readers, up 14 percentage points from 2022.

"Some long-standing, influential studies aren't designed to capture how Gen Z often reads: multimodally — bouncing between print, e-book and audiobook for the same book — and on web platforms," the academics wrote inThe Conversation. "Gen Z shows us that reading isn't dying. It's changing."

In their surveys, the authors asked about book "engagement," which allowed respondents to count books not meant to be finished, like cookbooks and travel guides. They also say reading surveys miss book-related activity online, like leaving a review on Goodreads, writing fan fiction or being involved in BookTok.

fizkes via Getty Images

Amanda Kordeliski, a librarian in Oklahoma affiliated with the American Association of School Librarians, toldThe Atlantic that she has set up recording studios for students at her library. "Podcasting is the hottest, most popular thing. I could buy a million microphones and there would still be a waitlist to get into the audio labs," she said. "Everybody wants to be an influencer."

Print, the Portland State academics found, is the generation's preferred format, which they tie partly to a longing for a "digital detox." "Perhaps that's because printed books don't ping or track you," they wrote. They also say Gen Z is more likely than earlier generations to experience reading as a social activity.

Libraries appear to be part of that picture. The researchers found that Gen Zers visited public libraries more in 2025 than in 2022, and that 36% said they found a book through a librarian, up from 15%.

While Gen Z may read across different formats, Naomi Baron, professor emerita of linguistics at American University who has written books on how reading changes across print and digital formats, notes that people tend to read differently in print than on screens.

“For starters, with print, we tend to read more slowly, to go back over things we’ve read, and to comprehend and remember more,” Baron told Yahoo. While people may not be aware of those differences as they read, Baron said that when asked to reflect on how they read in print and on screens, they are able to identify them.

“A big one is the distractions — and multitasking — when reading on screens. When reading in print, it’s easier to concentrate. But another is the aesthetics. Many of the Gen Z’ers I’ve studied speak of enjoying the feel of the paper and of holding the book in their hands. They say reading print is 'real reading.' None of those I’ve surveyed said any of that about reading on a screen.”

So is Earle an outlier? The numbers suggest Gen Z is reading less often, but they also show that the answer isn’t as simple as whether someone picked up a novel last week. 

Perhaps that’s why Earle’s admission landed the way it did. For a generation accused of abandoning books, plenty of its members still seem invested in being readers — and in what it says about you if you’re not.

"I noticed some people slicing their own cake, and I realized later, wait, we paid someone to do that. My husband and I were the ones carrying boxes out at the end of the night from the bar, so we missed an hour of our afterparty. There were issues with the music cues. The gates opened, and I was like, 'Whoa, this is not my cue,'" she recalls. "[The staff] even came in, like, sweats and stuff. You know the Free People jumpsuit? You can see it in the pictures, they're in the background."

Thinking back, Foley realized that the wedding coordinators she had hired had failed to fulfill several clauses of their contract, including cake-cutting, abiding by the guest dress code, coordinating all the special sweet touches that they had planned (like a signature cocktail) and making sure that the logistics of the event ran smoothly. The chairs weren't set up correctly. And the on-site coordinator, who was different from the first coordinator Foley met with, told her that it was the second wedding she'd ever done, which didn't do much to ease the bride's nerves. 

When the mother of the bride reached out to the small business for some concessions on their contract, the company refused, saying that the couple seemed happy enough. Foley posted a frustrated review in a local bridal Facebook group. Moments later, she says, she found herself blocked by the company's Instagram account. (The business in question did not respond to Yahoo's request for comment.)

The wedding industry has long been lucrative, but in the age of social media, it's become highly decentralized too. Anyone who says they're a wedding planner, a photographer or a DJ on Facebook or Instagram is one now. While that's offered many fledgling small businesses the chance to reach new audiences, it's also given way to one particular bridal pain point: when your social media-sourced vendor isn't actually as legit, or professional, as their page makes them out to be. 

It's common for wedding vendors to evade a full vetting. According to data from the wedding-planning platform The Knot, the average couple hired about 13 vendors for their weddings in 2026, and only 21% of survey respondents said they met them in person before hiring.

Kathryn, 28, who asked to be cited by her first name only for privacy, is another 2025 bride who had a less-than-rosy experience with the vendors she found on Instagram. "My wedding videographer ghosted me, and I didn't hear a word post-wedding about my video until 11 months after my wedding," she says. "And even then she didn't share a formal video — just the raw footage, which I edited together myself."

She says it took nearly a full year of pestering her via email in order to get any kind of product at all when she had been expecting an edited, polished video. Kathryn says that the vendor finally replied with a list of reasons why there was nothing to show. 

"She was postpartum, every grandparent she seemingly had died, she was struggling with migraines," Kathryn shares. She admits feeling somewhat skeptical of these claims, but since most of the communication was online, there was no real way to prove or disprove them.

I can’t handle it mentally.The email Kendra Kingsley's caterer sent on the day of her wedding

Online, legions of brides have taken to social media to air their grievances with vendors they hired via Instagram: so-called wedding photographers who stole thousands of dollars and delivered nothing, florists who waited until the days before the wedding and showed up with the wrong place settings, hairstylists and makeup artists who ghosted on the big day.

Kendra Kingsley, 28, took to TikTok after her caterer bailed on the day of her wedding, sending an email that read, "I can't handle it mentally." Kingsley, who posted screenshots of the email that derailed her wedding day, tells Yahoo that the experience was a nightmare: She put her trust in a local business, they failed to deliver on a contract they signed, there was no communication leading up to the event that anything might be wrong and everything fell apart at the last minute. 

The caterer, who ran a Gatlinburg, Tennessee-based business called Happy Pinecone Cafe, soon closed up shop after local news stations began interviewing several brides who experienced day-of cancellations by the same business. The drama didn't stop there, though — Happy Pinecone Cafe's owner, Sarrah Willhite, then took a COVID-19 era federal relief business loan for a new business, but was soon arrested and served 27 months in prison for defrauding the program.

This particular case is extreme, but it's undeniable that as more businesses begin to crop up in the race to get in on wedding money, there's a higher risk for unsavory behavior. 

Part of this phenomenon has to do with the way hustle culture online encourages everyone to turn their passions into side gigs — the Etsyification of it all. Sure, it inspires some great business origin stories, but in other cases, many would-be entrepreneurs have little experience with the nuts and bolts of running a professional operation. And when couples are investing tens of thousands of dollars as well as their hopes and dreams into their big day, there's bound to be a glaring divide between expectations and actual execution.

"It's kind of that mentality, though, right? People think, 'I planned a wedding, I did my own' —  that was the reasoning from the coordinator we had," Foley says.

Platforms like Pinterest, Instagram and Etsy  and the wedding industry have also become inextricably linked — the post-reception photo dump is almost as important as the ceremony itself after all. 

" Everyone's posting who they go with," Foley says. "They list out all of their vendors after their wedding, so, if you go on Instagram and you're like, 'Oh, my gosh, I love this vibe,' you're looking through the vendors, and they're all tagged. So it kind of makes it really easy for you to find what you like style-wise."

Emily Forrest, head of communications at wedding e-commerce marketplace Zola, says that the wedding industry is dominated by start-ups and one-man shows. Marketing primarily happens via word of mouth, or online. "The vast majority of wedding vendors are small business owners," she says. "Many work completely on their own, while others have teams of just one, two or three other people. It's an industry where recommendations and reputation really matter."

With so much competition, it can be incredibly difficult for burgeoning entrepreneurs — even competent ones — to get their businesses off the ground, and very easy to fracture relationships with couples. Thalia Abreu has been a New York City-based wedding photographer for 12 years. She he tells Yahoo that getting her start was slow-going; it took six years for her to finally be able to turn her photography into a full-time venture.

"I think trust can be damaged pretty quickly when there's a lack of communication or when clients start to feel like you're not on their side," Abreu tells Yahoo via email. "If I've set an expectation with a client, I think it's important that I follow through on it, and if something changes, I communicate that rather than leaving them wondering."

Social media has also totally upended the entire approach that both vendors and brides take to the event, Abreu adds. There's more pressure than ever to deliver a fantasy worthy of cross-posting across multiple platforms, and dealing with those kinds of expectations can be hard for new vendors starting out with shoestring budgets and resources.

"There's this growing pressure for everything to become content," she says. "The photos, the videos, the BTS moments and sometimes even the wedding itself. Couples are consuming more wedding content than ever, while vendors are also relying on social media to market themselves. It creates this interesting question of when documenting a wedding starts competing with actually experiencing it."

Kingsley advised all new brides to try and get off the phone as much as possible, and meet with businesses face-to-face in order to avoid falling into the situation she experienced.

"I would advise that brides just beginning to plan their weddings go to the physical location of all these vendors before booking them, keep in close contact with them up until the wedding day, and remember that ultimately, less is more when it comes to marrying the love of your life," she says. "Our wedding day might not have gone the way we had imagined it, but in the end, our community came through for us and reminded us what the day was truly about to begin with."

Still, wedding planning is personal, expensive and so loaded with expectation that it can be exasperating to feel as though the day didn't go to plan. Foley paid between $4,000 to $5,000 for her wedding coordinator, and $30,000 in total for her wedding. For that much money, she says, she would expect that at least someone else was cutting the cake.

On Instagram posts and news articles about model Presley Gerber's death from a suspected overdose at age 27, fans, haters and crusaders speculated about whose fault it was. Some blamed Gerber's famous parents, Cindy Crawford and Rande Gerber. Others said that Presley was solely to blame. And still others pointed to the toxicity of the modeling industry or the dangers of the alternative addiction therapies — including the psychedelic, ibogaine — that he tried. Actor Hayden Panettiere's fatal overdose attracted theories that her death wasn't an accident, but an intentional poisoning; suspicion was directed at her boyfriend and criticism of her estranged mother was renewed.

When someone dies of an overdose, those left behind — whether they're fans, family or friends — want answers, even when there are none. Nadia Bowers knows the impulse all too well. After her sister, Sasha, died at age 44 from a fentanyl overdose in 2015, Bowers "wanted the simplicity of a crime," she tells me. "I wanted a clear bad, a clear good — a binary." 

Bowers knew who she blamed: "the dealer," the nameless, faceless person, the one who sold her sister the fentanyl that killed her. After her sister's death, Bowers began searching for this person and writing letters to them, which became the core of her new debut memoir, Dear Dealer. 

But even as Bowers's rage and grief zeroed in on the dealer, she knew that, when it comes to addiction and overdose, that black-and-white thinking "is just never going to be the whole picture, because you're talking about a life," she says. 

In her sister's case, the fentanyl dealer was to blame, says Bowers. But, much as she wanted it to be, addiction and overdose deaths aren't that simple.

Overdoses are back in the spotlight 

Fatal overdoses have fallen from the spotlight as annual deaths have declined from their peak of more than 107,000 in 2022. Despite declines over the past three years, tens of thousands of people still die of overdoses each year — there were approximately 70,000 deaths in 2025 alone. The majority of those fatalities were due to opioids, the addictive class of drugs that includes prescriptions such as oxycodone and morphine, and illicit drugs such as heroin and the highly potent fentanyl that killed Bowers's sister. "It's far from over," she says, of the opioid epidemic. 

There's a great deal of debate about what turned the tide of fatal overdoses. Researchers credit a combination of the proliferation of the overdose reversal medication, naloxone; changes to the drug supply (including the rise of fentanyl and xylazine, which drove away some opioid users and led to the deaths of others); and an increase in harm reduction efforts driven by greater awareness of the problem.

Both Panettiere and Gerber were vocal about their struggles with addiction, and experts say this can be helpful to dispel the stigma that drives many drug users into isolation. But their deaths shed light on another pressure: It's hard for anyone who's stopped using drugs to admit that they've had a relapse, and "if you're a public figure who's under a microscope like these guys were, how does that fit in the PR package?" says Brendan Little, cofounder and executive director of the non-profit Halo Initiatives, which supports Boston families after the loss of loved ones to overdose. That can drive people further into isolation — a key risk factor for fatal overdoses. 

And in the aftermath of a drug-related death, loved ones may also find themselves feeling alone, just when they need support the most. Little, who lost his own mother to an overdose, says one father told him he “had all of these people coming to me when my son was struggling," Little recalls. After the man’s son died of an overdose, “it was just like crickets." In the absence of support, family members may turn to their own risky coping mechanisms.Addiction is "a family thing," Little says. There's a genetic risk, and one person's struggle with substance misuse affects those closest to them, too."People want to blame somebody, but often the people who are getting blamed are the people who are not properly served." 

Why we look for someone to blame 

It's a natural instinct, Dr. Nora Volkow, director of the National Institute on Drug Abuse, tells me. "I think it's a very human thing, that we try to identify the cause of something that is consequential," she says. "If you understand the cause, then you are prepared to avoid a similar situation." Just as Bowers wanted to treat her sister's death like a crime with a perpetrator, looking for a cause can feel like a step toward preventing the same thing from happening again. 

Once Bowers learned that fentanyl had caused her sister's fatal overdose, "it was like, 'Oh there was a 'sniper,' and someone took her out,'" she says. "I was right about that, and it did take away any chance of her recovering." Plus, in the helpless aftermath of her sister's death, anger and a target for her rage were "motivating and energizing,' she says. 

Of course, there istruth to that blame: Fentanyl "was the technical reason" Sasha died, according to her autopsy, Bowers notes. "It's OK to feel angry … and we should be angry. And the fact that these drugs are so available, that's a systems problem, and the fact that there's a demand is a human problem: People are in pain," Bowers says. But, through the process of writing her book and mourning her sister, Bowers came to believe that the causes of overdose deaths go beyond any one individual, family or drug.

Perhaps pointing fingers helps alleviate our own guilt, Justin Phillips, founder of the Indiana non-profit Overdose Lifeline, tells me. Amid the countless articles about Panettiere's death, Phillips thought: "She was suffering, and maybe that is part of our guilt and why we are looking for someone to blame: No one stepped up and tried to help." 

Stigma can keep people from helping someone with addiction because "we don't want to get too close and be vulnerable," says Phillips. In her experience, even showing concern can carry a social cost. "People are way more willing to join the symphony board than they are to join the Overdose Lifeline Board," Phillips adds. 

So there's a sense of safety in creating distance between ourselves and an overdose death through accusations. "There's always that sense of blaming someone else because then that separates it from happening to me," says Volkow. "So long as I can actually point a finger at someone that did something wrong, that creates peace of mind that [what happened to them] is not going to happen to me."

It's a self-protective impulse, but one that can inadvertently perpetuate stigma and the notion that addiction is a moral failing — an idea that addiction experts, including those I spoke to, say is harmful. 

What blame gets wrong about addiction 

When it comes to addiction and overdose deaths, the culprits — like the risk factors — are many and interwoven. 

As Volkow puts it: "Who do you blame? The person that's taking the drug? Do you blame the dealer that sold them that drug? Do you blame the health care system that didn't screen or provide the support for that person? Do you blame the family that didn't pay attention?" 

All of these factors may contribute to an individual's death. But they're often accompanied by "many misunderstandings about what addiction is," Volkow says. 

Chief among them is the notion that "a person is taking drugs because they are choosing to take drugs," she says. When someone is not addicted to a substance, they're making conscious decisions, like whether to have a glass of wine or to take pain medication. But drugs — especially opioids like those involved in Gerber's and Panettiere's deaths — can take away that agency as people become chemically dependent on them, Volkow explains. "That's the whole process of how you are transferring to a situation where taking that drug becomes an automatic, compulsive behavior," says Volkow. "That's basically the pathology of addiction." 

Risks for addiction — and, therefore, for overdose — also vary widely, and they're not all controllable or predictable. Research suggests that between 40% and 60% of addiction risk is genetic and beyond an individual's control. Mental health conditions are also a major risk factor. Panettiere spoke openly about suffering severe postpartum depression and turning to opioids and alcohol to cope. Gerber described relying on both prescription medications, such as Xanax, and illicit drugs amid his longstanding depression. While from the outside, people who take drugs are often criticized for "a lack of self-control or poor moral value … the reality is many of these individuals are in tremendous pain," says Volkow. 

And, as Bowers puts it: "The drug is doing something. It's actually a solution to something" — at least temporarily. Drugs, especially opioids, do in fact alleviate pain that people haven't found another way to relieve. But they can also lead to addiction, which is a disease, even if people don't see or treat it as one. 

"Addiction, depending on the severity, should be treated very, very aggressively," says Volkow. "If you get a diagnosis of cancer, you don't stop and say, 'Maybe [we treat it], maybe not.' You actually intervene with the most powerful tools we have — but that's not how we conceptualize addiction."

And it's not simply that people around those struggling with addiction don't treat it like a disease; often, the health care system doesn't. Insurance companies don't pay doctors as much for the treatment of addiction as they do for other diseases, Volkow explains. That, in turn, disincentivizes doctors from treating it, leaving the door open for less scrupulous, less evidence-based rehabs. "It's become this very unwell business, treating addiction," says Phillips, who holds a master's degree in clinical addiction counseling. 

Also trying to fill the void are non-profits, grassroots harm reduction groups, friends, fellow drug users and families. And when someone does die of an overdose, it's often those closest to them who blame themselves, long before anyone else has an opportunity to.

After Bowers's sister's death, her mother told her, "I feel like every time someone looks at me, they're saying, 'Why couldn't you stop it?'" Her mother wanted to hide away in the aftermath of Sasha's death, terrified of the shame and judgment. Bowers's father was a psychiatrist who studied the effects of drugs on the brain; her mother was a pediatrician. "The idea of these shoulds — that they 'should' have been able to handle [Sasha's addiction] — that 'should' is a killer," Bowers says. "It stops us from being honest." 

Putting an end to the blame game would not only dispel that fear of judgment for families who have lost loved ones to overdose, but also help to bring the whole ecosystem of addiction out of the shadows, experts tell me. And meeting the moment with a little more empathy, a lot less blame and a willingness to confront the complicated, difficult reality of addiction can go a long way. 

Little always offers to have a phone call with every family that Halo Initiative supports. They tend to follow a certain script: The family member wants him to know their loved one was a good father, daughter or sister, and that they tried to help them and "wish I could've saved him or her," he says. "I always say: 'It sounds like you saved them a lot more than you didn't.'"

If you or someone you know is struggling with addiction or mental health issues, you can reach theSAMHSA National Helpline at 1-800-662-4357for free, confidential treatment referrals and information regarding mental health and substance use disorders.

These are the praises that NBC Sports Bay Area commentators, Mike Krukow and Duane Kuiper, had not for an athlete — well, not a professional one, anyway — but for a woman in the stands at a San Francisco Giants game on Sept. 23. TV cameras found her expertly navigating the crowded stands while wearing a backpack and balancing three containers of food with her baby in a carrier strapped to her chest. She tiptoes to her seat next to a man who stands briefly as she sits down. 

The camera cuts away for a moment, and the next shot shows the man eating his meal while the mom balances the remaining two trays of food on her lap and carefully unstraps her child from the carrier. "She'll be the last one to eat, too," one of the ESPN analysts says. 

A 30-second clip of themultitasking mom went viral on TikTok, where commenters — largely women — saw themselves in her herculean solo efforts, took out some anger on the man next to her. "How do I divorce someone else's husband?" one asked, while another praised the ESPN analysts who "put him on BLAST."

Some took issue with how the sportscasters framed the situation, however well-intentioned they may have been. "A baseball game is being played, but the camera has found another endurance event in the stands,"Olivia Howell wrote on Substack. The commentators are "calling the play-by-play while she performs it. Look at the balance. Look at the coordination. Look at the stamina. Look at mama go!"

But Howell says we are "watching a mother carry everybody's food back to a grown man while a sports commentator casually remarks that she will probably eat last." It's a line, she says, that has been "sitting in my stomach ever since."

Of course, a brief video of unwitting strangers lacks context and can easily be misconstrued. Erika, the mom in the video, says that's exactly what happened, sharing her side of the story in her own Substack post.She had gone to the game with her husband, Ramses, to mark the loss of his close friend (who had played baseball). Erika explained that Ramses had asked whether she wanted to eat first, but she wasn't hungry. She also shared that her husband has been stepping up to take care of her following a layoff and postpartum complications. At the game, she wanted to return the favor. 

"Going viral has shown me firsthand that we have become quick to vilify people from a brief clip, filling in everything we cannot see with assumptions," Erika wrote. "You could see that my hands were full. You couldn't hear my husband offer to help or hear me tell him to eat. You couldn't know that he was grieving or that I wanted to take care of him that evening." 

Still, the entire scene clearly struck a chord with viewers. Erika isn't what many online commenters called a "married single mom." But what they saw in the clip speaks to an experience that's familiar to them: the tendency for mothers to become the "default parent" in their relationships.

The video is "like a Rorschach test,"Barbara Greenberg, a psychologist specializing in parenting, family and teens, tells Yahoo. "We see an ink blot and then interpret what it is to us."

How did we get here? Why is the do-it-all mom such a familiar sight — and what would it take to lighten her load? We spoke to two psychologists to find out.

The 'competency curse'

As the ESPN commentators noted, a woman who juggles work, motherhood and errands — in this case, a concession stand run with a baby in tow  — can look like an ultra-capable "Olympic champion." 

But, "sometimes competence becomes the punishment," Facebook user Rissa SoFar wrote in a response post. "The more capable you are, the more everybody around you starts treating your capability like unlimited capacity." 

Greenberg says this reflects a common cultural stereotype: the "'super woman,'" she says. But appearing to have it all under control and actually feeling that way are not the same thing, she adds. Highly competent women, including Greenberg herself, may think: "I'll just take care of it myself because it'll get done well, and it will get done now," she admits. But, Thornton adds: "Just because you can doesn't mean you should." 

Why moms seem to be doing the most  

Until the middle of the 20th century, child-rearing and caring for the home were the typical full-time jobs of women. Structurally, we're long past that: Most women now work outside the home. More than half of moms and dads both worked full-time in 2025, compared to just 31% in 1975. It's worth noting that men in the U.S. aredoing more household labor than ever, at a record 100 minutes a day. But women are still doing 40 more minutes of chores per day than their male partners, and most parents agree that moms do the lion's share of child-care tasks. 

But culturally, we haven't moved past the old norms. "The ways that mothers and fathers are socialized are very different," parenting psychologist Amber Thornton tells Yahoo. "If we're not careful and aware of the societal and cultural expectations that impact our families, we can accidentally fall into these roles that feel really prescribed and sometimes unequal." 

The majority of child care and chores often fall on moms' plates. "In many cases, they've been the primary caregivers, so they continue with that role — and everything else" even while juggling work, says Greenberg. As a result, "a lot of women feel like they're carrying everything, literally and figuratively, like [the woman in the video] is," she adds. 

'All she had to do was ask'

Both psychologists I spoke to suggested that women might get more help from their partners if they ask for it. But, they also acknowledged that's part of the problem, because many women are already frustrated that "the onus is on them to change this dynamic," says Thornton. 

That was the thesis of one scathing response video: "Women are married to men who are always happy to help," said Paige Connell, cohost of The Just Us Girls Podcast, in her Instagram post. "This is a guy who's probably happy to help….He would've gotten the food. All she had to do was ask," she says, sarcastically. Her point: Sure, many men will step up when asked. But why isn't taking on that work as intuitive to them as it is to women? 

That's how many women become what Thornton describes as the default parent. "We shouldn't have to ask — we'd like to live a life where there's a natural consideration," she says. But, "a father may not realize and understand that; he may have to go through and [analyze] his own beliefs about what a mother is." 

Thornton says that men need to ask themselves if their expectations for who does what at home are really fair. "Have those conversations with the women and mothers in your life," she advises men. "Talk to your partner, but also your mother about her experience and what she desired and some of the unspoken expectations she might have had."

Asking what you can do to help or, better yet, looking for an opportunity to pitch in and taking the initiative will "improve your partner's mental health," says Greenberg, "and it will make the family stronger, too."

Women, meanwhile, need to clearly communicate what their boundaries and needs are, Thornton says, "because if not, society has led us to believe that women have no limits and boundaries."

It's the big takeaway from a new survey by the language-learning platform Preply, which found that young adults are making small talk more frequently than older generations. And yes, that includes talking face-to-face.

Of 1,400 participants across the U.S., UK, Canada and Australia, Gen Z-ers (born between 1997 and 2012) reported the highest rate of making small talk in person on a daily basis, at 58%, compared with 53% of millennials, 37% of Gen X-ers and 31% of baby boomers. 

That stat flies in the face of the "Gen Z stare," the blank expression that became a social media shorthand for young people's supposed reluctance to engage in various IRL interactions.

Earlier this month, the Washington Post examined the phenomenon alongside concerns about a broader decline in spoken conversation. The piece noted an analysis published in Perspectives on Psychological Science that looked at more than 2,100 people across the U.S., Mexico, Australia and Europe and found that people spoke roughly 300 fewer words per day with each passing year — adding up to more than 120,000 fewer words annually. The decline was even steeper among people under 25, who experienced a roughly 44% larger drop in daily spoken words than older participants did. 

Researchers have pointed to the rise of smartphones, texting and other technologies that make it easier to navigate daily life without speaking as a possible contributor to the broader decline. Pandemic-era disruptions to in-person socializing, remote work and anxiety or uncertainty around face-to-face interactions have also been floated as explanations for the "Gen Z stare."

But finding out that the generation with a reputation for giving you nothing apparently has plenty to say doesn't settle whether people are talking less overall: A daily exchange could be a quick greeting or a lengthy chat. But it does complicate the idea that young adults are routinely opting out.

Chatty? Sure. Always available? Absolutely not.

Though Gen Z respondents reported the highest frequency of daily small talk, they also admitted to plenty of conversation dodging: 93% said they use at least one tactic to avoid it, including 41% who have looked at their phones to sidestep a conversation. 

Those findings aren't necessarily contradictory. Making small talk every day doesn't require accepting every opportunity to chitchat. You could happily shoot the breeze with one person at the grocery store and have absolutely no interest in discussing your weekend with the next person in line at the coffee shop.

What the survey doesn't establish is what's behind any particular escape attempt. A glance at a phone doesn't tell us whether someone is anxious, distracted, uninterested or simply ready for the conversation to end.

Among boomers, 32% said they don't use any tricks to dodge small talk. They may chat less often, but they're less likely to actively duck a conversation. 

Millennials, meanwhile, might want to hold off on judging their younger peers. According to the full report, 27% said they choose self-checkout, chatbots or online ordering over talking to a person, compared with 23% of Gen Z respondents.

When respondents do engage, their opening material differs. The weather was a topic of small talk for 56% of boomers, compared with 28% of Gen Z. Among younger respondents, weekend plans (33%), restaurants (31%) and the immediate situation (30%) were slightly more common conversation starters. Think: Wow, this line is taking forever.

Small talk can have a payoff

For all their differences in small talk habits, Gen Z and boomers largely agreed on its appeal: 73% and 75%, respectively, said they enjoy it. Across generations, 65% said avoiding conversations had cost them friendships or opportunities.

Separate research suggests those seemingly skippable conversations may have more going for them than we expect.

A study published this year in the Journal of Personality and Social Psychology examined that gap across nine experiments involving 1,800 participants. People predicted how much they would enjoy discussing topics they considered boring, then actually had the conversations. The exchanges consistently proved more enjoyable than anticipated, despite the dull subjects.

"Even boring topics can lead to surprisingly meaningful interactions," Elizabeth Trinh, the study's lead author and a doctoral student in management and organization at the University of Michigan's Ross School of Business, told NBC. 

Tl;dr: Small talk might seem cringe, but even a conversation about the weather has its upsides. The Gen Z stare? Not so much.

"OK, breaking news — I just found out Trader Joe's is doing a princess cake, and I haven't even got it yet. I had no idea this was a thing… Somebody posted this, I thought it was AI," a TikToker named Samantha said in a recent video, which has garnered nearly 26,000 likes. "Umm, apparently it's real. The only complaint that I already have is why is it limited time? Because I feel like if it's good, I'm gonna cry when I can't get this." 

What has the internet hooked on this cake? And why does it look so familiar? Here's what to know about the fairytale-like dessert drawing attention to Trader Joe's freezers. 

Going viral at Trader Joe's  

Trader Joe's unveiled its "Swedish Princess Raspberry Cake" in late September. The 18-ounce dessert costs $7.99 and comes in a pretty pink box featuring an image of the cake on a white platter. The Trader Joe's princess cake, per the dessert's online description, is made "by experts in Sweden" and will be available in stores from now through the end of the year. 

"It's a traditional domed confection that features two layers of airy sponge cake sandwiching a thin layer of tart-sweet raspberry jam and rich pastry cream," reads the dessert's description. "On top of this is a lusciously thick dome (we mean thick!) of whipped cream, with the entire Cake draped in stunning, pastel-green marzipan that's accented with thin white stripes. There's really nothing quite like this combination, either in look or in taste!" 

News that Trader Joe's unveiled a freezer-friendly version of the cake spread fast. On TikTok, several happy customers have shared videos of themselves unboxing and trying the princess cake for the first time. 

Rachel, a content creator who goes by @eatsbyrachel on TikTok, posted her taste test video on Wednesday. She said IKEA previously released its own princess cake, though "it was a complete miss" when she tried it. (One redditor claimed the IKEA version was "sickly sweet" for their palate.) 

"It defrosted pretty nicely, and we have clean layers of cream, cake and raspberry jam," Rachel said. "The cream is perfectly light and fluffy, and the raspberry jam kind of cuts through it. And the marzipan layer on the outside isn't too thick, which I appreciate… and the cake itself is also really light and fluffy." 

Lily Beez, another content creator, also shared her review of the Trader Joe's dessert on Wednesday. 

"TJ's, I'm impressed," Beez said after taking her first bite. "The cream is definitely very fluffy and light. You can absolutely taste the raspberry. The marzipan isn't too thick and gloopy either. Overall, for $8, this is a great find. I feel like it would be really cute for somebody's birthday with just one singular candle in the middle." 

Its connection to 'The Great British Bake Off' 

If the viral cake looks familiar, that's because it is. Fans of The Great British Bake Off may remember seeing the Swedish princess cake in a Season 5 episode titled "European Cakes." During the episode's technical challenge, judge Mary Berry asks the six bakers to recreate her complicated, 24-step recipe for the showstopping green cake in less than three hours. 

The Swedish princess cake also has royal ties. Jenny Åkerström, the author and home economics teacher credited with inventing the cake, taught Swedish princesses, Margaretha, Märtha and Astrid, the daughters of Prince Carl, Duke of Västergötland, in the early 20th century. A recipe for the cake appeared in a later edition of Åkerström's cookbook, Prinsessornas kokbok or Cookbook of the Princesses.The now-viral dessert was originally known as "green cake" or grön tårta, but was renamed "princess cake" or prinsesstårta because the princesses were said to have loved it. 

A touch of whimsy 

So why is a frozen Trader Joe's dessert charming the internet? And is the hype even warranted? Beyond its novelty as a limited-edition sweet treat, the TJ's Swedish princess cake is a whimsical confection that seems to bring people joy. On Reddit, users have shared their excitement over the traditional Swedish dessert. Many associate it with beloved family members and nostalgic childhood memories. 

"Oh my god. This is literally my favorite dessert in the entire world," a redditor commented. "It evokes in me a Proustian sense memory of eating it as a child any time I somehow manage to get it, but those occasions are few and far between." 

Another added, "There was a Swedish bakery, Crown bakery in Worcester, MA for over fifty years. They made Princess cakes, Swedish coffee cake rings. The rolled out fondant, covering the whole cake. Many times visiting family, they would either have a Swedish coffee cake or Princess cake. Fond memories of delicious desserts." 

For others, its appeal is far simpler. As one Reddit user put it, "Call me a basic b, but you put princess in the name and my inner child wants it (also I love custard)."

Rapp, a 30-year-old former New England Patriots cheerleader and content creator now living in West Palm Beach, has always loved party planning. She dreamed up and executed her own wedding, and always pictured a future full of huge family Christmases and large gatherings.

"I love seeing people have fun, seeing people happy and bringing people together," she tells Yahoo.

Rapp describes her daughter, now 18 months old, as "very social," and says she knew she'd thrive at a big celebration surrounded by everyone who loved her. It was clear: Blair's first birthday party would be epic. 

"I wanted to throw a really big party, not just for Blair but for our village too," she says. "All the people that carried us through our first year, grandparents and family. That was special to me."

The party, which was "fairy first birthday"-themed and held on the water on a perfect March Florida afternoon, was beautiful, meaningful and fun. It also wasn't cheap, a fact Rapp poked fun at in a viral Instagram Reel she made of her husband, Brian, playing with their daughter amid the decor.

"My husband enjoying the party he thinks we spent $200 on," she wrote. 

Her video resonated because it highlighted a hilarious but true reality of modern parenting: First birthday parties for babies have never been more extravagant — or more expensive.

On social media, influencers and normies alike post videos and photos of incredibly detailed gatherings to celebrate their child's first year of life. Gone are the days parents may have spent $100 at Party City, blown up a bunch of grocery store balloons and grabbed a cake from Costco. Instead, many parties have become completely custom events, with intricate themes, specialized catering and even entertainment. 

"Now there are DJs and lighting and balloons hanging from the ceilings, and the venue gets completely transformed," Stephanie Galarza, the owner of AA Events Stylist in New York City, tells Yahoo. "I've had a client that had violinists, and I've had other clients that had dancers and flash mobs."

Galarza has three kids, ages 5 to 19, and has personally experienced the full spectrum of what a first birthday party can be. She had her first son at 16 and recalls being worried when the $100 bill came due for his celebration at Chuck E. Cheese. But by the time her youngest child, her daughter, came along, Galarza was a successful event planner and wanted to go all out to celebrate both personally and professionally. The final cost? $17,000. The price tag included both a photographer and a videographer, play centers for the kids, goody bags, a sparkler display and a seven-tier cake.

"Once her first birthday came, it was not only a celebration for her, but a family celebration," Galarza says. 

She notes that she and her husband tied the knot at City Hall, and her daughter was born during the pandemic in 2021, so celebrating their family felt extra meaningful.

"I like creating memories with my kids," she says. "I think that is extremely important as they grow up. You do have to have celebrations and parties and get-togethers because those are sometimes a child's best time in their life."

But some people on the internet didn't exactly feel the same way. Galarza's social media post about spending so much money on the party sparked a ton of debate, and not everyone was kind. She brushes off the commenters who claim she's wasting her money by celebrating in this way, insisting that many people don't understand how much a custom event like the ones they see online actually costs.

"If you've never thrown a party, you don't understand where the money goes," she says. "A lot of clients reach out to me and don't understand why balloons are X amount of dollars, or why this costs this amount of money. Unfortunately, it does add up, especially all these inspirational pictures that moms have."

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Galarza thinks social media is responsible for the popularity of big first birthday parties. She says she's seen a huge increase in requests for them since she first started her business 12 years ago.

"It definitely influences parents more now because they're exposed to so many ideas on TikTok, Instagram and Pinterest," she says. "Before, some people didn't have the imagination of what things could be, or they couldn't put things together. If they didn't have social media or something to look at or reference to, they didn't really know what they wanted." 

If you've never thrown a party, you don't understand where the money goes.Stephanie Galarza

Social media certainly provides much fodder for dreams to go from simple to extravagant. Online, mothers share parties with a theme so all-encompassing it covers everything from the party favors to the ball pit, balloon arches and LED signs, and of course, custom outfits for the birthday boy or girl, the parents and even the siblings. But as Instagram has exploded with first birthday celebrations that rival some weddings, another trend has popped up. Some content creators, along with regular moms, are loudly pushing back.

India Martinez, a content creator from Atlanta, posted a cost breakdown of her son's first birthday after admitting she felt overwhelmed by all the scenes she saw online. Her grand total was under $400.

"Let me just say it's also special and beautiful to just have your family unit on that special day and celebrate with your close-knit family," she wrote.

Others argue that the trend takes away from what is most important: connection and celebration with family and friends. In a post on Substack, one mom, Julia Topp, wrote that the constant barrage of party photos made her feel like she'd be somehow inadequate if her son's party didn't measure up.

"When I see the perfect Instagram-worthy themed birthday parties — you know the ones — with the wooden backdrops, banners and character balloons, plates, napkins, photo walls, catered food, custom cakes and professional photographers to capture the unforgettable day, I can't help but feel the tiniest bit like I'm not doing enough," she wrote. "Especially in this day and age of social media, it can so easily feel like everyone and their mother (pun intended) is throwing a party like this. It feels like it's becoming the standard and any deviation is lazy."

For Topp, crafting the perfect celebration meant letting go of these anxieties and focusing on what really matters to her — like DIY-ing decorations and creating traditions like birthday pancakes.

"Doing something special for our son that's within our means does not make me any less of a mom," she wrote.

Galarza also notes that just because it may be popular to throw huge parties on the internet doesn't mean it's right for every family. 

"I don't want moms to look at my parties and stuff and say, 'Oh my God, I can't afford that, and I feel like people are gonna think I don't love my child,'" she says.

Instead, she advises parents to follow the same general advice as Topp: Focus on what really matters to you and your family and forget the rest. For her, that means splurging on things like a photographer (she loves photos) and skimping on things like a cake (she sometimes uses a fake cake for her setup and then cuts a sheet cake in the back to serve).

For Rapp, it's the opposite. She splashed out on a cake for Blair's party from her favorite local bakery in West Palm Beach, but DIY-ed a lot of the decor through Amazon and Etsy. Though her Reel got a few negative comments about the idea of her husband being in the dark over the party's cost, for the most part, she thinks a lot of women can relate to the idea of their husbands not truly grasping the value of, say, a custom balloon arch. 

The actual video, she says, came out of a pure moment of happiness between her husband and their daughter, which is what the party was really all about.

"My husband and daughter have the most fun," she says. "They're the best of buds, and it was just so cute. In that moment of such pure bliss, looking around, no one was there yet, I was like, Oh my gosh, this party is expensive, and he's just having the best time."

And while she understands that not everyone wants to throw a huge party for a first birthday, she thinks every mom can understand the urge to do something extra special for their child.

"I think something can be extravagant, but also deeply sincere at the same time," she says. "If you're seeing these big parties and that's not you, don't feel the pressure. Like it's sort of all about … what's right for you and your family and your kids, and what makes you feel good at the end of the day."

Wash your hair today and tomorrow's hot yoga class will ruin it. Wait until after your class and you'll have greasy hair at dinner tonight. Wash it twice? Sure, but then you'll have to double up on your whole washing-and-styling routine, which no one wants to do.

Now, this surprisingly complicated calculation has a name: "hair wash math." 

Content creator Julie Kahut perfectly captured the thought process in her YouTube short: "Me debating whether I really need to wash my hair... If I wash it now, I have to wash it again after I go to the gym in two days. But I want clean hair when I go out tomorrow night. So, do I wash it now and wash it again later, or leave it greasy for a day?" As another creator put it, it can feel like an “eternal struggle.”

Blogger Kerry Schicker of Jacksonville Mom handles it by mapping out her hair-washing schedule every week. "I will plan out on Sunday what days I'm going to wash my hair based on days I'm in the office, have a work dinner or happy hour with friends, am volunteering in my son's class, or something to do where I can't show up with my hair looking a mess," she wrote. 

For some, the mental gymnastics can feel like yet another annoying item on their to-do list. As one person joked on Instagram: "Studies show that the mental load a woman carries about hair wash timing would break a man."

But here's one less thing to stress about: Dermatologist Dr. Joshua Zeichner, director of cosmetic and clinical research at Mount Sinai Hospital, tells Yahoo that there aren't many hard-and-fast rules for when — or how often — you need to wash your hair. Instead, how frequently you suds up depends on your hair type and your scalp. People with thick, curly or coily hair, who tend to have a drier scalp, for example, can get away with washing their hair less frequently than people with oilier scalps who have thinner, less dense hair.

Dr. Samila Asad, a dermatology and trichology specialist at The Female Health Doctor clinic, tells Yahoo that attending a sweaty workout class doesn't necessarily mean you need to wash your hair immediately after. You can, she says, let your sweaty hair dry rather than hopping in the shower. "You don't need to sacrifice every blow-dry just because you've had a workout," she says. "If you're not sweating that much and your scalp feels comfortable, there's no odor, there's no itching, it doesn't feel oily — you could just put a shower cap on and have your regular shower, and off you go." 

After exercise or other sweat-inducing activities, let your scalp dry rather than immediately tying up sweaty hair. "When you do that, you can get more sweat buildup, and that plugs the follicles, so it prevents [hair] from growing properly," Asad says. 

And while it's OK to skip a wash day after a workout, if you have flaking, itching, redness or other signs of inflammation, it may be time to properly clean your hair. This is especially true if you extend your hairstyle by using styling products like dry shampoo, which absorb some of the oils but don't actually cleanse the hair.

Going too long between washes can also contribute to dandruff. Zeichner explains that oil buildup can allow yeast to flourish on the scalp, triggering inflammation and those annoying flecks of dead skin. 

The one time you really should not skip washing your hair is after swimming in a pool or the ocean. "If you go into a pool, it's either going to be salt or chlorine," says Zeichner. "And you are going to want to remove that, especially if you have color-treated hair" or blond hair, since chemicals in some pools can tinge hair green.

Bottom line: "The reality is that we need to maintain a basic level of hygiene," Zeichner says, "but the frequency of hair washing really depends on your hair type and personal needs and preferences."

Call it "micro-matchmaking," a trend that's emerging as singles tire of dating apps. According to a 2025 Forbes Health survey, 78% of users reported dating app burnout, with 40% citing an inability to find a good connection as the cause. Meanwhile, a 2023 Pew Research Center study found that 46% of users said their experience on dating apps was very or somewhat negative. The study also documented problems, including unsolicited explicit messages, suspected scams and continued contact after users expressed disinterest.

Liv Schreiber is one of the people helping singles find relationships beyond the dating apps. She's the founder of the social media platform Hot and Single, where she posts eligible singles on her Instagram in hopes that they'll find love — or at least a great date. She's since launched the company Hot and Social, where the New York City resident hosts singles events in hopes of helping people find connection IRL. 

Schreiber's micro-matchmaking career started when she posted her twin brother on social media in 2021, hoping to find him a love connection (and herself a sister-in-law). The format took off, Schreiber tells Yahoo, in part because "everyone is frustrated with the dating apps and looking to innovate." 

"I just applaud everyone for their open-mindedness and for being willing to do something different to get different results," she says. She notes that doing the same thing and expecting different results — like, say, swiping endlessly on Hinge, maybe? — is "the definition of insanity." 

Schreiber says it's working: Hot and Single is responsible for four marriages and three engagements, while Hot and Social has inspired countless other connections by encouraging people to get off their phones and meet IRL at their events.  

Over on the west coast, Hannah Avison, a content creator, songwriter and self-professed "lovergirl," tells Yahoo she began the social media series Date My Friend (Threat)for the very same reason. Like Schreiber, she uses social media to pitch eligible singles to the public. (She also has a series in which she pitched friends in the style of Love on the Spectrum's intros, which quickly went viral.) 

Avison says that Date My Friend came out of a desire to give cool single people a way to connect without having to use an app. 

"Nothing sucks more than being lonely. And unfortunately, when dating apps fail, you feel lonely, and it's hard to go out there and meet someone in real life because people are afraid to talk to people these days," she explains. 

Like Schreiber, Avison also has a real-life element to her platform: She previously hosted a live event in West Hollywood, where she pitched single people. She plans on doing more of these events in the future. 

This blend of internet culture and real-world interaction seems to be exactly what many singles are craving. This year, The Harris Poll found that 75% of single adults surveyed said that they "want more curated ways to meet compatible people than dating apps can offer."  

Nora DeKeyser, founder of the matchmaking and coaching service Keeps, is offering such curation. Like Schreiber and Avison, she also posts eligible singles — both clients and friends — on social media. But DeKeyser tells Yahoo that's just one part of the process: She also acts as a recruiter for her clients, scouring social media platforms, including platforms like LinkedIn, to find potential suitors, and reviews profiles of people who submitted their information to Keeps' database for consideration.

Anyone who may be a possible match gets screened via a phone call, during which DeKeyser says they can be open and honest with her about their dating preferences because they don't know who they are potentially matching with.

DeKeyser says the benefit of Keeps is that it helps people "go on actual dates," rather than just take the "dopamine hit" of chatting with someone on an app. And she helps clients post-date, too, so that they can go over what went well, what didn't and whether a second date should be on the table. 

Her personalized matchmaking service charges clients a fee, which not everyone seeking love can afford or be willing to pay. But all of these matchmaking models come with a cost: The single person must be willing to be a little vulnerable to find potential matches. 

While most of the comments I've seen on these videos skew positive (Schreiber tells me that she filters the comments section), there are some negative comments that slip through the cracks. In the videos I reviewed, people who appeared especially desirable sometimes received skeptical comments: "What's the catch?" one person wrote. "Seems too good to be true." 

For people who aren't interested in matchmaking but are looking for IRL romantic connection, there are also singles mixers, which, in 2026, are getting a rebrand. That's thanks to organizations like the SoSo Club, which stands for "Singles Only Social Club." 

Based in New York, Los Angeles and California's Orange County, the SoSo Club was founded by best friends Mackenzie Zoppi and Stephanie Scheele, who wanted to create a place where single people could go and know everyone was open to romantic connection. The goal was to create singles events that anyone would want to attend, at cool spots around town. 

They have three types of events: a more free-flowing happy hour-style mixer, a more "matchmaking" forward event, in which people fill out surveys to get matched with someone else at the event, and SoSo Sporty, where singles engage in more fitness-oriented activities like tennis or a workout class. 

Scheele tells Yahoo that many single people are already putting themselves out there in order to meet new people — the SoSo Club is about not hiding that fact. 

"There are thousands of single people going to run clubs [and] trivia nights and sitting in ice baths and coffee shops hoping to meet someone — they're just not necessarily calling them singles events," she explains. "So our angle is we're really trying to be unapologetic about it. If everyone is hoping to meet other singles, why not just say it? It creates a space where everyone's on the same page, and that leads to more success than everyone pretending it's not something they want." 

Scheele says she's not anti-dating apps and views in-person events as another way for singles to meet. But she also believes they offer something apps can't: a place "where someone's personality and charisma can shine through more than they can in just a square space with a few details and a good photo."

New clothes. Supplies. Lunches. Sports schedules. Tracking apps. Walking group text threads. 

A new school year comes with a seemingly endless checklist. According to Yahoo's Back-to-School Trends Report, one item generates more search interest than anything else: the backpack. 

Backpacks have long been a form of self-expression — Disney princesses, superheroes, sports teams. For Gen Alpha, the customization is even more layered: charms, sushi key chains, Liila dolls, plush clips and danglecore transform the outside of a bag into its own mood board.

Inside, the personality continues. Alongside notebooks, laptops and school ID's, you'll find Laneige lip gloss, Touchland hand sanitizer and Hero blemish patches. There's lots of LoveShackFancy, not to mention Squishmallows, Pokémon, Roblox brainrot and squishies. 

Then there's the unpredictable: The giant Tootsie Roll container, which seems almost retro. The "mistake paper" ball that grows and grows. Also — my fave — a "secret society" ID card.

"You never know when you're gonna need something or if your friend needs something," Tootsie Roll aficionado and prepared-for-anything Claire, 12, tells Yahoo.

She's one of 11 kids, ages 7 to 12, from across the country who agreed to give us a backpack tour. Here's what they stash inside and clip outside.

Claire: The prepared-for-anything kid 

Everyone needs a Claire, the friend guided by the "be prepared" motto. 

Photo illustration: Victoria Ellis/Yahoo News, photos: courtesy of Claire

Wearing an Alex Warren T-shirt, the Pennsylvania seventh grader shows me her "purpley-blue" JanSport, a smaller version of last year's pack, which hurt her back.

Inside are the usual school basics — a laptop, an accordion binder and a "C" pencil case. As she talks, a stack of Post-its falls out of the bag. 

"I like to have like two, three packs of sticky notes on hand," she tells me, adding that she carries the same pink "lucky pencil" she's used on all tests since fifth grade.

The "just in case" stuff: hair ties and bobby pins, Touchland hand sanitizer, scissors and a "school emergency kit" with mints, "Gummy Burst"-scented deodorant, Kayali perfume, e.l.f. lip gloss, Invisalign rubber bands and a broken nail file.

"Just, like, kind of anything I need," she says. "I can grab it throughout the day."

Other distinctly Claire items: an oversize and loaded Tootsie Roll container won at a bat mitzvah that she dips into if she's "feeling down or … just like tired," The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes from the Hunger Games series ("I've read all the other ones") and a green bunny squishy with the "perfect texture."

On the outside? A lone purple crocheted heart, chosen because it's her favorite color. (Tweens love lavender.)

Haidyn: The system kid

"I have, like, a system with my stuff," the Florida seventh grader says.

Photo illustration: Victoria Ellis/Yahoo News, photos:  courtesy of Haidyn, via Trident

One look at her navy JanSport confirms it: Haidyn's folders are arranged in class-period order. History is first, reading second, with less-used materials tucked further back and everyday essentials — laptop, lunchbox and calculator — within easy reach. 

The front pouch holds a pencil box with a ROYGBIV array of writing tools and a handful of school IDs in case "I lose one or something," which seems doubtful given her system. In a side pocket, she keeps a pencil, pen, dry-erase marker and hairbrush for easy access. 

Some Gen Alpha must-haves: a smartphone, a hot-selling Owala water bottle, sunglasses, Native deodorant, lip gloss and Trident Vibes gum, which she keeps at the top of her bag.

Meanwhile, her backpack's look follows a system too. According to her mom, it "has to hang low or else it's not cool."

Reagan: The minimalist

The North Carolina seventh grader keeps things simple.

Photo illustration: Victoria Ellis/Yahoo News, photos: courtesy of Reagan

He's on his second Baseball Lifestyle 101 ice cream-drip backpack with a matching water bottle, though his mom says he likes ice cream more than baseball. (From what I've seen on social media — including a recent goal — soccer seems to be his sport.)

Which brings me to the fact that he didn't want to talk to me about his backpack, which I can fully relate to.

His mom tells me he travels light because his school has a no-homework policy and students don't have to haul supplies back and forth. The only things that come home are his Minecraft lunch box, which he's been using for the last few years, and a folder. 

He's also deep into Michael Jackson, reading a biography at night and drawing his own versions of the King of Pop's album covers.

And that crumpled ball? Reagan and his classmates make them out of "mistake paper and do-overs," including rejected art.

Edie: The soccer-first kid

Did someone say soccer? City kid Edie, a sixth grader from Massachusetts, makes her love of the sport known. 

Photo illustration: Victoria Ellis/Yahoo News, photos: courtesy of Edie

"In my backpack, I always have to have my water bottle, soccer ball and cleats," she tells me. "They're most important to me because I love to play soccer and you always need to hydrate." 

Her bright pink Nike Elite backpack is covered in empowering words like "courage" and "strength." The positive messaging continues inside with a pouch that reads, "You're beautiful, don't change."

Inside, there is a mix of school-day basics: notebooks, folders and a striped pencil case. There are also some just-in-case items: Kleenex, Band-Aids, hair ties, ibuprofen and three colorful NeeDoh Cool Catssquishies.

Prepared, practical and still very 11.

Beau: The soccer superfan

Nobody is left wondering who Beau is rooting for.

Photo illustration: Victoria Ellis/Yahoo News, photos: courtesy of Beau

The nearly 8-year-old second grader from Texas carries a black Old Navy bag featuring Lionel Messi under a giant "G.O.A.T." banner. A gold FIFA World Cup trophy key chain, purchased at a soccer jersey store in London, hangs on the front. The soccer theme continues with a black, white and gold Nike water bottle.

A gold Lego robot key chain, bought at the Lego Store at the Philadelphia International Airport, adds a non-soccer note. He's actually downgraded his danglecore this year.

"Last year, I had a lot of metal key chains, and they hit together and it was annoying," he shared.

Inside, everything is straightforward second-grade school stuff — a folder, a bento box and the basics — making the message on the outside even more pronounced: Messi all the way. 

Kate: The aesthetic kid

This sixth grader from Ohio scored LoveShackFancy x Yoobi for Target before much of the collection sold out.

Photo illustration: Victoria Ellis/Yahoo News, photos:  courtesy of Kate, via Target, via Amazon

Kate has the floral backpack, a matching pencil pouch, notebooks and a pouch for her Chromebook charger and earbuds.

Bows — a signature part of the brand's ultrafeminine, romantic aesthetic — are pinned across the front pouch. Another bow dangles alongside bear and rabbit plush key chains.

Her water bottle fits the trend-aware vibe too: a Starbucks x Dandy Worldwide Road Trip bottle. A Yondr pouch keeps her phone locked away during the school day.

In the bag, she's carrying Small Steps: The Year I Got Polio, "the book that I'm reading right now," plus her folder for chorus and computer. 

Audrey: The comfort-and-extras kid

Audrey's JanSport looks pretty neutral on the outside. Inside, it's a colorful wonderland.

Photo illustration: Victoria Ellis/Yahoo News, photos: courtesy of Audrey

The Pennsylvania fifth grader is prepared like her sister Claire, but her version leans more toward self-care. She has five lip glosses, a Crocs x Touchland hand sanitizer, a compact mirror, a brush and hair ties, perfume, a mini first-aid kit and Scope.

"If I have tea in the morning or matcha, I have mouthwash," she says.

That stash sits alongside squishies (dumplings and NeeDoh), a rubber duck and a Stranger Things Funko Bitty Pop.

"It's my emotional support Eleven," she explains. (Millie Bobby Brown is also a Gen Alpha fave.)

Her books include Frindle for class and a signed copy of Small Town Monsters. Of the latter, she says with a wink, "What I like about this is I have this nice little bow charm [bookmark] on a horror book."

On the outside, Audrey has key chains including her name in beads, a heart and a cupcake. She isn't over the loss of an earlier one.

"I had Tarte lip gloss on this, but it fell off and I lost it forever," she says. "I'm sad about that."

Lucy: Miss independent 

"I have an Apple AirTag because this year I'm walking home since I'm now in fifth grade," Lucy tells me. 

Photo illustration: Victoria Ellis/Yahoo News, photos: courtesy of Lucy

The New Jersey fifth grader has confidence to spare, so much so that when her younger sister got shy during her own backpack tour, Lucy answered those questions too.

That self-assurance carries into what she packs. Lucy's neutral All in Motion backpack contrasts with the frillier LoveShackFancy x Yoobi supplies inside. Her nonessential must-haves include Laneige Peach Glaze lip serum ("so my lips will never get dry") and hand sanitizer ("in case I touch anything gross").

I needed a fainting couch after hearing how she selected her reading material: "My teacher said to bring a book, so I chose P.S. I Like You because I like romance," she says.

The Taylor Swift fan also leaves me with her thoughts on what her friends will have in their bags this year: "Owalas, squishies, fidgets and Fugglers," she predicts.

Everleigh: The character kid

This is Lucy's sister, and while she's a little shyer, she's living in her own bright and colorful world.

Photo illustration: Victoria Ellis/Yahoo News, photos:  courtesy of Everleigh, via Bath & Body Works

The New Jersey second grader's school supplies, housed in a cherry- and heart-covered Locker Club bag, are basically a lineup of favorite things: a blue axolotl pencil case, a Squishmallows spiral notebook, a metallic rainbow composition book, light blue scissors and strawberry hand sanitizer.

Her logic is refreshingly simple: axolotls, Squishmallows, pink, blue and strawberries. She likes what she likes.

Dash: The everything-has-a-story kid

"Me and my friend play this game where we are in this secret society thing, and we have like an ID," Dash tells me, holding it up. 

Photo illustration: Victoria Ellis/Yahoo News, photos: courtesy of Dash

That is just one thing the fourth grader from California has a story about. Even his key chains — sushi, corn and an NFL London Games charm — on his JanSport come with origin stories he's happy to share. 

One marks a reading marathon, during which he says he was "one of the best in the class." Another came from a perfect-attendance streak. He's also in a school play, which explains the pink highlighter he uses to mark his lines.

Yes, there's a homework folder and math book, but I'm more excited by his hand-drawn "Mecha-Tech" pictures and the "Star Dollars" he earns at his after-school program and trades in for prizes, including a Pikachu figure he holds up.

Then there's a Roblox brainrot figure that he found on the ground. 

"It is a spaghetti toilet," he says with a smile.

Rachel: The keepsake kid

Rachel says the things in her backpack "mostly reflect who I am" — especially her love of singing, her friends and family and "how messy I am."

Photo illustration: Victoria Ellis/Yahoo News, photos: courtesy of Rachel

On the outside of the New York sixth grader's Simple Modern bag are some of her "most prized possessions": a Liila toy key chain her mother bought her and a blue plush Rhode Island key chain she bought on a trip there.

Inside, band and chorus binders hold her sheet music — fitting for a kid who wants to be a singer-songwriter. She also carries plenty of pencils because hers tend to "spontaneously go missing," plus a planner with an encouraging message on each page. There's also a key in a Hello Kitty wrap.

Her toiletries stash is pure middle school: Laneige lip balm, La Roche-Posay sunscreen and moisturizer, blemish patches, Kleenex and a scrunchie.

"It can be very useful for school and day-to-day life," she says. "And if you don't believe me, ask my friends. Most of them have something like this as well."

This may not be news to you, but it was to me. Watching Bullock alongside Nicole Kidman, 59 (whose age I also had to Google), during the press tour for Practical Magic 2, I found myself staring less at their faces than at their hair: long, full, glossy locks that I, at half Bullock's age, would love to have myself.

We spend a lot of time talking about why famous women don't seem to age anymore. We dissect Botox, fillers and facelifts and debate what constitutes "aging gracefully." But somehow, hair has largely escaped the conversation.

Hair used to tell us someone was older. Think of The Golden Girls, the show women over 40 have repeatedly referenced to me when I've asked about what they once imagined their current age would look like. Blanche, Dorothy and Rose were in their 50s when the series began. And all three were immediately legible as older women, in part because their hair was short, curled, set and unmistakably of a certain age. It was considered "grandma hair." 

To be clear, neither Bullock nor Kidman are grandmas. But they are older than the Golden Girls’ characters were when the series began, as hard as that might be to believe. So when I look at them, among a sea of Hollywood's ageless women, I wonder: Where did "grandma hair" go? When did older women stop having "old" hair — and how are they pulling it off?

The old hair rules are disappearing

The question isn't confined to Hollywood. Look on Reddit, and you'll find a woman approaching 50 saying someone had asked whether she was "finally" going to cut her long hair.

"What does my age have to do with my hair length?" the Redditor wrote. "She said long hair was for our youth. My hair makes me feel beautiful, so no freakin way I cut it [because] SHE thinks 50 is old."

Women over 50 flooded the comments, calling the suggestion "old-fashioned" and "outdated" and sharing their own plans to keep their hair long.

Of course, some of what we're calling "grandma hair" was simply fashion that aged along with the women who wore it. But there were also real expectations around how women should wear their hair as they got older.

Women's hair has historically been subject to rules about age, sexuality and appropriate self-presentation, according to Julia Twigg, a sociologist who has studied the societal constructs around aging women. She tells Yahoo that long, flowing hair has been associated with youth and sexuality. Getting older meant controlling it, tying it back or eventually cutting it.

Mario Casilli/TV Guide/NBC/Everett Collection

"The control of hair has always been part of the control of women and the control of the body," says Twigg. But as women's lives expanded, so did the boundaries around their appearance. "We are seeing freedom — social freedoms, cultural freedoms — of women being reflected in what's happening for hair."

But getting rid of the rules around how older women should style their hair didn't change what happens to the hair itself.

Hair can thin, become more brittle and change in texture and density with age. Twigg calls this the intersection of "embodied aging and cultural aging." Some of what we associate with older women's hairstyles came from what society told them they should do. Some of it was a practical response to the hair on their heads changing. A pixie cut, for example, might be easier to maintain than a wild mane. 

So even as we've decided that long hair no longer belongs exclusively to young women, that doesn't mean our hair suddenly got the memo. But there are ways around that too.

The secret to aging hair is sometimes more hair

Merria Dearman has spent decades making wigs and hairpieces, including for Hollywood. And if you think supplemental hair is some new celebrity beauty hack, it's not. Early in her career, Dearman worked for Frank Sinatra's wigmaker and made wigs for Sophia Loren when the actor was in her 70s.

Wigs have "been there this whole time," Dearman, who founded Provenir Hair, tells Yahoo. 

What hasn't necessarily caught up is our idea of what wearing one looks like. Even Twigg still associates wigs with "a performance," something with an "alien quality" rather than an everyday beauty tool.

That perception isn't universal. Black women have a much longer history of openly wearing and talking about wigs and supplemental hair, Dearman points out. White women are wearing them too, she says, "but we aren't talking about it the way Black women are within their culture and with each other." That familiarity also means Black women may have a much broader idea of what a wig can actually look like.

The wigs and hairpieces she's talking about aren't necessarily dramatic transformations. Ideally, you wouldn't know they were there at all.

"When it's good, you don't see it," she says.

That could mean a topper that blends into thinning hair on top, extensions or additions for more length and fullness throughout, or a full wig. The goal isn't always to walk out looking like someone else. Sometimes it's to look like you just have really, really good hair growing out of your own scalp.

That's what makes hair such a fascinating blind spot in our increasingly sophisticated understanding of celebrity beauty. We speak more openly about plastic surgery than ever before and suspect that a remarkably smooth 60-year-old face may not have gotten that way through sunscreen and good genes alone. Yet we can look at an equally remarkable head of hair and simply think, Wow, she's been blessed with amazing hair.

Bullock herself recently highlighted the murky line between real hair and Hollywood hair. In a conversation with Jennifer Aniston for Interview magazine, the Practical Magic 2 star revealed that she had experienced two bouts of stress-induced hair loss and said she was "very lucky" it grew back. Aniston marveled at Bullock's still-enviable "mane," and it turns out that she had a hand in it. Bullock's hairstylist has confirmed the actor's hair was styled with products from Aniston's own hair care line, LolaVie, for her latest film; costar Kidman, meanwhile, wore a wig. 

A similar reveal played out when Mariska Hargitay — who wore numerous wigs during her Emmys hosting gig last night — appeared on Amy Poehler's Good Hang podcast. Hargitay said she had declined a hairpiece that day because she assumed Poehler was "just real and natural." Poehler quickly corrected her: "I have like 25 pieces of fake hair in." Hargitay's assumption made the point that the illusion is invisible, even to someone accustomed to the glam chair.

There's no contradiction in experiencing hair loss, regrowing your hair and having great hair. Nor does it matter whether every strand seen onscreen grew from an actor's scalp. But the fact that audiences would never know the difference unless someone chose to tell them captures something about the beauty standard we're creating: We're getting better at talking about the realities of women's aging while simultaneously making those realities difficult to see.

That tension is showing up in Dearman's chair.

"They just want to look like themselves," Dearman says of her clients. "They want to look like a better version of themselves." 

The inspiration for that better version? Dearman says her clients in their 60s routinely bring in photos of Margot Robbie, who is 36.

Did we get rid of one aging rule to create another?

There's obviously something freeing about all of this. A woman can be 60, want hair down to her waist and go get it. She no longer has to accept that reaching a certain age means retreating from the beauty choices she made when she was younger.

But Twigg cautions that these shifts are often "two-faced." There's empowerment in having more choices, but there's also an ever-expanding beauty industry ready to sell us the products and procedures required to make those choices possible.

"Magazines and cosmetic companies and hairdressers, they don't want you giving up," she says.

And it's not just hair. According to the 2025 Plastic Surgery Statistics Report from the American Society of Plastic Surgeons, adults aged 66 and older were "the fastest-growing age group undergoing procedures" — up 24% from the year before.

Keeping up, of course, costs money.

"These interventions we've been talking about are very expensive," says Twigg. "So it's about a gorgeous elite who look as if they are some uncertain age, this kind of floating middle years category. But that's only available to a certain element in society."

In other words, appearance might reveal less about how old someone is and more about what they can afford. Hair may just be one of the harder interventions to spot. 

There are signs that the secrecy around how people achieve that hair could change. Dearman says many of her clients over 40 still hear the word "wig" and think of something their mother or grandmother wore. Younger women, meanwhile, can watch influencers like Alix Earle, who is 25, take millions of TikTok followers along to appointments where their extensions are removed and reapplied.

Added hair isn't necessarily something to hide anymore. It can just be part of getting your hair done. Twigg expects that attitude to follow younger women as they age.

So "grandma hair" may not be coming back, which is probably a good thing if it means women have shed the idea that reaching a certain age means adopting a certain hairstyle. What's less clear is whether we've also shed the expectation itself, or simply moved it. 

Your hair can be as long, sexy or glamorous as you want at any age now. It just might not be allowed to look its age.

Celine Trang's 9-year-old daughter, Cassie, packed her own "I'm bored on the plane bag" — mostly squishies — for their trip to Puerto Rico in June. The sensory toys are popular with kids in part because they keep hands busy and can take the edge off boredom or anxiety during travel.

Cassie was going to see her best friend, so she brought her new large butter squishy, which was rare and hard to find. Trang made sure all liquids in both their carry-ons were under 3.4 oz., as she always did. So when they went through the Transportation Security Administration (TSA) screening at Charleston International Airport, she was confused when Cassie's bag was pulled aside. 

"The TSA agent told us the large butter squishy couldn't come on the plane because the contents inside are considered a liquid," Trang tells Yahoo. "She explained that people sometimes empty squishies and replace the contents with other substances."

Trang understood the rule, but in that moment, she was thinking, "We have 20 minutes to board, and this is a child's toy." Meanwhile, Cassie "was on the verge of tears," having "her heart set on showing that squishy to her best friend."

Flying with kids can already be stressful. An unexpected dilemma over a favorite toy only adds to it.

As the clock ticked down, Trang gave her daughter two choices: surrender the squishy to the agent or go to guest services to ship it home. Cassie chose the latter, and a TSA agent and security guard escorted them outside the checkpoint, where they shoved it in a box and mailed it home.

They made the flight, but Trang says, "I had no idea beforehand that squishies could be flagged. There should be more awareness before families get to the airport. Parents shouldn't have to find out at the checkpoint with a crying child and a boarding clock ticking."

And, yes, this is happening as Gen Alpha is fully immersed in a squishy era, while TSA classifies the gel- and liquid-filled sensory toys under the same 3.4-oz. limit used for lotions and shampoos. TikTok is filled with videos of kids crying, faced with the same dilemma as Cassie.

The 'threat' of NeeDoh

Author E.K. McCoy was traveling with about $250 worth of the holy grail of squishies — NeeDoh — in her backpack in June when TSA stopped her at Florida's Melbourne Orlando International Airport. 

She and her sisters have six kids, ages 8 to 13, who had been looking for the viral toys, and McCoy was excited to score enough so that every child would get one ahead of their get-together.

Then, her backpack got flagged.

"They said that because they can't hold their shape, they are a 'threat,'" McCoy tells Yahoo. "Yes, that was their exact wording." 

McCoy says her options were to go back and check her bag or to surrender the NeeDohs to TSA. She had the time, so she chose option one — at an additional cost of $75.

She later made a PSA TikTok for other parents "because I have an 11-year-old and I know how heartbroken she'd be if she lost her viral toy that we had been searching months to find and had to pay a ridiculous amount of money for."

So, can you bring a squishy through TSA?

In August, TSA issuednew guidance for gel-filled toys. If a toy appears to contain 3.4 ounces or less of gel or liquid, it can go in a carry-on as long as it follows the 3-1-1 rule. It must fit in one clear, quart-size resealable bag along with your other liquids, gels and aerosols.

Larger gel-filled toys should be placed in checked luggage.

There's an important addendum, however — and one that's enough for me to say: Check it. "The final decision rests with the TSA officer on whether an item is allowed through the checkpoint," TSA states.

The agency claims it doesn't want to see any teary tots either.

"It's not NeeDoh for us to see any kid cry," the agency said in a cheeky Facebook post. "If your child's toys are filled with more than 3.4 oz. of gel, put them in a checked bag."

TSA declined to elaborate on the policy when contacted by Yahoo.

But how do you know if your squishy is under 3.4 ounces?

This is the confusing part — and why checking it may be the safer option for now. Not all squishies spell out how much gel or liquid is actually inside.

Schylling, parent company of NeeDoh, lists the total weight of its products online, which at least gives travelers some guidance. Cool Cats and Squeezza each weigh 3.2 oz., while Nice Ice Baby weighs 2.4 oz., so the gel inside must weigh less than 3.4 oz.

The murkier cases are the heavier squishies. Nice Berg is 22.4 oz., the Nice Cube and Dream Drop weigh 7.2 oz. each and Gummy Bear, Nice Cream and Peace O' Cake weigh 5.6 oz. each. Their total weight alone doesn't reveal how much of that is gel.

Schylling says most NeeDohs have an outer shell made of thermoplastic rubber, or TPR, with a polyvinyl alcohol filling. The Nice Cube is different: Its filling is maltose.

Schylling did not respond to Yahoo's questions about how much filling is in individual NeeDoh products or whether they meet TSA's carry-on requirements. TSA declined to clarify how officers determine whether a toy "appears" to contain 3.4 ounces or less.

And with the TSA officer having the final say — and a long line behind you — there may not be much opportunity to debate the distinction at the checkpoint.

Not every squishy gets taken

This week, TikTok user Katie (@ktecruises) was traveling with the mother lode of mystery Halloween dumplings — six — to gift to her niece. They triggered a bag check, but she was eventually sent on her way with them.

"The TSA agents inspected them, and once they realized what they were, they were laughing about the whole situation," she tells Yahoo.

So was she. 

"It was definitely one of those moments where I thought, 'Of all the things in my bag, this is what got me stopped?'" she says. 

Like the others, Katie was "completely caught off guard."

"I honestly had no idea they could potentially cause an issue," she says. "I'll definitely think twice about how I pack them for travel now."

"Squishies aren't a necessity, but they do provide real sensory comfort for kids," Trang adds. "A little more awareness could save a lot of families from having to make that choice in the moment."

In 2026, it seems like it's more popular than ever to post about trips to the fair online, suggesting that each state's annual display of agricultural appreciation and caloric innovation might just be the next Meiji Shrine.

"Forget Coachella. I'm trying to go to the Minnesota State Fair," influencer Sierra Reece wrote in an Instagram post that got her a free trip to the festivities. As noted in the Minnesota State Tribune, the "internet's cool kids are embracing the folksy vibe" of the niche local gathering in the North Star State, which just had its biggest opening day ever, and beyond. 

The food monstrosities — or creations, I won't yuck anyone's yum — are a huge pull. There's Biscoff cookie butter funnel cake and frozen slushie drinks loaded with pickles and cheese sticks at the Wisconsin State Fair, and I've become enchanted by the elote ramen with birria and nachos on the side at the New York State Fair. You can watch different influencers document a whole day's worth of meals at the same fair and not come across the same dish twice, simply because there's so much inventive, artery-clogging fare to choose from. 

"I don't play them parking lot, extension cord, Airhead-mystery-flavor rides — that's equivalent to a damn LEGO set. I'm here for the food only," TikToker Kareen Hillsaid in a video at the New York State Fair. 

I'll be honest: It's mostly about the food, but it's not all about the food. Alaska's state fair had a waterskiing squirrel. Iowa's hosted a viral turkey calling contest. 

Jaz, an influencer, has been posting about how she went to the Alaska State Fair to work her family's cream puff booth, which involved unwrapping dozens of sticks of butter, organizing containers and doing other little tasks around the back of the shop. 

"I'm coming next year," influencer Victoria Paris commented on Jaz's post. 

Minnesota has made headlines for the massive popularity of its state fair this year — if it hadn't ended, I'd be on my way to the corn tent before stopping by the Big Fat Bacon booth to grab a hunk of meat — and I know it would be hard to choose between the bucket of cookies and the deep-fried everything else. Gymnast Suni Lee went with her friends and a security guard.

We're only getting started with so many other, hotter states hosting their state fairs as the weather cools down. (Starting Sept. 25, you can sample a chocolate corny dog or pizza laden with Flamin' Hot Cheetos at the State Fair of Texas.)

So why the sudden pull toward creating and sharing content at fairs, a concept that has existed for decades as an offline community event? I have a few theories as a longtime state fair enthusiast who's sampled every possible combination of dessert and deep-fry grease, including the notorious Krispy Kreme doughnut burger, at North Carolina's annual smorgasbord. 

For one, they're weird, and that's especially appealing in this whimsy-obsessed era. Maximalism is hot right now, and fairs are pretty much engineered to overwhelm your senses in a fun way. Even if you come to gawk at the butter cow or the pet rock competition, wonder is the gateway to a richer life. 

It helps that a lot of people have memories of attending state fairs as children, making it a nostalgic venture. All the toys, rides and animals make it a potential "kidulting" experience too. 

Another potential reason is that people are itching to get out of the house, and fairs are local and packed with other community-hungry people. 

"I've observed that people may come for the food but often stay because of the shared experiences," Haylie Robinson, a travel expert and content creator, told me. "It's a camaraderie that is instant and accessible."

It might seem oxymoronic that something that's long meant to bring people together in real life has become a hot spot for creating content, but I think it's an earnest, albeit modern, quest for community — we're all united by our desires to feel like we're a part of something, whether that's an experience or a trend. Fairs aren't eventslop just because they've become popular online.

But it's not just the guests who are treating state fairs differently. The events are adjusting to the times too. Brands like E.l.f. Beauty and Levi's have invaded, setting up booths and activations. Fortunately, they fit the spirit of the events with giant pickle jarsand pants for a 55-foot cowboy statue.

Now, if you're going to a fair just to feel the rush of waiting in line, I'm judging you a bit. Just be sure to stop by some of the information booths, ride a structurally questionable roller coaster or visit a petting zoo on your way out. You might just develop a newfound appreciation for your state — or find something to post about. 

The term refers to the appearance of dark circles under the eyes and sallow skin, which could be signs of low ferritin, a blood protein that stores iron. Low ferritin often means there isn't enough iron in the body and can be a sign of iron deficiency, the most common nutrient deficiency on the planet. In the United States, some form of iron deficiency affects nearly one in three adults, according to one study. 

For something so commonplace, iron deficiency can be a little tricky to understand. Iron helps hemoglobin — the protein in red blood cells that carries oxygen — do its job. When iron deficiency progresses to anemia, the body doesn't have enough hemoglobin to carry the oxygen it needs, resulting in a number of symptoms. Doctors diagnose iron deficiency with blood tests and may treat it with iron supplements. 

On social media, people have spoken about how their ferritin face and iron deficiency was dismissed as stress and fatigue, even when blood tests showed slightly low iron. Some commenters shared stories about pushing for a proper diagnosis. 

Some people have posted videosbefore and aftergetting treatment for low iron or ferritin levels, showing changes in their faces. 

Health care professionals have also taken to TikTok to validate people's concerns about low iron, acknowledging that it's a widespread problem that can often be treated. 

So what about your face? "Ferritin face" is not a diagnosis or medical term, nor should it be your latest insecurity — just a potential sign that's worth asking your doctor about. 

Sheri Gaw, a registered dietitian, tells Yahoo that not everyone with low iron stores looks pale or has dark circles under their eyes. Stress, lack of sleep or genetics could also be to blame. 

"People with low ferritin levels or depleted iron stores may present with a grayish skin tone, but most often they complain of fatigue, headaches, dizziness or shortness of breath due to a lack of oxygen delivery throughout the body," she explains. 

Social media may have you looking in the mirror a little more than usual, but if it's because of dark circles under your eyes, they may be more than something to worry about in your looksmaxxing routine — you may want to talk to a doctor about them.

Ask a kid what they want to be when they grow up, and you may get more than one answer — even from the same kid.

Billings, 11, says "an astronaut and the captain of a ship," adding, "Both. I can do both."

Grant, 7, has "veterinarian" in mind for now, but he's cycled through plenty of other ideas.

"I'm only 7. I can do anything, so it switches a lot," he reminds me.

Billings's answer actually changed within six weeks. When I checked back in with him, he had a new plan: engineer.

"I'm good at engineering, so it's my thing," he says.

That kind of bouncing around was common among the 50 kids, ages 5 to 14, I asked what they wanted to be when they grew up. Most had already changed their minds at least once. Many imagined themselves doing more than one thing. 

And while plenty of traditional dream jobs are still on the list, some have distinctly Gen Alpha twists. Still, not one kid said they wanted to be a TikToker.

Of course, their answers are snapshots, not contracts. Being able to see all kinds of options for themselves is part of their development — and something to be encouraged. After all, don't we tell kids to dream big? So, these are their dreams — for now, anyway.

The classics are alive and well

For all the ways Gen Alpha is different — growing up with screens, AI and instant answers (thanks, Alexa) — plenty of their dream jobs would sound familiar to generations before them: doctors, teachers, firefighters, attorneys, astronauts and engineers.

What stood out was how specific some of these dream jobs already were, and how often family influence showed up.

Brendan, 7, has firefighting in mind, just like his dad. He wants to become a fire chief eventually. I've seen him marching alongside his father, grandfather and the other firefighters at Memorial Day parades, and I'd be shocked if he didn't get there.

Family influence shows up in other areas. Zana, 13, is drawn to medicine because her grandfather is a surgeon and her mom works in health care. Esme, 11, sees herself as an illustrator like her dad, though she already knows she'd rather work on books than commercials.

Some skipped right past the broad job title and landed on a specialty. Kate, 11, has already set her sights on being a pediatric anesthesiologist assistant.

Other familiar choices showed up too: Caroline, 9, has third-grade teacher on her list, while Miles F., 10, is eyeing engineering.

Theater kids vs. sports kids

Nearly 2 in 5 kids fell into one of those two camps: 10 named acting, singing or another performing arts career, while nine mentioned professional sports.

Maybe it's the World Cup effect, but soccer clearly led the sports pack, with six kids — all boys between 7 and 10 — naming it somewhere in their answers.

Baseball lost two prospective recruits to soccer. Owen, 7, considered baseball but decided "a baseball game would be too long." Warren, 9, previously pictured himself as a pro baseball player, but now has pro soccer in mind.

"Every position is fun to play, and you get to travel and meet people from all over the world," Warren says. Plus, "people are holding up signs with your name."

Then there's Leif, 10, who has a two-sport career in mind, refusing to choose between soccer and basketball. Cole, 13, didn't want to be categorized, saying simply "professional athlete."

Team sports weren't the draw for everyone. Jackie, 6, has her sights on figure skating — and it's all about the tricks.

"When I do a leap, I could fly in the air," she says with a giggle.

As for the theater kids, "Broadway" dreams came up more than once, including for Carolina, 8, and Sarai, 11. Audrey, 10, says she fell in love with acting the first time she stepped onstage — similar to Maggie, 13, and Gigi, 11.

Jolie, 7, has her eye on singing in front of a huge crowd "like Taylor Swift," while Teddy, 8, is dreaming of a rap career. And Rachel, 11, sees singer-songwriter in her future, saying music has been part of her life "since I was an infant." 

While these are careers in the spotlight, it doesn't necessarily mean they're chasing fame. Only four kids explicitly mentioned fame, fans or performing for a big audience as part of the appeal. Still, nearly 40% imagined themselves in careers that could put them in front of one.

Creative careers extended beyond the stage too. Brooke, 11, has animation in mind. Nadia, 10, sees interior design in her future. And Miles R., 11, is considering becoming an author because he loves creating stories and "stretching my imagination to great limits" — if he doesn't become a space engineer first.

The Gen Alpha layer

Out of the 50 kids, only three explicitly named YouTube, influencing or streaming as part of their current dream. All three were 11 or younger.

Beau, 7, sees YouTube in his future — well, alongside pro soccer. Colson, 8, imagines playing Roblox and streaming as a YouTuber. Claire, 11, has put a Gen Alpha spin on a more traditional profession: "baker/influencer for baking."

That's a relatively small showing compared to recent research. University of Wisconsin-Stout Polytechnic professor Matthew Simoneau, who has studied kids and teens in the United States and Norway since 2021, reported in June that social media ranked behind only family, friends or teachers as a career influence. Some kids as young as 7 drew YouTube or TikTok logos — or simply wrote "influencer" — when asked what they wanted to be.

Earlier research found similar enthusiasm for social media-type careers. In a 2021 YouGov survey of 3,670 U.S. teens ages 13 to 17 in 2021, professional streamer was the most popular dream job at 11%. That was ahead of doctor/nurse (8%), musician (7%), actor (7%) and pro athlete (7%).

More recently, there have been signs that the influencer dream may be fading — ever so slightly. PacSun and GlobalData's 2026 Youth Report, which surveyed Americans ages 11 to 24 and was released this month, found that creator/influencer slipped from the top career choice to second place. It was selected by 18.8%, down 3.4 percentage points from last year and just behind the first pick, medical or health care professional, at 19%. For those who did want to become influencers, the top reason was simple: It looked fun.

In my group, Colson was the only kid who imagined turning gaming into a job/streaming career. No one named "influencer" as a standalone career. No one said "content creator." 

Further, no one explicitly named TikTok as part of their dream job — despite their teen counterparts largely turning to TikTok, Instagram and Snapchat for entertainment and connection, according to Pew Research Center. (Though we know boys this age are turning to TikTok for hairstyle inspiration, often landing on the same look.)

And while Gen Alpha is growing up alongside AI — to the point that "that's AI" has become kid slang for something fake or inauthentic — not one child named an AI-specific career.

They want to be more than one thing

There's no staying in a lane. Across their answers, 12 of the 50 kids named more than one possible future.

Este, 5, has three careers on her list: artist, doctor and teacher, because it would make "my heart happy." Kennedy, 8,  is aiming for baseball player, a firefighter and being famous. 

Danny, 5, has an equally ambitious plan: "tornado chaser and ninja." He's not the only ninja in the group. Miles R., 11, used to have "inventor and ninja" on his list.

And then there's Jameson, 7: basketball player, soccer player, scientist and — because why limit yourself — "chicken nugget."

Why they want these jobs

Yes, there were funny answers, but a lot of the reasoning is earnest. Again and again, the kids talked about wanting to help — the word itself came up 10 times.

Avery M., 11, is drawn to pediatric oncology after her uncle died of cancer. She hopes to support kids and their parents through something she knows can be "sad and hard." Avery A., 11, wants to be a children's therapist so she can teach kids strategies for dealing with anxiety.

Levi, 9, is baking a charity component into his dream gig. A future pastry chef, he'd also "like to give extra food away to people who can't afford food."

Then there are the animal lovers. Maya, 11, sees a future in wildlife protection because she thinks animals aren't treated with enough respect. Grant, 7, is imagining life as a veterinarian, including operating on a Komodo dragon or even a whale.

Some kids are already taking steps toward their goals. Lydia, 7, has space exploration in mind and has attended "Lil' Astronauts" camp.

Others have the details mapped out. Isabel, 9, plans to open a coffee shop with friends, and the name is already settled: "A GALAXY AWAY."

And some were blunt about what appeals to them. Veronica, 13, thinks she'd make a solid attorney "because I like to argue and win." Jake L., 5, sees law enforcement as a chance "to get coffee and put my sirens on." 

Capri, 13, has one reason for choosing orthodontist: "Money."

A mix of purpose and practicality shows up in broader research too.

A 2024 YouGov survey of 12,000 U.S. teens, ages 13 to 17, found that money was the top consideration they had in picking a job (22%). Next were kids choosing professions that give them a sense of purpose or allow them to help others (16%). And 14% said they wanted a "fun" job.

They've already changed their minds

Nearly three-quarters of the kids — 37 out of 50 — said they'd already changed their mind about what they want to be.

Some of the pivots cover a lot of ground. Lucy, 10, traded pop star for lawyer. Jane Edith, 11, moved on from veterinarian to artist and animal carer for a practical reason: "I don't want to clean up animal puke."

And then there's August, 5. He currently wants to be a volcanologist because he likes volcanoes. 

His previous dream job?

 "An apple."

For the record, none of these kids are being held to their answers. Not by me, anyway — someone who changed my major three times. I was going to be a social worker, then a teacher, but ultimately graduated with a degree in history and ended up a journalist. So I'm hardly in a position to expect a 7-year-old to have it all figured out.

One of the joys of being a kid is getting to try on different versions of your future — firefighter today, vet tomorrow, maybe even an apple or chicken nugget somewhere along the way.

Those acronyms are the names of peptides, an umbrella term for a group of chemicals that a growing number of Americans are injecting in pursuit of their wellness goals. Ben learned about peptides both on social media and from a friend, and started taking them in January 2026.

Ben is a 16-year-old high school sophomore. 

The peptides he's taking have not been tested in clinical trials. They're not approved for use by the U.S. Food and Drug Administration — although a recent agency decision could ease restrictions on them — and are only supposed to be available for research. In practice, they can be ordered with roughly equal ease by a lab or a teenager. 

And Ben is not a one-off. On TikTok, teens brag about their peptide use with hashtags like #peps or #peppers, give advice about dosing and even hawk the injectables with their own discount-codes-in-bios. Celebrities, middle-aged men and perimenopausal women have all sung the praises of peptides for combatting the aches, fatigue and wrinkles that come with age (although there are no clinical studies to prove any of this). For Ben and other teens sharing their peptide use online, it's usually about one thing: looks. 

The rise of peptides 

For the uninitiated, peptides are short chains of amino acids — also the building blocks of protein — which assist with many of the body's essential biological functions, from hormone regulation to tissue repair and growth. 

The consumer peptide boom began with a subset of peptides that are FDA-approved: injectable GLP-1 medications for type 2 diabetes and weight loss. Ozempic, Zepbound and their cousins weren't the first peptide drugs (insulin, for one, is technically a peptide). But their soaring popularity, unprecedented effectiveness and a steady stream of data suggesting their promise for other health issues — including sleep apnea, heart disease and breast cancer — introduced Americans to a category of treatments that sure looked like wonder drugs. 

Suddenly, there was a groundswell of interest in a far wider universe of peptides. Injecting oneself also wasn't so scary or taboo anymore; it was among the biggest wellness trends. Bodybuilders, biohackers and clinics catering to the rich and famous already had access to peptides. In 2023, Real Housewives of New Jersey star Margaret Josephs told me that her doctor at a "metabolic aesthetics" clinic was giving her a "cocktail" of a GLP-1 and various peptides — what's now commonly referred to as a "stack." 

Meanwhile, people became more aware of alternative sources for the drugs: Compounding pharmacies and the "gray market," where research versions of semaglutide and tirzepatide, as well as peptides with no FDA-approved analogs, are sold. Word traveled fast through social media, where adults' wellness routines can become teenagers' lifestyle aspirations. 

At the same time, another social media trend was gathering steam: looksmaxxing. 

Following the looksmaxxing playbook

These days, Ben has broad, muscular shoulders and washboard abs. But he grew up a slender kid. When I asked if he was bullied, he didn't answer exactly, but said: "I've been called skinny my whole life, pretty much, before I started going to the gym." 

Ben started lifting weights most days of the week when he was 14 years old, and his musculature and size "just blew up," he says. Before he began training, Ben didn't necessarily think he was unattractive. But then he found a looksmaxxing influencer online and became convinced that he should go to further lengths to improve his appearance. "My main inspiration was Clavicular," he explains. "I think he inspired a lot of kids to start using it," he says, referring to peptides. 

Clavicular — real name: Braden Peters — rose to prominence as the de facto mascot of looksmaxxing by talking openly about the extreme measures he took to optimize his appearance, including peptide use, but also smashing his face with a hammer with the misguided aim of improving his bone structure. He's given explicit breakdowns of his methods and ideologies to over 2 million followers across TikTok and Instagram, where he flexes his Johnny Bravo-esque physique and showcases his uncannily chiseled jaw and high cheekbones. 

Although Peters boasts of his appeal to female models, most of his following are young men like Ben. When I asked Ben whether dating was a motivation for his peptide use, he said, "No, not at all; I just want to try to look as much better as I can [by] taking these supplements, these injections." 

Ben first started on Melanotan 2, which darkens the skin. After that, he started using GH-KCU, a copper peptide marketed for skin repair and collagen production; insulin-like growth factor 1 (IGF-1), which supposedly supports tissue and muscle repair; and occasionally CMAX, or Semax, a nootropic advertised as improving focus and brain cell health. Ben injects GH-KCU and IGF-1 daily. He doses himself with MT-2 "pretty much whenever the sun's out," and he wants to tan, he says. Semax is more of an occasional peptide, which he takes every couple of weeks when he really needs to focus. 

None of the peptides Ben is taking build muscle, per se — although he alluded to eventually starting "gear," or steroids. But he is "using them to maximize my looks as much as possible." 

Ben says his parents are aware that he buys and takes peptides, which he stores in his own refrigerator. When we talked, he hadn't seen much in the way of results, aside from his tan, but Ben said he hadn't been taking all the peptides long enough for them to have much of an effect. 

That's the big question when it comes to unregulated peptides: Are they doing anything at all? And at what cost? None of that has been proven. 

In uncharted scientific territory  

Teen angst over appearance is certainly nothing new. But using peptides in the pursuit of beauty before the prefrontal cortex is fully baked "is just kind of the next phase of that," Dr. Matthew Kornswiet, a pediatrician and pediatric sports medicine specialist at Sea View Pediatrics in California, tells me. 

The current mania over body image is the driving force behind peptides' popularity. A Pew Research survey published in 2025 found that 47% of teens — including 39% of boys — feel pressure to "look good." In Ben's view, that's the key to virtually any kind of success. "I think, in today's society, the way you look is the way you're going to be treated, in any case, [including in] a job," he says. "Someone looks better than you? He'll get the job."

Kornswiet's patients sometimes ask him about BPC-157 (for recovery) and MOTS-C (for better metabolism and muscle repair), "but a lot of them have other names; I have to keep up with the slang," he says. 

"Really, the big concern that I have is we don't know a lot about [peptides]," says Kornswiet. "It doesn't mean that they're bad," but it means they haven't been proven to be good, or safe, either. 

In today's society, the way you look is the way you're going to be treated.Ben, 16

Only a handful of small human trials have tested any of this generation of peptides; there's no large-scale clinical data. The risks are largely unknown, although Ben said he was aware (albeit not terribly concerned) that Melanotan 2 could cause "darker moles." Dermatologists warn of case studies suggesting it may cause melanoma, a severe form of skin cancer.

Adolescent peptide use, in particular, is completely uncharted territory. "Kids aren't small adults. The way that their bodies and hormones are don't always react the same" as adults, Kornswiet says. 

And many of the peptides teens hope will make them grow bigger and stronger affect the growth hormone pathways "at the most important developmental point in their lives," explains Dr. Rinku Mehra, a pediatric endocrinologist and founder and CEO of Endo Kids Concierge. 

Talking peptides with your teens

It should be said that most teens are not taking peptides. Even looksmaxxers separate "soft-maxxing" — going to the gym, working on one's hygiene — from "hard-maxxing," by taking substances, including peptides, to look better.

Still, unregulated online sellers market aggressively to teenagers. Peptides are largely sold in the U.S. by third-party websites that bulk order them (often from India or China) and claim to be selling the drugs for research purposes. Many ask visitors to confirm that they are at least 21, that they are purchasing them for a laboratory, or both, by ticking boxes — but no further proof is required. The company Ben buys peptides from reached out to him after he started ordering, offering him free vials if he continued promoting their products. He gets paid for his influencing, too, and says the company is aware that he is only 16. 

For Kornswiet, it begs the question: "If you're buying [peptides] from a 17-year-old online, what are we actually putting in our bodies?" Part of the problem, however, is that the young people taking peptides "do not think this is sketchy," says Mehra. 

On TikTok, I came across one young woman who claimed she and her mother started a peptide to "ascend" together. Other teens post on TikTok about hiding their peptides in their parents' refrigerator. Sometimes, parents don't suspect anything because "it's not often the kid that parents expect — the troubled teen. It's more often the boy who is highly driven, competitive or disciplined," says Mehra. "These are 'good kids,' who make good grades; no drugs, no alcohol."

If a 16- or 18-year-old sounds like a longevity podcast host, pay attention.Rinku Mehra

That, in itself, offers a clue. Mehra says to look out for kids who are already tracking their protein intake and macronutrients, or who seem "obsessed" with metrics like body composition. Teens who are extremely self-conscious and concerned about their appearances could also be at risk, she adds. "If a 16- or 18-year-old sounds like a longevity podcast host, pay attention," Mehra adds. 

Kornswiet said the anxieties teens are contending with about how they present are very real —  he'd rather see parents talk honestly about that pressure than blame the kid for buckling under it. "For parents to go in accusing, you lose that trust," he says. 

It might be a conversation worth having sooner than later. 

Ben has tried the peptides he was interested in, but says he'll keep experimenting. Although he doesn't actually consider himself a hardcore adherent of looksmaxxing, he uses all the slang. Being immersed in the culture is not just shaping his growing body; it's altering his worldview: how he sees himself, how he relates to other people, his values. "This looksmaxxing thing has taken over the world, if I'm going to be honest with you," Ben says. Peptides are just one symptom of the problem. 

I wondered: To what end? When does looksmaxxing become looksmaxxed? Will there always be a higher level to "ascend" and a new way to scrutinize yourself? 

For Ben and his generation's sake, I hope the answer is no. 

Jenner’s kitschy confection solidified the summer’s most playful pastime: bedazzling. And while the Keeping Up With the Kardashians star by no means started the trend — which some Gen Z and Gen Alpha are referring to as gem-maxxing or whimsymaxxing — her stamp of approval has helped cement its renewed popularity on the internet. 

“She gave it cultural permission for it to be cool again,” said Ranya Batal, a creative strategist and cultural commentator, of Jenner’s influence on bedazzling. “That’s social proof. When someone with enough status does something, something that would’ve looked completely tacky three weeks ago is now the coolest thing in the world.”

Gem-maxxing, whimsymaxxing, bedazzling … oh my

Bedazzling (also known as whimsymaxxing and gem-maxxing) is the act of affixing colorful plastic rhinestones and gemstones to any surface of your choosing. The trend leans into a more maximalist aesthetic, one rooted in the celebration of whimsical design sensibilities and unabashedly quirky forms of self-expression. 

“To bedazzle is to decorate clothes and accessories with rhinestones, crystals, beads and sequins,” according to Google, which said in March that searches for the trend were at “an all-time high,” surpassing the previous record set in 2010. Pinterest shared similar findings in April: Searches for “bedazzling ideas” and “bedazzled digital camera” were up 900%, while “bedazzled claw clip” was up 2,000%. 

So why is bedazzling having a major moment right now? 

“I think part of it is aesthetic fatigue,” Batal told Yahoo. “We’ve spent years in minimalism. Clean girl, quiet luxury, neutrals. Everything has been very polished and restrained, so trends naturally swing in the opposite direction. People are craving personality, color, nostalgia and excess again.” 

Ties to ‘McBling’ 

If the bedazzling trend looks familiar, that’s because it is. Gen Z and Gen Alpha may be leaning into the trend now, but back in the day, millennials were its target demographic. Bedazzling was a hallmark of the “McBling” aesthetic that reigned supreme during the aughts. According to the Consumer Aesthetics Research Institute, a collective that digitally archives past aesthetics, the “McBling” aesthetic represented a “hard shift away from the minimalist futurism of the Y2K era,” and embraced “aspirational luxury in all forms.” 

Think a hot pink Motorola Razr covered in iridescent rhinestones or the iconic, rhinestone-encrusted “Juicy” logo plastered across the back of low-rise velour track pants. Rhinestones were virtually everywhere. 

Celebrities are loving it too

Jenner isn’t the only celebrity who’s obsessed with bedazzling. Selena Gomez and Benny Blanco have embraced the trend too, opting for colorful gems all over their faces. Swedish pop star Zara Larsson, who’s beloved for her joyful, vibrant, tropical-meets-Y2K style, is often decked out in glittery gemstones on and off the stage. Larsson’s now-signature makeup is basically a dreamy ode to whimsymaxxing: The “Midnight Sun” singer regularly incorporates rhinestones into her colorful looks. 

No surface is off-limits 

When it comes to whimsymaxxing, every surface is up for grabs. Case in point? TikTokers who’ve embraced the maximalist trend have bedazzled just about every object you can think of — from Rhode peptide lip treatments and champagne bottles to Jollibee chicken buckets and Honda CR-Vs (yes, you read that correctly). 

TikTok creator Becca Green documented the process of bedazzling the entire exterior of her Honda CR-V, which she says used 198,000 rhinestones, took 1,200 hours and cost a whopping $10,000. 

‘Performative ‘whimsy’ is so boring’ 

While some people have gravitated toward bedazzling because of its rhythmic, soothing nature and its relative affordability, others are less keen to follow the trend. Some critics have called whimsymaxxing a wasteful microtrend that serves no purpose other than generating more landfill.

“Performative whimsy done for the sake of social media likes completely derails the concept of being whimsical in the first place,” content creator Sarah Magliocco wrote on TikTok. “And every time I've seen this rhinestone sticker trend … all I think about is how the stickers are just extra wasted chunks of discarded plastic being used as props. They are going straight in the bin after these photos are taken.” 

It’s also worth noting that while people may want to express themselves in unique ways, plastering colorful plastic rhinestones on everything could have the opposite effect. 

“I’m all for personal expression. Bedazzle your phone, your shoes, your entire refrigerator if it makes you happy,” Batal said. “As a millennial, we labeled it bedazzling. But now we have given it a new ‘-maxxing’ name, and suddenly [it’s presented] as a cultural movement. There’s also something ironic about a trend supposedly centered around individuality becoming incredibly copy-and-paste. Everyone is expressing their individuality in exactly the same way.”

The whimsymaxxing movement, Batal argued, is essentially the “completely normal behavior” of “decorating our belongings” repackaged in an enticing, almost status-driven way for Gen Z and Gen Alpha. Who knew rhinestones would be so coveted in 2026? 

“Gen Z and Gen Alpha have grown up with identity being extremely visual and extremely public. What you wear, what’s hanging off your bag, your phone case, your water bottle. All of these little objects become signals about who you are and what cultural group you belong to,” she said.  

Instagram creator Alyssa Forato argues that the problem isn’t the rhinestones, it’s the people bedazzling items “because the algorithm said so.” 

“Your $5 packet of gems may feel insignificant, but when you put it on a global scale of how many people are now buying into this trend, the waste is excessive,” Forato said. “I am not saying be a minimalist, nor am I a minimalist. But before you buy into the next whimsymaxxing trend, ask yourself, ‘Is this something you would actually do on an actual regular basis if this wasn’t trending?’”

Before Regan Hutsell became Miss America, she had to decide whether entering a pageant was worth the risk.

Hutsell, a professional dancer who has been open about recovering from an eating disorder, knew what it felt like to have her body scrutinized. Would competing for a crown simply give people another opportunity to judge it?

"I remember thinking, 'Do I want to fall in love with something that could potentially have one more element or avenue to where people might be looking at my body or scrutinizing it the way that dance did?'" Hutsell tells Yahoo two days after winning the Miss America 2027 title.

Ultimately, Hutsell decided fear would not make the choice for her. On Sept. 6, the 25-year-old Houston native became the 99th Miss America — and the first Miss Texas to win the national title in more than 50 years.

It was a remarkable conclusion to a pageant career that had barely begun, as this was only Hutsell's third competition. Before entering that world, she had already built a formidable résumé as a dancer: She became a Radio City Rockette at 18, then moved to England at 20 and joined the Birmingham Royal Ballet.

Although Hutsell was a pageant newcomer, the dream had been quietly lingering since childhood. At age 8, she spotted portraits of pageant winners while having her dance headshots taken.

"I remember thinking, 'I don't know what that is, but one day I want to be a part of it,'" she recalls.

She put that idea aside while pursuing dance. Then last year, watching Miss America from her couch, she wondered whether she might ever reach that stage herself. Once she decided to try, her biggest concern was whether the competition would be compatible with the recovery she had worked so hard to protect.

I remember thinking, 'Do I want to fall in love with something that could potentially have one more element or avenue to where people might be looking at my body or scrutinizing it the way that dance did?'

Hutsell said the Miss America Fit initiative's emphasis on a healthy and active lifestyle helped ease that fear. She also had to trust that her relationship with her body had fundamentally changed.

"I couldn't let the opportunity of that fear creeping in hinder what this potential journey could be," she says. Rather than viewing preparation as punishment, Hutsell began framing it as a privilege.

"Even training for the pageant, [I was] doing it from a place of, 'I get to do this. I get to honor, I get to celebrate my body. I get to stand onstage proud of something that I used to absolutely hate,'" she says. "It was a moment for me that made my recovery real."

That evolution became the foundation of Hutsell's community service initiative, "Your Body Is Your Home," which promotes physical and mental well-being and positive self-talk. When speaking with children, she carries a toolbox of objects that illustrate different strategies: A hammer represents shattering negative beliefs, while a measuring tape serves as a reminder to measure personal growth rather than compare oneself to others.

Hutsell's message of embracing herself also shaped another significant decision: She would compete wearing her natural curls.

Initially, she wondered whether she should straighten her hair or add extensions. She had straightened it on a whim several years earlier, only to discover that a section would no longer curl afterward.

"It freaked me out," she says. "I've worked so hard to get my beautiful curls to a point where they're doing their thing, and now I've damaged my hair."

She realized that repeatedly straightening it would cause more damage — and, more importantly, that her curls are part of what makes her who she is. 

"I feel and look more like myself when I have my curls, and I'm just going to have to own them," she says.

Hutsell became the first woman of color crowned Miss America while wearing her natural hair, according to the organization.

The history carries particular meaning for Hutsell, who says she was told as a child that her natural hair made her "look like a boy" or needed to be styled differently to be considered beautiful.

"I had to define that beauty for myself," she says.

While serving as Miss Texas, Hutsell experienced a moment that affirmed her choice. During a trip to Philadelphia with the Miss America class, a little girl stopped her on the street and told her, "Your hair is so beautiful."

"A moment like that made me realize this is all worth it," Hutsell says. "It's about having a little girl look at you on the street and see the fact that [she feels] like [she's] beautiful because you represent something that they can connect with."

"Now I sit here with the Miss America crown on my head, knowing that it's more than just a crown, but it's connection and inspiration for the next generation as well," she adds.

Hutsell is the 10th Black woman to hold the Miss America title. She hopes young girls who see her wearing the crown recognize more than her individual victory.

"It just further emphasizes that anybody in America can do this," she says. "It goes to show you that beauty is seen in so many different forms."

The moment also carried significance for Texas. The state had not produced a winner since Shirley Cothran was crowned in 1975, despite Miss Texas finishing as first runner-up in each of the previous three competitions.

Hutsell says the women who preceded her supported her, but she tried not to carry their results as pressure. Her parents taught her to let other people's stories inspire her "without feeling like the burden of responsibility."

When her own name was finally called, Hutsell thought about how quickly an improbable dream had materialized.

"There I was, sitting in the final two with an incredible Shelby Bordelon, Miss Louisiana, and then I hear my name being called," she says. "It was crazy … this [dream] has actually come true."

Now Hutsell wants her unconventional path to challenge another misconception: that a woman must spend her life preparing for pageants to belong on the Miss America stage.

"You don't have to have everything figured out to enter into it," she says. "You just have to be willing to say yes."

At least according to Christy Lee, who recently became engaged to Post Malone and is now the owner — or perhaps caretaker — of a 20-plus-carat oval natural diamond. In Vogue, Lee recalled that before proposing, Post asked her whether there was such a thing as a ring that was "too big," to which Lee said no. Well, of course. If your tattooed, 18-time Grammy-nominated, multi-hyphenate rapper-singer-producer of a boyfriend asks whether you would like a diamond visible from space, you don't ask him to exercise restraint.

One photo of that ring on her finger sent the internet into a spiral (me, a longtime Posty lover, included). Many were mesmerized by the stone, commenting, "Legendary," "Exquisite" and "What dreams are made of." Though there was another camp who weren't fans, calling the ring "tacky," "gaudy and hideous," and "overkill."

It used to be that the giant celebrity engagement ring operated according to a fairly simple equation: the bigger the diamond, the bigger the flex. Post's meteor of a stone, reportedly worth up to $2 million, still abides by that logic. 

But something strange happened as lab-grown diamonds have come onto the scene, making enormous stones available at a fraction of the cost. A 10-carat stunner on someone's hand no longer necessarily tells you what it once did. And that raises funny questions for celebrities still committed to the bigger-is-better school of engagement rings. 

Is bigger actually better in this day and age? And what does an absolutely enormous honker of a ring say about status, wealth and power if everyone — including those without Post's bank account — can have one? 

If big no longer automatically means expensive, how big do you have to go before everybody knows you mean it?

The big rock race

Celebrities have been playing the big-rock game for decades. Elizabeth Taylor famously wore the 33.19-carat Krupp Diamond given to her by Richard Burton, at a time when there was little ambiguity about what a diamond of that magnitude represented — glitz and glamour, even if not eternal love.

Today's celebrities are still carrying on the tradition, albeit in a very different diamond market. Soccer star Cristiano Ronaldo nearly broke the internet when he debuted the approximately 37-carat diamond ring he proposed to his now-wife Georgina Rodríguez with last year, pushing the limits of what can reasonably be attached to a human finger. And the nearly 30-carat stone Amazon founder Jeff Bezos gave Lauren Sánchez Bezos left people dizzy.

In their cases, the message is the same. Those rings are headline-generating gambits that attract attention and signal status. Nobody looks at Sánchez Bezos's finger and wonders whether the rock is real. We know the lifestyle. We know the bank account. The diamond is a natural fit.

But take the celebrity out of the equation and that same visual shorthand gets a lot murkier.

Lab-grown diamonds didn't enter the commercial jewelry market in significant quantities until the mid-2010s, according to the Gemological Institute of America (GIA). They aren't imitations like cubic zirconia or moissanite, as they have essentially the same chemical, physical and optical properties as natural diamonds. The key difference is their origin — natural diamonds form beneath the Earth over billions of years, while lab-grown stones are produced in a matter of weeks (hence the greater accessibility).

According to The Knot's 2026 Real Weddings Study, which surveyed more than 10,000 U.S. couples married in 2025, lab-grown diamonds accounted for 61% of engagement ring center stones purchased — a 239% increase since 2020. The average lab-grown stone was 1.9 carats, with couples spending an average of $4,300 on the ring.

"Ten years ago if you saw a 10 or 20-carat diamond, you could fairly safely assume there was significant value behind it," Megan Kothari, founder and designer of luxury jewelry brand AARYAH, tells Yahoo. "Today, the size of someone's diamond alone tells you almost nothing," because lab-grown diamonds have completely scrambled the visual math.

A 10-carat lab-grown diamond can sell for a few thousand dollars. A 10-carat natural diamond, depending on its characteristics, could cost as much as $500,000, Kothari says. 

Lab-grown diamonds are so ubiquitous and easy to acquire that there are live auctions on TikTok, where the price of manmade stones hover between $100 and $500. It's so easy, people are procuring diamonds "accidentally." 

"If I see a huge diamond now and the lifestyle doesn't match the size of the stone, I automatically assume it's lab-grown," says Kothari. The diamond used to tell us something about the person wearing it. Now, apparently, we need to know something about the person to understand the diamond.

One of those strategies is going full-blown maximalist signaling.Pinar Yildirim

If even just five and 10 carats don't necessarily scream extraordinary wealth anymore, what's a celebrity to do? Some of them have decided to go even bigger.  

That's right: Twenty-plus.

It might seem nonsensical or even borderline tacky to common folk but, according to Pinar Yildirim, a marketing professor at the Wharton School who studies consumer behavior, it actually makes sense.

For something to function as a status symbol, Yildirim says, it generally needs to be both recognizable and difficult to attain. And when a familiar status signal becomes easier for other people to replicate, there are a few ways to respond. "One of those strategies is going full-blown maximalist signaling," she tells Yahoo.

If someone else can approximate one version of your luxury item, you make the total display so extreme that they can't easily approximate yours. Suddenly, Post's diamond visible from space starts to feel almost logical. He isn't just doing big. He's doing big-big — pushing the flex into territory most people still can't follow.

But what if you don't want to go bigger?

There is another way to own something other people can't easily get. You can get harder to copy.

While Post, Ronaldo and Bezos are pushing diamonds toward their physical limits, Kothari is seeing another kind of flex emerge among her clients. It's not necessarily shrinking the stone — "Girls still want a five-carat diamond," she assures me — but making sure size isn't the only interesting thing about it.

"If someone is spending significant money on a natural diamond, they want the size, but they also want rarity, character and something that feels special," says Kothari.

When she first entered the industry, "it was really all rounds and ovals," that people desired. Now, clients are asking for elongated antique-style cushion cuts, true antique diamonds, long skinny ovals and stones with more color, from warmer browns and butter yellows to fancy yellows. They're also more willing to embrace unusual proportions and diamonds that aren't traditionally considered "perfect."

Taylor Swift's engagement ring from Travis Kelce is perhaps the most famous recent example. Her estimated eight-to-10-carat antique elongated cushion is still big by most any account, but its appeal goes beyond size. Jeweler Stephanie Gottlieb previously told Yahoo it offers "character you can't replicate." 

Zendaya's engagement ring from Tom Holland offers another version of the same idea. She debuted the stone, estimated to be around five carats, at the 2025 Golden Globe Awards. Rather than competing in the celebrity carat arms race, the ring stands out for its distinctive design elements: The cushion-cut diamond is set east-west with a Georgian button back.

Neither woman is exactly wearing a modest diamond. That's because the alternative to the mega-ring isn't necessarily small. It's specific.

Kothari says a one-carat natural pink diamond can be worth significantly more than a five-carat natural white diamond. The five-carat stone might get more attention across a restaurant, but the one-carat pink might make the jeweler sitting two tables over choke on her martini.

That's when I realized I had been evaluating Lee's enormous stone according to the practical requirements of my life, which is perhaps not the intended operating environment for double-digit carats.

"You can manufacture size," says Kothari. "You can't manufacture rarity."

For some people, being harder to spot is actually the point — it's the same philosophy undergirding quiet luxury. As people become more established in their status, the audience they're trying to impress can get smaller, according to Yildirim. "You're no longer trying to use signals that are recognizable by everyone, but recognizable by only a small group of people who really know things," she says. 

So, what does 20 carats actually prove?

I asked Kothari whether there is, in fact, a point at which a diamond becomes too big. I was thinking about Lee putting on a sweater, grocery shopping or even doing dishes.

"It really depends on your lifestyle," says Kothari. "If you're flying private, have security and live in circles where people are regularly wearing major jewelry, then big-big can absolutely work."

That's when I realized I had been evaluating Lee's enormous stone according to the practical requirements of my life, which is perhaps not the intended operating environment for double-digit carats. Lee —who's marrying a man with a $1.6 million diamond-fanged smile, mind you— doesn't need her engagement ring to be appropriate for subway transit. I do.

Maybe that's what the celebrity mega-ring still proves. Not simply that you can afford an enormous diamond, but that you occupy the kind of world where an enormous diamond makes sense. Lab-grown diamonds may have made looking wildly bejeweled more accessible, but they haven't made private planes, personal security and a lifestyle built for major jewelry any more attainable. 

"Honestly, if Post Malone is giving you a 20-plus-carat natural diamond, I think you wear the 20-plus-carat natural diamond," says Kothari.

Fair enough.

But Americans have always been enterprising, so enter: the weird side gig. Last year, the New York Times reported that the number of people in the U.S. with multiple full- or part-time jobs rose to over 8.9 million, the highest figure since the government began tracking the metric in 1994. Terms like "quiet cracking" and "polyworking" entered the cultural lexicon to describe young people who were becoming disillusioned with the corporate ladder and turning to multiple streams of income in order to keep up with their living expenses.  

This isn't your average babysitting, dog-walking side gig. It's a big, online world, and the hustles are getting more inventive. Whether it's an accountant flipping Pokémon cards, a mixologist doing private gardening or a project manager moonlighting as a gift-wrapper, you'd be surprised at the infinitely strange ways people are making a bit of extra cash. In this recurring feature, I'll be speaking to some of the young people who are getting creative with how they earn their money.

Phil, 37, works at a spirits distributor full-time as a mixologist. It’s a chill gig, they told me when we met up for coffee, with health insurance and a regular paycheck. They were hired for the job after their restaurant went underwater last year. It mostly involves working with businesses to develop drinks and pairings, and it pays them around $85,000 before bonuses or benefits. But life is expensive, and they have debt, which means they still have a side gig. 

Phil’s part-time hustle is certainly not something you’d spot on LinkedIn. They’re a gardener at a private corporation in Manhattan, a firm so top-secret that even the part-time plant keeper needs to sign a nondisclosure agreement about the nature of the company’s work (that’s why Phil has asked to remain anonymous). But they shared some of the details with me in our furtive in-person meeting.

Gardening is perhaps an overstatement of what Phil says he actually does on the 28th floor of a Manhattan high-rise. “I am mostly just sort of like, caretaking. There's not much for me to add because it's challenging conditions,” they said. “Lots of wind… We're mostly talking about juniper, cultivated wild grasses, just because that's what can take the conditions.”

Phil is asked to tend to the balcony garden once or twice per week. They mostly have to prune and weed, because sometimes, weeds do sprout up on the 28th floor of a concrete box in the middle of the biggest city in the country.

“We recently had a patch of mushrooms come out of nowhere, and I was like, wow, life finds a way,” they laughed. “It's this private lounge, built by a consulting company. I don't even know how Googleable they are. In fact, I do know that they’re not very [Googleable], because I did.”

Phil first got connected to the company as a bartender. A former colleague had worked with the company as a private mixologist before, and when Phil mentioned that their business was closing, recommended Phil for the job.

“So I started there just doing some of their events, you know, just like a bartending thing,” they said. “There were crazy guests right off the top, and I was just like, what is this place? I did that several times, and when spring was rolling around, I heard them talking about how their gardening company was wanting $1,000 a month to come and water. So I said I’d do it for my bartending rate, which is $100 per hour.”

A spirits expert who’s worked in the industry for over a decade, the gardening work is a change of pace for Phil. They had previously done some gardening for the restaurant, but had never been paid for this kind of work before. 

Making an extra $800 a month from relatively easy work is helping Phil pay down credit card debt, which they took out when their business was in trouble. “It was just, like, the general decline of my finances as the restaurant was going under, when I was still like, ‘this is how I'm gonna fix everything, instead of just making money elsewhere, I’m going to go into debt,’” they said. It’s also helping give them some sense of financial security while working in an industry that feels like it’s on the edge of a cliff. 

The alcohol industry is facing unprecedented headwinds, as consumption in the U.S. has plummeted to a new low, driven by a new interest in sobriety and wellness. Several major distilleries and distributors have filed for bankruptcy in the past couple of years, and major recognizable drink brands like Heineken and White Claw are now rolling out sober products to capture younger consumers, who are also drinking less.

Phil still bartends sporadically, although stable bartending jobs are much harder to find these days. “If you can get a good bartending job, it's famously one of the things that will financially let you stay in New York City if you get one,” they said. “It's definitely not like it used to be, where it's easy to find those gigs that’ll let you work two or three nights a week, and I’m putting money away. That doesn’t really exist anymore.” Phil fondly remembers the days when people spent freely on their nights out — and tipped in cash. 

I am more grindset than I’ve ever been. I just think, get a bigger number. Phil

For diminishing financial return, Phil felt like the hard nature of service work wasn’t worth it anymore. “You're not living your own life, you're out often, the hours are insane,” they said. “I only worked one day this week, but I didn't do anything until 4 p.m., because that's when I was gonna go in. And then I worked till 5 in the morning and woke up at 2 p.m., and then that day was gone, too. So it was like, yeah, you only worked one day, but kind of gave two days of your life to it.”

Meanwhile, living expenses have also shot up for Phil, just like everyone else. Over the course of a decade, their rent has increased by a thousand dollars, while they struggle to keep up with the rising cost of everything from groceries to gas to the price of their own drinks. 

“I am more grindset than I’ve ever been,” they said. “I just think, get a bigger number. Go get another five grand a year doing this easy thing. A number of things change by having $5,000 more a year. Dollars don't mean as much anymore. If you had told me, I don't know, five years ago, that I could have a $100 an hour rate, I would have been like, oh my God, that's great. That's incredible. 
And now, that's enough to get me out of bed.”

Phil’s entire mindset toward money has changed entirely over the last few years, given the difficulties they’ve faced. Traditional paths to wealth feel less secure than ever, while new money seems to be exploding all around, with people making it big on social media or with alternative investments.

“Things just shifted so much in a short course of time,” they said. “People don't really believe in a job that carries into retirement anymore. We have seen so many examples of someone becoming an influencer and doing sponcon, or someone nailing their Kalshi bet, or obviously, NFTs and crypto, so many millionaires got into it. Like, work's not translated to the dollar, and there's no clear relationship anymore.”

Still, Phil is keeping their salaried job since it guarantees them some level of assurance. They said it’s a complicated adjustment, switching from running their own business, where more customers and friendly chats directly equaled more money to a full-time job that’s a 9 to 5 with a consistent paycheck, but the potential earning ceiling is far more concrete. They hold no illusions that they can safely climb the career ladder into financial security anymore.

“If I want more money, I have to go out and get it,” they said.

The deceased tween catalog behemoth Delia's has been revived for a new capsule collection at Target, featuring plaid pants, striped cardigans and butterfly-print skirts that would look at home on the cover of an Olsen twins VHS. Gen Z celebs like Hailey Bieber and Emma Chamberlain are bringing back mall brands like Gap and J. Crew, respectively, with the re-release of low-rise baggy jeans and roll-neck sweaters. Costco is sending both millennial and Gen Z consumers into a frenzy by selling Esprit sweatshirts and K-Swiss sneakers. Meanwhile, at thrift stores, teens are hunting down '90s heritage labels like Victoria's Secret, Juicy Couture and Coach. 

Nostalgia, it turns out, is big business. An opinion poll conducted in June by the consumer analytics platform CivicScience found that 68% of U.S. adults now say nostalgia factors at least "a little" into their purchasing. When you shave that audience down to 18-29-year-olds, a full 26% of them say nostalgia impacts their purchases "a lot."

Suddenly, the brands and silhouettes millennials and Gen X consumers once loved but ultimately banished to the donation bin are being revived by a younger generation drunk on nostalgia and looking to the past for sartorial inspiration — and comfort. Another survey from the audience research company GWI found that 55.8% of consumers who have made nostalgic purchases did so because it feels "comforting or familiar." 

"When the word 'nostalgia' was first used, it was to describe a kind of sickness," says Chris Beer, a data journalist at GWI. "That's where the word comes from. But for people and consumers, they associate it with positive emotions, happiness and comfort, being and belonging." In a world that feels increasingly uncertain and chaotic, soon to be inherited by a generation overwhelmed by unending global crises, it's no surprise that we'd seek comfort wherever we can get it — particularly when it's as easy as the click of a button.

"I do think that with the amount of social disruption there's been in the last few years, especially with the pandemic, the need for comfort has increased," Beer says. "There's a need for community. A need for stability is also a phrase that would come to mind for me."

'90s nostalgia is evident in recent food trends (who would have thought the Chili's triple dipper would go viral in late 2025?) and beauty product picks (Clinique's black honey lipstick is a cross-generational fave). It's even infiltrated parenting styles, where young parents brand motherhood aesthetics like "butter mom" and romanticize '90s childhood touchstones like Arthur and Discovery Zone. Some Gen Z and millennial parents are dressing their babies in vintage grails they themselves wore as kids.

Nostalgia for the '90s and early 2000s is a potent shopping elixir for millennials, who yearn for the simpler times of their childhoods, but also for Gen Z consumers, many of whom feel "borrowed nostalgia" for a time before they were even born. "It's entirely possible to be nostalgic for a period you didn't live through," Beer points out. And while '90s nostalgia is partly due to the inevitable marching of time (tick, tick, tick), it's also symbolic of a larger cultural shift marked by the dawning of the internet. 

"I think with Gen Z, part of it comes down to being a sort of post-monoculture generation," says Beer. "The '90s is sort of the last bastion of mass media and mass culture, before people's media consumption fragmented into more individual media diets that are being refined through algorithms. So those periods exist as cultural touchpoints that could be recognized at large in a way that might not exist now, and therefore increase the demand for nostalgia because those cultural touchstones are so visible."

That's why the Gen Z and millennial enthusiasm for revived cult favorites is so palpable, and often goes viral on social media. When Hailey Bieber's denim Gap collab dropped last month, it sold out in minutes; when more pairs were restocked a few days later, they also sold out almost instantly. And on TikTok, a video of a teen girl finding 2007 foldover pants from Pink Victoria's Secret at Goodwill received more than 821,000 views. "I'M WRITHING IN JEALOUSY," one user commented.

Of course, not everyone sees the nostalgia boom as harmless comfort-seeking. Some critics see recycled reboots as uninspired, a symptom of marketers' inability to come up with fresh ideas. As former Interbrand CMO Jeff Swystun wrote on Medium in 2023, "To be blunt, it's lazy and brands do not anticipate the risk. The history is poorly interpreted and the marketing a hollow homage that does little to contribute to sustained and meaningful branding. Such short-lived tributes are vacuous memory teases."

But while Gen Z seems less interested in recycled IP in industries like Hollywood (let's be real, The Devil Wears Prada 2 was made entirely for millennials), when it comes to fashion, they're much more game. Take the relatively recent rise of thrift shopping as a young person's hobby. Secondhand apparel is now a $56 billion market, doubling from 2020 to 2025, with 62% of Gen Z shoppers saying they thrifted in 2025. "Thrift shopping is turning into a treasure hunt for never-worn, hard-to-find archival pieces that slipped through the cracks — unsold inventory, old production runs and pristine leftovers from the '90s and early 2000s that feel both rare and brand-new," reads a recent Pinterest piece on a trend it dubbed the "secondhand sidequest."

Longtime thrift shopper Julia Reeves has built a growing community on TikTok and Instagram showcasing her vintage finds. The 32-year-old content creator, who sits firmly on the cusp between Gen Z and millennials, said she's seeing more and more young people getting interested in thrifting, and particularly seeking out '90s and 2000s brands. 

"I usually go for brands like J. Crew, Ralph Lauren, Tommy Hilfiger, Nautica — those kind of like '90s brands when they were really peaking," she says. "I posted a video the other day, and there was a Delia's shirt in the video, and I was so surprised how many people were like, 'Oh my God, what a relic! It's so cool to see a real, authentic one in the wild.' So those are definitely, like, standing out to me more."

For many young consumers, Reeves says thrifting helps them access a time period they never got to live through, but wish they did. (It's also likely a symptom of economic anxiety; buying a Coach bag secondhand is a lot cheaper than buying one new.)

"Millennials used to be dropped off at the mall and be able to walk around and buy these clothes in that time period," she says. "And especially with Gen Z, I feel like they kind of didn't really get to have that as much. Now they're finally like, 'Oh well, I have big girl money and if I can find something that's truly from that time period, it's like I get to go back and have that experience that I didn't really get to have.'"

But while "borrowed nostalgia" may be a major 2026 marketing trend, for some Gen Z shoppers, it's less about the brand's heritage and more about what a brand is doing now. 

"It doesn't matter to me that it's an older brand," Anna Z., a 14-year-old high school freshman from Pennsylvania, tells me about Gap. "I like their jeans and tops." She adds that the retailer's sizing works for teens like her who are growing out of the kids' section but aren't yet adults. Like two of my sisters, who are 14 and 16, Anna says she gets most of her clothes from the mall, from older stores like Gap and Abercrombie & Fitch as well as newer mall staples like Altar'd State and Edikted. And she's not alone: Traffic to shopping malls is up, and Gen Z is buying the vast majority of their products in person, as opposed to online.

If everything '90s and '00s is cool again, who's to say other areas of life couldn't see a similar shift toward nostalgia?

"I remember when the '90s lip came back with the Kylie lip kit," Reeves says. "And then it kind of went to '90s clothing. I feel like it's just this general lifestyle desire of romanticizing this pre-tainted world."

"It's almost like the next thing is going to be groceries," she adds. "We're no longer going to go to Butterfield Market. We're going to go to the standard grocery store, acting like that's so novel, but it's really just what our parents were doing the whole time."

Back in March, Starbucks announced that it was switching up its chai latte recipe. Instead of using its original chai concentrate, a sweetened variety that boasted a bold tea flavor with notes of cinnamon, clove, ginger and cardamom, the company said it was moving to a less sweet chai base. 

The new “premium chai” base is made with a blend that contains 2 grams of sugar from honey, Starbucks says, allowing customers to have “more control over their preferred sweetness level.” Those who want it sweeter can add more pumps of classic syrup. They can also raise the spice intensity by adding more pumps of chai, or “dial up the spicy notes” by swapping out the classic for vanilla syrup. The drink is “also delicious” without any added sweetener, the company said. 

But some chai-loving customers immediately clocked the difference in taste (they hated it), even speaking to the Wall Street Journal about their annoyance over the so-called “Great Chai Incident of 2026.” The backlash has been ongoing: Since March, petitions have popped up calling for Starbucks to revert to the original recipe. So, too, have a number of angry social media posts, many of which involve customers who say they attempted to contact Starbucks’ corporate offices to beg for the original recipe back. 

“It truly is awful,” one Redditor wrote of the new chai in March. “Tastes like dishwater. I heard that getting vanilla instead of classic helps, but that's $0.80 more each time.” (That user is right: While classic syrup or extra pumps of chai are free, adding or substituting flavored syrups like vanilla costs an extra 80 cents.)

In April, another Redditor wrote, “Thought I was losing my mind or some new barista was making it wrong. It is seriously disgusting. Will never order it again until it's reverted. Starbucks used to have the best chai. I took one sip this morning and poured the rest of my venti down the drain.”

A spokesperson for Starbucks told Yahoo that the backlash isn’t the whole story. 

“The vast majority of customers who have tried our new premium chai say they would buy it again and, in fact, one of our chai beverages was a top seller with last week’s fall launch,” they said. 

Why some companies change their formulas even when customers are happy

Eric Davis is the vice president of food and beverage at MorganMyers, a strategic communications and PR agency that focuses on food and agriculture marketing. Citing its recent Food & Flavor Trends Report, he told Yahoo that 52% of consumers say they’re drawn to flavors that are “familiar with a twist” and 68% say sweet and indulgent flavors excite them most. 

“So Starbucks seems to be making a move to capture those consumers but also give them choice on just how indulgent they want to be,” he said. 

Diego Mena, food scientist at Obscure Distillery in Los Angeles, told Yahoo that “while there are several reasons as to why reformulation might become a priority, the most common by far is cost.”

Reformulation, however, can be a "considerable challenge," he said.

“Even small changes in a formula can have dramatic impacts on how people perceive flavor and texture,” he said. “This is compounded by the nature of most commercial chai concentrates, which use rather distinctive spices — whose prices can fluctuate often — to give their desired effects.”

How customers are trying to recreate the old chai

For those who want to try to replicate that old Starbucks chai, some Redditors have suggested workarounds — or should we call them customizations, as Starbucks intended? 

One wrote, “Try an extra pump of chai, no classic syrup instead do half cinnamon dolce half vanilla. After endless experimenting that is the closest I have gotten. One pump brown sugar even better, if you like it sweet.”

Another recommended, “In a venti, do 8 pumps chai, 4 pumps vanilla, and a dash of cinnamon powder. No classic.” 

But if you want to skip a Starbucks order entirely, one person suggested making chai at home. “I know it’s not going to Starbucks, but the Tazo Chai Concentrate is very similar to the old recipe. All you need is that and milk! It's much cheaper than going to Starbucks too.” 

For two weeks every year, the notoriously ritzy tennis tournament attracts fans, celebrities and bougie vibe enthusiasts, who navigate long lines to the USTA Billie Jean King National Tennis Center in Queens, N.Y., to watch matches and be seen doing so. 

It's got all the trappings of content creator heaven: Viral food and drinks to taste test, limited-edition merchandise to purchase, stars to rub elbows with, fashion trends to spot and iconic imagery that instantly makes social media posts recognizable. As some have pointed out, it's inherently a bit performative. 

"Tennis has always married sport with spectacle, and fashion, celebrity and luxury are genuinely part of the Open's DNA," Soneca Guadara, a longtime U.S. Open attendee and style consultant, told Yahoo. " From a marketing standpoint, it makes perfect sense that creators want to be there." 

So why is the presence of influencers a problem at all? It's more than just disdain for the privileged and wealthy, which influencers often face at other luxury events. This year, it's what some view as bad behavior during matches that's drawing ire. 

Traditionally, it's proper etiquette at tennis matches to be quiet and respectful during play — more so than at other sporting events, like basketball or football games — and that decorum is typically enforced by the chair umpire. 

But an Instagram post that went viral this week shows a woman posing for photos with a selfie light on during Naomi Osaka's first-round match against Anastasia Zakharova. Later in the video, a gaggle of attendees is seen filming content in a suite. Another video from a different angle caught the same group, with a fan seated below them appearing disgruntled.

At one point, the chair umpire had to pause the match, saying, "Guys, please, in the suite behind me … please take your seat." It's unclear whether it was directed at the same group.  

Commenters in those social media posts weren't pleased to see content creators disrespecting the game. "Between influencers, corporate wining and dining, and bots, ticket prices are sky high and yet empty seats abound," one wrote. 

"This is extremely sad and disappointing because there are soooo many true tennis fans that would kill to have this experience to go to the US open & tix are getting so [expensive]," another said. 

After the match, Osaka said that while influencers can help "make the sport of tennis popular," the distractions "have to be managed a lot better." 

"If you come to a sporting event, you have to respect the sport," she added.

American tennis stars Jessica Pegula and Coco Gauff also chimed in on the controversy, with Pegula saying that influencer behavior has "gotten a little maybe too much" this year and Gauff noting that camera flashes can be distracting. 

That group of influencers wasn't the only one drawing attention away from tennis, either. Another video shows a group of men showing off their outfits, appearing to prioritize caviar chicken nuggets and fashion over the sport. And let's not forget how many people have complained that the stadium is just loud in general now, abandoning the quiet spectatorship traditionally associated with tennis. As one TikToker suggested, some creators seem more focused on getting content than enjoying the experience. 

Bad etiquette should be an easy fix. The brands that bring influencers along could just fill them in on the nuances of tennis culture. "If you're being invited to [a] red carpet, you wouldn't show up in jeans," Gauff said. It would also help prevent bad publicity for the brands, which are likely being tagged in posts by the influencers they invited to their suites.

In the wake of the influencer hubbub at the U.S. Open, Press Association reported that Wimbledon, the prestigious London-based Grand Slam tournament, will not have any accreditation category for influencers or content creators next summer. Security will confiscate items that could be used to disrupt matches, so chances are we won't be seeing any ring lights.

I can't help but notice that, even if influencers behaved with perfect politeness at the U.S. Open, some people would still openly resent them. I saw the same comment echoed on multiple posts: "Influencers ruin everything." 

They're marketers, so content creation is their job. But psychologist Sal Raichbach told Yahoo that audiences "disconnect" when they're obviously being sold something. On top of that, the access given to influencers is not something many fans can afford these days.

"Humans typically react very differently to things we believe were offered freely, versus things we assume were designed to influence us or demonstrate status," he said.

It doesn't help that influencers tend to post the same content at the U.S. Open — outfit photos in front of the courts, and tours of spaces that most people may never be able to access. They're all grabbing a Honey Deuce, the event's signature drink, or a $38 French Dip sandwich from Salt Hank's. 

Jennifer Neeley, a strategic marketing adviser and instructor in digital marketing and influencer marketing at UC San Diego, told Yahoo that influencer fatigue really kicks in "when creator access starts to feel more visible than the event itself." 

It shines a spotlight on just how many of them are not actually there for tennis, she said. 

The problem, Neeley explained, is not the influencers; it's the "promotional sameness." The same pageantry and tradition that make the tennis tournament charming is the downfall of the influencers who promote it, and the solution might be to offer a new point of view instead of repeating the same old content. 

And maybe studying up on tennis before attending one of the sport's biggest events will help too. 

It's 2025 and Karli Johnn is behind the counter at the Jellycat Diner, talking into a plush hot dog — like it's a phone — while a pretzel dangles from her apron.

The teal and white, retro diner inside New York City's iconic FAO Schwarz toy store is cookin'. Customers wait in a snaking line, studying the Amuseables "food" menu before their turn at the counter. Then they order and watch as a pizza slice or waffle plush gets "cooked" in a frying pan atop a glowing toy burner before being boxed up and placed in a to-go bag.

The whole to-do — very much a phones-out affair — lasts about 10 minutes or less, if you're lucky enough to snag a reservation. Not to mention having $75, which is the starting price for such a service.

My daughter, then 10, gets pulled into the act. She's handed the pan and encouraged to flip her plush pancake higher and higher. She's a very happy customer.

Nearby, another employee — who we're told is "TikTok famous," just from her job there — handed a customer a bottle of syrup, threw her head and upper body back on the counter and let the customer pretend to pour syrup straight into her mouth. 

That's the point: At the Jellycat Diner, the plushy is a small part of what customers are buying. The rest is a performance, one that some families travel hundreds of miles and spend thousands of dollars to see.

And NYC isn't the only place the brand — founded in London in 1999 and known for its supersoft plush toys — has turned buying a toy into a moment. They have experiences in cities around the world, each built around its own playful food or retail concept.

Yahoo

And behind those few minutes of theatrics are workers like Johnn, an actor, who says the job is "basically 100% improv": reading customers, riffing on the fly and keeping the energy high as the same plush pancakes cycle through the kitchen over and over.

The retail worker is really the star of the show

Johnn, who worked at the diner in 2025 while completing her degree at NYU's Tisch School of the Arts, was a fan of Jellycat going in, but what caught her attention was the performance element. 

The job sounded "silly," "fun" and "right up my alley," she says.

Yahoo

Even the application process hinted at what they were hiring for. Applicants could submit an optional 30-second video explaining why they wanted the job. Johnn did, and says she was later told the company loved it because the role was "all about personality."

According to Johnn, most of the people working at the Jellycat Diner were performers in one way or another. There were certain required steps — how the Jellycat was boxed, bagged and presented — but employees were encouraged to "let your creativity shine."

Employees riffed off one another, engaging in what Johnn describes as a "friendly competition" to come up with new quips and build on one another's banter. They might essentially be doing the same routine over and over — during a "cooking hour," she'd cook up about 20 Jellycats — but the goal was to make each one feel fresh and spontaneous. (Employees also spend shifts running the register and managing the line.)

yahoo

Customers frequently film the interactions, which she estimates lasted about three minutes per toy. Sometimes, Johnn says, she'd surface in TikTok videos. But that was part of the job: putting on a performance that felt special to the person in front of her.

Customers fly to NYC for 10 minutes at the counter

Tiffany Whitefield flew from Oklahoma to New York City for the experience earlier this year.

Her teen daughter is a diehard Jellycat fan. Once she learned about the diner, she wanted to go badly enough that Whitefield first secured a reservation, then booked flights around it.

"We flew there just to go to the Jellycat Diner!" Whitefield tells Yahoo.

Getting the reservation was difficult, with slots released in limited batches. The trip was pricey: roughly $4,000 total. The pancake Jellycat itself cost about $75.

Whitefield admits there was a moment when she thought the whole thing was "absolutely crazy," but says she wanted her daughter to have the experience. And she did — see how she handled having pancakes playfully tossed at her.

Looking back, it's the staff that stands out most.

"My favorite part was the interactions with the employees," she says. "I swear [they] are like actors and actresses. They were so funny and … interactive. It was definitely worth it."

Yahoo

Would she do it again?

"Yes!"

‘A masterclass in acting’ 

Johnn, who now works on the Off-Broadway immersive production Masquerade, says she came to think of customers as her "scene partners." 

Greeting each group, she'd ask herself, "What kinds of jokes can I make? What kind of energy are they looking for?" Some wanted big theatrics. Others mainly wanted the video, toy and to move on — after all, FAO Schwarz is massive with the famed piano, beauty makeovers and a make-your-own Funko Pop! station. 

Yahoo

Sizing up group after group felt like "a masterclass in acting," she says. And she had to be "on" regardless of how she was feeling. After all, she was a college student enjoying NYC nightlife.

"Some days, you're going in tired and you're walking into the most stimulating environment in the world," she says. What helped was the atmosphere itself: "There was so much joy in the store."

She also kept in mind what customers like Whitefield had gone through in order to get there. "It was like, OK, I want to give them a fun time," she says.

For all that performing, it was still a retail job. Johnn earned $21 an hour, a rate she considered "pretty good." Tips weren't part of the setup, though customers occasionally slipped some cash to employees.

The harder moments came when the performance gave way to customer service. Families sometimes showed up without realizing reservations had to be booked in advance, and telling them — and their tearful kids — they couldn't participate could be a lot.

"People would get very upset," she says. 

The job also gave Johnn a front-row seat to just how much people were willing to spend. She remembers one child getting "six stuffed animals at $70 a pop." 

From her perspective, however, it was more about parents spending to create an experience for their kids, something she found "sweet to see."

It's not just for kids

Johnn says one thing that surprised her was seeing older customers visit the counter — "just as many adults coming in as kids," she says. "In fact, maybe more." 

Chandra Dills was one of them.

The teacher put the diner on the itinerary for her 40th birthday trip to New York City with her husband, without her kids in tow.

"I have always loved Jellycats, and this was one of my bucket list items for our trip," she says. 

About a month before the trip, Dills logged on the day reservations were released and repeatedly refreshed the page until she landed the date and time she wanted.

At the store, she ultimately spent $140 on two plushies: the hamburger and an exclusive milkshake. She also had a laugh at her husband, who misunderstood the outing and thought  their reservation was to eat actual food.

Dills also said the employees were a big part of what made it feel like more than a shopping trip.

"They were all extremely energetic and stayed in character the entire time," she says.

But her visit also came with a reality check: Despite having a reservation, she says she waited about an hour past her scheduled time and watched VIP customers bypass the line.

She's glad she did it. But unlike Whitefield, she wouldn't necessarily go again.

"Although I loved the experience, I wouldn't pay for it again unless it was for one of my kids," she says.

As for me, I apparently fall into the repeat-customer camp. After our successful pancake procurement, I've already booked another reservation for when my niece visits from Australia.

By the time we go back, the diner will look different. The FAO Schwarz location has just undergone a big renovation, with a refreshed experience and a new menu. 

We definitely don't need another stuffed pancake. But that's not really what it's about. The stuffy is the take-home, but the performance — and memory of going with family — is what makes it one of a kind.

Textured hair. Fringe in front. Clean, closely cropped edges. No sideburns. 

Something is happening with Gen Alpha boys' hair. The names — and the cuts themselves — vary, but the overall look is similar.

"I hear a lot of 'low taper,' 'blowout taper,' 'textured fringe' and 'burst fade,'" Nashville barber Edgar Hernandez tells Yahoo. "They're extremely popular, especially with younger clients."

The terminology can get confusing fast. Austin barber Jaxon5K wrote on Instagram that the "broccoli head" is the most popular cut for kids heading back to school, then got more specific: Instead of the "usual low taper," he gave one customer a "low fade textured fringe."

In other words, broccoli — or broccolini, given these kids' ages — may describe the vibe. The precise cut is another matter. Hernandez says boys roughly 8 to 14 years old are generally after the same thing: keeping length and texture on top and the sides clean. 

"Kids still want curls, volume and texture on top, but now they're combining that with clean low tapers and blowout tapers," Hernandez says.

For some boys, that even means getting a perm.

"Perms are also part of it for some kids with straighter hair," Hernandez says. "Others already have the natural texture and just need the right haircut and styling."

You don't have to spend long scrolling TikTok to see what he means — though I did, watching somewhere around 100 hair reels. Along the way, I learned that boys this age care a lot about their hair, and TikTok is helping shape what they get.

TikTok is the new salon stylebook

Hernandez is part of a booming barber culture on social media. As @EdgarBlessYou, he has a combined 1.2 million followers on TikTok and Instagram, where he films clients getting their cuts, talks to them about the looks they're hoping to achieve and posts their transformations.

And I get why these videos have an audience. I could watch the transformations for hours — the shaggy before, the meticulous cut and styling, the sideburns disappearing, then the big reveal. (Some barbers, like Hernandez and the man behind the Akira Cutz account, add magnetic stud earrings to their tween clients' "after" poses for extra flair.)

"Sometimes they don't even know the name of the haircut," he says. "They just show me the video and say, 'I want this.' The phone has basically become the new haircut catalog."

Social media isn't the only influence. Hernandez says friends, athletes (see: sideburn-less World Cup stars), musicians and influencers also shape what boys ask for. But he has watched low tapers and blowout tapers become more popular over the last couple of years as short-form video has grown.

In his videos, Hernandez also asks clients how they found him. Most say online, either themselves or through a parent. Some have traveled hours to his Nashville shop.

The reviews tell the same story. One parent wrote on Booksy that the family traveled three hours for Hernandez to cut her 8-year-old's hair. Another said her 9-year-old chose Hernandez, telling her he wanted "that guy from TikTok."

The haircut isn't just inspired by social media. It becomes social media, with the boys starring in the same kinds of transformation videos that brought many of them to Hernandez in the first place.

These makeovers typically cost more than the basic kiddie cuts served up with a balloon and lollipop. Hernandez's cuts start at $105 and go to $150 for a full transformation. He's not alone in commanding those prices. Austin barber Jaxon5K summed it up: "These cuts ain't cheap." 

Boys are into their hair — and then some

This summer, Sport Clips commissioned Atomik Research to survey 1,000 parents of boys ages 11 to 17 and found that the most desired back-to-school hairstyle was a tapered fade, chosen by 30% of respondents.

"They're exposed to so much content that they already know what they like and how they want to look," Hernandez says.

That interest extends beyond their haircut. In the same survey, 84% of parents said their sons care more about their appearance by the time they reach middle or high school. 

Tween beauty has largely been a girls' story. We hear about Sephora haulsand elaborate skin care routines. All the while, boys have been building a beauty culture of their own.

Business of Fashion beauty correspondent Liz Flora recently reported on Gen Alpha boys' growing interest in beauty and grooming. 

Los Angeles hairstylist Stephen Pierce told her that after giving one tween a low taper with a textured fringe, the boy's friends liked it so much that they started booking appointments. According to Pierce, his younger clientele is especially brand-conscious, with some bringing their own hair products that they found on — you guessed it — TikTok.

"Hairstyle trends have always changed with teen and tween boys, but TikTok hair videos have really helped them embrace beauty tutorial content in a way that we haven't seen before," Flora tells Yahoo. 

While the early beauty YouTube boom centered heavily on makeup tutorials, she says, short-form videos of boys' hairstyling have "gained a ton of traction."

Both social media and real-life peer influence matter, Flora says. TikTok may influence what hair products they buy, while friend recommendations can help them find their favorite hairstylist.

The vocabulary around boys' appearance is also changing.

"A lot of looksmaxxing lingo has made its way into the mainstream," Flora says, noting that one hairstylist frequently heard tween boys talking about "texture maxxing" and "hair maxxing."

At the same time, she says the more toxic looksmaxxing influencers are increasingly being mocked, helping make them "uncool" among young people.

For all the terminology, the online influence and "hair maxxing," there's still something very familiar happening: Kids want to look cool, and parents are paying for it.

And then there's the upkeep. Depending on the type of fade or taper, keeping it sharp may mean a touch-up every two to four weeks.

The precision isn't always obvious to parents. Moms have joked online about spending all that time and money on their sons' hair only to have them come home looking — at least to Mom — almost exactly the same.

The boys, of course, know the difference.

The list goes on. But is this rash of viral gatherings in major metropolitan areas a sign that the masses are feeling more whimsical these days, or that human interaction is becoming more superficial, manufactured to feed an algorithm? 

Adam Aleksic, a linguist and author of Algospeak: How Social Media Is Transforming the Future of Language, posed a theory on TikTok.

"People don't host real public gatherings anymore; they host 'eventslop,' where the main purpose of the event is to generate algorithmic engagement above all else," Aleksic, who goes by etymologynerd on TikTok, said in the video.

Aleksic noted that these events have largely been organized by influencers and suggested they were designed to be filmed "less to create social connections, and more to serve as a free laugh track for whatever crazy stunt is currently happening." They also rely on trending buzzwords, like "aura" and "Wasian," he said, meaning they were "very likely orchestrated for algorithmic momentum." 

Viral events are nothing new — I vividly remember receiving dozens of invites to bizarre gatherings on Facebook in the 2000s and 2010s, like pillow fight flash mobs and a plot to storm Area 51 — but there's no denying that they feel more common and social media-friendly now. 

In this era of AI dominance, "slop" became a slang term for low-quality content created by the technology, but has since broadened to describe anything lazily produced. Aleksic said that while these events are probably plenty of fun, they're still "degraded versions of what they could have been" because the organizer's goal is to extract views from the public's desire for community. 

One gathering that Aleksic cited as an example of eventslop is the 2024 Timothée Chalamet lookalike contest, which was followed by many other copycat contests, including one for the HeatedRivalry cast and another for New York City Mayor Zohran Mamdani. 

Content creator Anthony Po was responsible for starting the trend and has a knack for making events go viral. (Remember when a masked guy ate a jar of cheeseballs in front of a crowd? That was him.) 

Po told the Hollywood Reporter in 2024 that for the Chalamet lookalike contest, he considered, "What would be fun? What would get people talking?" 

"Wholesome fun things that are free for people to gawk at and tell their grandkids about," he said, answering his own question. 

Going viral certainly appeared to be the point. Po said he spent more than $4,000 on the event, flew in a judge and hired production assistants. He was also expecting a crowd and had a hunch that the real Chalamet could show up, but the chaos was a happy surprise. It's likely the contest wouldn't have gone viral if it weren't zeitgeisty and fun. Whimsy was integral to its success.

Gael Aitor, who organizes play-focused events for the social club Grownkid — like a "fight your evil situationship" rave in Los Angeles — argues that young people actually crave eventslop.

"Youth no longer want to be just consumers of content but rather part of the creation process itself, going offline to have a reason to enjoy the online again," he wrote in a February post on Grownkid's Substack. "With slop events, both sides win. Creators get a steady stream of moments to turn into long-form content and spread through clips, and attendees get to help create it while connecting with their communities."

People crave community. The loneliness epidemic among Gen Zers has been widely covered, as has the dwindling number of third spaces where people can gather. We might be more connected to each other and our interests thanks to social media, but in-person interactions still offer something uniquely valuable. 

If lookalike contests and aura battles feel too inauthentic for your taste, there are plenty of other quirky gatherings where you'll find community. Axios reported that there's been an increase in people gathering around shared hobbies like mahjong and silent reading. And according to Eventbrite, there's also been an increase in "soft socializing," where people get together to make connections naturally, without necessarily having the goal of networking. Some concerts have banned phones, encouraging attendees to live in the moment. 

What viral events and phone-free ones have in common is this: People know what they're getting into when they go. When attending something you found on social media that seems buzzy and of-the-moment, it's pretty obvious that it'll involve creating content. But offline soirees are still possible too. Consider the fact that we still don't know what Taylor Swift's wedding dress looks like. 

Therapist Lynn Zakeri told Yahoo that the rise of eventslop might not be such a bad thing. Attending often requires bravery and social interaction.

"Look at it like this: You got out of the house, made eye contact with someone and made a new friend," she said. "If you want to be there as a hater, go do it! Take a risk. Do whatever you want to do." 

Dressing up, going somewhere and mingling with others are all part of joining a community, and the end goal of going viral doesn't necessarily diminish that.  

It's time for another installment of Trust Me, I Know Baking! For this final edition (talk about bittersweet!), I, a professional baker, am wrapping things up on a high note. I'll be dishing about after-school treats, prepping fall pies and my newest favorite YouTube channel.

Here's the rundown: 🧁 a fun take on a no-bake classic, 🔓 my trick for rolling out dough with less mess and 📱 the baking-meets-ASMR videos that will make you feel all warm and fuzzy.

Ah, parting is such sweet sorrow (but let's focus on the sweet!).

🧁 Bake it

I can't think of a single instance when I would turn down a rice cereal treat. The chewiness of the sweet marshmallow, the crispy rice pieces — it's an irresistible combination that makes for a simple, stellar after-school (or, after-work) snack. While I'm a fan of even the most traditional recipes involving puffed rice cereal, marshmallows and butter, this is how I zhuzh things up to make these no-bake wonders even more crave-worthy.

• Brown butter: First, I don't simply melt my butter; I brown it. Browning butter leaves you with toasty milk solids that give the final flavor more depth, and the process couldn't be easier. Just melt your butter in a pot over the stove as you normally would, but once it's melted, leave it on the heat until it gets foamy, stirring regularly. Eventually, you'll see small brown bits appear on the bottom of the pan — those are those delectable morsels I was talking about. You'll want to take your pan off the heat before those bits go from brown to black, as they can burn very quickly (and no one wants bitter rice cereal treats). From there, use your melted butter as you otherwise would in the recipe — once you try this method, you'll never go back.

• Peanut butter: As a New Englander, I have a soft spot for anything resembling a fluffernutter sandwich. (That's peanut butter and marshmallow fluff, in case you're wondering.) Rice cereal treats are the perfect canvas for fluffernutter creations, since they already contain marshmallows. To achieve fluffernutter glory, I'll stir a big scoop of creamy peanut butter into my melted butter/marshmallow mixture before adding the cereal. It's divine.

• Fancy fluff: You can stop there, but if you want to get a little fancy, you can adorn your rice cereal treats with some marshmallow fluff, then toast it with a culinary blow torch. (One of the most exciting kitchen tools there is, if you ask me.) It'll up the fluffernutter factor even more, while nodding to s'mores without the need for a campfire.

Britt Ross/Yahoo

🔓 Hack it

I'll be honest — there was a time when I avoided making pies at all costs. Not because I don't enjoy eating them; they're delicious! But the thought of making a mess of my counter while rolling out dough for the crust just didn't appeal to me. The same went for cookie dough that needed to be rolled out. Scoop-and-bake only, please!

Then, I learned that you can roll out dough for pies, cookies, breads, cinnamon rolls — anything, really — on a silicone baking mat, which makes cleanup so much easier. I'd much rather wipe down a small nonstick mat than have to scrape bits of caked-on dough and excess flour off of my counter, and, in fact, using a silicone mat means you don't have to coat your rolling surface with as much flour, since the dough is less likely to stick. (Extra flour can make the final product dry and tough.)

Another benefit? It makes transferring your rolled-out pie crust to your pie dish a whole lot easier, and in the case of cookies, you can use it to line your baking sheet rather than shelling out for single-use parchment paper — I promise, you'll still get nice browning on the bottoms!

Britt Ross/Yahoo

📱 Scroll it

As much as I love certain things about summer — the incredible produce, for one — I'm an autumn person through and through. I find few things as cozy as hunkering down in the kitchen and whipping up a dessert from scratch. Of course, even those of us who enjoy baking don't always feel like getting our hands dirty, and when that's the case? I've found a YouTube channel that'll satiate sweet cravings while helping you wind down.

I know Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response (or, ASMR) videos aren't for everyone, but I think even the relaxation-averse among us will become converts after watching Calcifer ASMR's content. This creator merges soothing whispered voiceovers with comforting baking tutorials, and the result is just, well, chef's kiss.

Baking can certainly be a stress reliever, as it gives one something to focus on and rewards them with something delicious, but I wouldn't say it's relaxing; there's a lot of precision involved! That said, this account makes baking feel like a spa day with its warm, inviting visuals and sounds. Recently featured treats include raspberry pistachio pastries, banana bread cinnamon rolls and even a fairy garden layer cake. Fair warning: These videos might make you hungry, so I'd suggest fixing up a snack and a hot beverage to enjoy while you watch.

YouTube

This story is sponsored by Ooni.

Capri, 13, is giving me a show-and-tell of her squishy basket. 

There's a NeeDoh Nice Cube, a cake slice, a giant banana, a peach, a stick of butter and a glitter sugar baby. But the seventh grader has a clear favorite — at this moment, anyway: a jumbo brown Highland cow.

"I really was into NeeDoh, then I was like, 'Hold on, this cow is just so different,'" Capri tells Yahoo. "Honestly, I feel like it's my favorite squishy just because of the texture. When you squish it, it's the perfect consistency — not too hard, but not too soft."

The teen first spotted the cute cow squishy in a Mom Life With Laura YouTube video. Then the hunt began — and it was a three-state operation. She and her mom, Lorrie Matusic, checked small toy stores and big chains (including Five Below, Walmart, TJ Maxx) in Tennessee and Florida before finally finding one at Learning Express in Mount Lebanon, Pa., near home.

"It was super-hard to find, which made it very exhilarating," Capri says.

Capri's family has a personal connection to the breed: They have two real Highland cows on their farm. 

"It reminds me of my cows," Capri says of the toy.

The squishy is hitting at the intersection of two obsessions: kids' love of sensory toys and a broader cultural fascination with the shaggy cattle themselves.

Why a Highland cow? 

Highland cows have been building a following for years with their shaggy coats, distinctive bangs and what the New York Times once called their "bovine charisma." 

Earlier this year, the BBC called the Scottish breed (also known as "coos" in the Scots language) "the internet's favorite farm animals" — to the point that it's become a problem with people crossing boundaries to capture social media content. 

They have made their way into celebrity culture too: Post Malone recently gifted fiancée Christy Lee a baby Highland cow before proposing to her at his Utah ranch.

Toymakers have noticed the fascination.

"Highland cows have been trending across toys, décor and social media, so we knew it was an animal everyone would recognize and love," Sunny Days Entertainment marketing director Emily Chaput tells Yahoo. 

The company added Highland cows in five colors to its Squeeezy line at Target this summer.

Chaput says the animal's "cute, rounded look" translates perfectly into a squishy form while tapping into a craze already underway.

"Squishies bring together so many things people love right now: sensory play, oversize and unexpected designs, collectibility and that instantly satisfying squish," Chaput says.

The cow's rise has been anticipated. Business Insider reported from Toy Fair in February that Highland cows could become the next breakout toy animal. Over the summer, the toy buyer at Brickman's on Martha's Vineyard told me much the same thing: Highland cows were expected to be the next big thing this summer — but NeeDoh and squishy dumplings exploded, stealing some of their thunder.

But the data is there. Google search interest in "Highland cow" has been climbing for years and reached its highest point in the past year. Its moment has arrived.

Are Highland cow squishies actually hard to find?

Sunny Days Entertainment isn't describing the Highland cow as uniquely scarce. Chaput says it has been popular, but demand "really extends across the entire Squeeezy line," with different designs appealing to different collectors.

Capri's experience shows that some versions can be hard to track down. She didn't find the jumbo cow she wanted until roughly 10 store stops into the hunt. Yet when she finally discovered the toy at Learning Express, the $14.99 cows were plentiful, and there was no purchase limit.

Keycraft also makes a popular, albeit smaller version, sold by Learning Express for $7.99, and through retailers such as Ace Hardware.

Not all squishies are created equal, however. Kids are particular about texture, filling, durability and overall quality. The Consumer Product Safety Commission has also warned that fake and counterfeit squishy toys may pose risks to children.

"There are a lot of knockoffs out there that usually do not go through the same safety testing, so stick with brands you know and retailers you trust," Chaput says.

The hunt also matters 

As we've learned, collecting, scarcity and belonging can help amplify playground crazes.

"Guys, I found the Highland cow!" Capri says she immediately told her friends when she finally got hers. 

Her pals won't be seeing it at school, though. While Capri's school allows squishies, her mom won't let her bring the cow because it's so rare. 

Yahoo

Matusic is invested in the hunt too.

"We were so obsessed with finding this," she says. 

It's been a full-on family affair. Capri even enlisted her dad, calling to ask him to check stores on his way home from work.

And the Highland cow may not be the family's last squishy hunt. The cow remains Capri's favorite for now — she keeps squeezing it with glee during our conversation — but she's already set her sights on a Squeeezy butter.

What would make that different from the butter already sitting in her basket?

"It would feel kind of like cream — honestly, kind of like the Highland cow."

"I was like, you know what?" she tells me. "Maybe I can assemble some girls."

Assemble some girls, she did. She recruited some wives of members of her husband's league and some friends of her own and formed her own, all-women fantasy football league. Now, when the Sacramento-based couple hosts draft day, they throw competing parties in the same event space, each for their own leagues. The one for the women is obviously a bit more fun. For one, they have better accessories. 

"Well, we're girls," she says. "So I got my winners sashes and tiaras. They get to be the queen of the day … and I did, like, friendship bracelets to go with the whole Taylor Swift of it all. I couldn't help it."

Welcome to the new face of fantasy football: all-women leagues that are just as competitive and dedicated as ones populated by men. As women's interest in the sport spikes (due, likely in part, to the so-called "Taylor Swift effect"), so has their involvement in other parts of the game as well. According to a study by the Fantasy Sports and Gaming Association, the percentage of fantasy players who are women rose from 19% in 2019 to 35% in 2023, meaning an estimated 20 million women are participating. 

It's not that women haven't been interested in football or played in co-ed fantasy leagues before. But leagues where no boys are allowed offer a different sort of experience, fostering connection and a shared love of the game without fear of judgment from the opposite sex. 

"We get a lot of 'pinkwashed' football," Victoria Henderson, the founder of a football social club for women called Her Game Days, tells me. "We get a lot of education, like, 'Oh, well, the girls need to be taught because the girls don't understand.' Girls get the sport. … They want a place where they can actually go and feel safe to share their opinions."

Henderson first got into football when dating her ex. But she grew frustrated by football media and ecosystems, which she felt didn't speak to her as a woman who wanted to dig deep into the game. 

"I was like a real fan pretty quickly," she says. "I really love watching and I really like talking about trades. I studied psychology, so I'm really interested in player and team dynamics, coach dynamics, trade dynamics. … All of that is so interesting to me."

When she and her ex broke up, she began to search for other like-minded women. On a whim, she posted a TikTok asking if anyone would be interested in chatting about the NFL, and got such a huge response she decided to launch a podcast. 

"It showed me immediately that all of these women are not being marketed to in a way that actually makes sense for the target audience," she says.

Now, she's left her job in real estate to run Her Game Days, which also hosts a fantasy league of more than 1,000 women in addition to its podcast, Substack and partnerships with other women-led sports media brands like Sportsish.

"The girls who come to play fantasy are not girls kind of signing up willy-nilly," she says. "They want to play, and they want to play the entire season."

As with other women-led gatherings like book clubs, clubs centered on games like mahjong, or hobby groups for things like needlepoint or knitting, fantasy football provides women with a structure to ensure they spend time together, which can be especially rewarding for long-distance friendships in busy life seasons. 

Danielle Arcangelo and Kendall Records first met at Texas Christian University, but now their college friend group is scattered all across the country. After watching their husbands and boyfriends meet up with buddies for their fantasy leagues over the years, the women looked at each other and thought: Why not do it too?

Their league, called "Blitz and Tits," is made up of eight teams of two friends each, and they take it very seriously. Records has each member sign an integrity contract (mostly swearing they will not ask their partners to help them fill out their lineups) and do a combine and draft trip each year to kick off their league. As with most leagues, there's money on the line, with winners standing to take home a few hundred bucks at the end of the season. 

Danielle Arcangelo and Kendall Records

"The girls are READY for another strong fantasy football season ahead," wrote Arcangelo on a Reel from this year's trip to Colorado.

Arcangelo tells me that after the friends dress up, do silly challenges and make their picks, the vacation becomes a girls' trip, which she cherishes because it's so hard to get everyone together without the excuse of a wedding, bachelorette or baby shower (though, she notes, they have plenty of those too).

But even if you aren't already besties with your entire league, women are finding that it's a great way to connect. 

"It's hard to make friends, especially in your late 20s and 30s," says Henderson. "You get out of college, there's nothing organized. … A lot of women who are so cool and interesting and badass have a hard time making friends and finding friends. I think that bringing them together around something that they already love gives them the ability to connect and then create real true friendships."

Magpusao says one of the best parts of having her group is that it's a great icebreaker for meeting or becoming closer to other women because it is so structured.

"It's such a bonding experience," she says. "I think it's fun. Even if you're shy, it just works out because fantasy is just what you bring to the table."

And it hasn't just helped her bond with other women. Now that she's in a, let's just say, league of her own, Magpusao has been pleasantly surprised by how much quality time it's given her with her husband too.

"It really brings me joy," she says of her league. "And with me and my husband, I feel like it's bettered us in ways that we didn't think of before."

To assume that women's ears go dark when [football is] on, or when it pops up, is kind of crazy.Victoria Henderson

Though many women are brought into football fandom by proximity to it through a male partner, Henderson says a lot of the assumptions about women fans are still pretty dated. For instance, the prevailing idea by some men is that because women don't play football, they can't understand it.

"It's a part of American culture," she says. "So to assume that women's ears go dark when it's on, or when it pops up, is kind of crazy. … The girls are just happy to be with other girls around something that they love that doesn't have to be centered around the men who were predominantly the fan base 20 years ago."

For those who may be interested in starting their own league, all the women have the same advice as a popular sports adage: Just do it.

"Anyone can start a fantasy league, and it's super-fun," says Henderson. "It's a great way to connect. It's a great way to play. The girls do exist out there."

There were videos of her studying, wearing scrubs and heading to clinical rotations. She posted about the long hours and sacrifices required to get through PA school, and even shared advice with other aspiring PAs. The identity extended beyond her own social media accounts. When Murdock appeared as a single on Netflix's Temptation Island in 2025, her occupation was listed as "PA school student." Then, earlier this month, she celebrated her supposed graduation, posing for photos outside Duke Chapel in her cap and gown.

Despite the life Murdock portrayed on her since-deleted Instagram and YouTube accounts, Duke says she never went there.

"We can find no record of a student by the name of Angel Murdock having applied to or attended the Duke Physician Assistant Program," Duke Health officials tell Yahoo.

Actual members of Duke's 2026 PA class had already started to notice things that didn't add up. They didn't remember ever seeing Murdock in class, on campus or at any program-related events. She wasn't in the class photo. Her name wasn't called at graduation. Even the color of her graduation hood was wrong.

The story blew up after a recent Duke PA graduate, Kiera Brown — who says she'd been asked by mutuals following Murdock's posts if she knew the reality star from school — posted an eight-minute-long TikTok video laying out the inconsistencies and prompting the kind of internet investigation that inevitably follows when thousands of people are suddenly handed two years' worth of so-called receipts to scrutinize. 

Brown's TikTok has fetched more than 6 million views. Now, it turns out that Duke may not be the only credential Murdock fabricated. She also presented herself online as a real estate agent in North Carolina and Georgia, despite reports that she's not licensed in either state.

Naturally, everyone now seems to be asking: Why would someone make all of this up?

There's no way to know what motivated Murdock, who has taken down some accounts, removed content from those that still exist and hasn't commented otherwise. But experts say there are some things about social media that can make a lie easier to build — and harder to walk away from. 

How social media makes it easy to lie …

Of course, lying to impress people is hardly something social media invented.

"People have always lied," Catalina Toma, a professor of communication at the University of Wisconsin-Madison who studies deception and online self-presentation, tells Yahoo. "Deception is part of the fabric of society and always has been."

What social media has changed is how we can lie, who we can lie to and how much feedback we get when people believe us. It also gives us a much bigger audience to impress.

"We care about how other people judge us, and the larger the audience is, the more that concern grows," says Toma, which helps explain why anybody shares carefully curated highlight reels of their lives on social media. "We really care about making a positive impression."

And though there's a big difference between posting the most flattering photo from your vacation and pretending to attend Duke for two years, the validation that comes from presenting an impressive version of ourselves online is very real. 

"A 'like' is literally the click of a button. It's a really effortless behavior, but it feels so good when we get it … even if it's from total strangers," says Toma. 

"Online, honest and dishonest communication are highly editable and the feedback is immediate and quantified," Dave Markowitz, an associate professor at Michigan State University who studies deception and social psychology, tells Yahoo. 

When a false or embellished version of someone's life is rewarded with likes, comments, new followers or praise, Markowitz says that feedback can reinforce the behavior. And ultimately, "abandoning the story becomes more costly than maintaining it," he says. "Therefore, stories like this can escalate rather than stop."

But there's a catch

While the internet might give someone more tools to construct an identity, it also leaves behind a whole lot of evidence. 

"If [Murdock] had just told people verbally about her Duke activities, it would have been difficult to catch her," says Toma. "But because she posted everything online where it's recordable, it's a lot easier to catch."

And just as a large audience means more people to potentially impress, it also means more opportunities for your posts to reach someone who knows enough to call you out. That's essentially what happened here.

Plenty of Murdock's followers — including a long-distance friend of hers — may have had no reason to question a video of her in scrubs or a photo of her graduation outfit. Actual Duke PA students like Brown did.

That's not to say that everyone who believed what they were seeing was gullible. In fact, Toma says believing in people is basically our default. "We have a tendency to believe what other people tell us," she says. "If we did, in fact, go through life just questioning everything, it would be a really miserable existence. We've evolved to be a collaborative species."

That tendency to believe what we see online is becoming more complicated, however, as generative AI makes it increasingly easy to fabricate evidence. "AI is a different beast," says Toma. "We can now create completely fabricated photographs and videos that actually don't require any technical skills."

Still, easier access to those tools doesn't mean everyone will suddenly use them to create a fake life. "People don't lie just because they can," she says. "People usually lie because they have some sort of goal."

And despite knowing that people exaggerate, embellish and sometimes outright fabricate things online, most of us probably aren't going to start fact-checking every stranger who pops up on our FYP. Nor does Toma think we should.

"If it's just a stranger that you're watching online, it's kind of human and natural to believe what they're saying rather than be suspicious and verify," she says.

Murdock's story shows what can happen when people do start looking, though. The same social media presence that allowed her to document an alleged fake life for nearly two years also left behind plenty for internet sleuths to pick apart.

One final irony: All that scrutiny has now introduced Murdock to an even bigger audience as people dig through videos about the saga and old posts for more clues. So if it's attention she was seeking, she's getting it. Just maybe not the kind she was hoping for.

Surviving middle school is no easy feat. 

Some of my childhood friends are in therapy today, still dissecting it. On a walk with my mom friends this morning, the mention of that era unleashed decades-old horror stories — and I was right there with them.

Those years have a way of leaving a mark. And some parents aren't waiting until middle school to prepare their kids for the social challenges that can come with it.

A back-to-school trend playing out on TikTok and Instagram sees adults rehearsing with their elementary- and middle-school-aged children the kinds of teasing and mean comments they may hear from classmates and practicing how to respond. For some, a new school year doesn't just mean buying a new backpack; it's about prepping comebacks. 

'Your teeth are crooked'

Social media is full of these scenarios.

"Your teeth are crooked," one mom tells her daughter in an Instagram video that has amassed 1 million views.

"Good thing they're in my mouth and not yours," the girl replies while holding a S'mores Frappuccino. 

They run through comments about weight, body hair and odor too. 

In another video, child actor Charlotte Ann Tucker, who appeared in the summer movie The Breadwinner, practices her answers.

"What if someone says you're ugly?" she's asked. 

She replies: "That's OK. My personality's doing the heavy lifting."

The caption on the fourth-grader's video, which has gotten 7 million views, says, "You can never start [too] young prepping for the middle school years." 

Actor Arden Cho, the voice of Rumi in KPop Demon Hunters, dropped in the comments, writing, "I'm so here for ALL of this!" 

Some kids appear to have the comeback part covered. The trend has a tongue-in-cheek side too, with some parents baiting their kids with insults just to see what they'll say.

"OK, brace face," one adult is heard telling her young daughter.

The child takes a beat and then replies, "I got braces for a reason. Bitch."

Her mom wrote in the caption that she didn't know "whether to be proud or concerned" about the response. Either way, "whoever messes with her is IN FOR IT." 

The bullying risk is real

There's reason for parents to be thinking about how their kids will handle teasing and bullying as they get older. 

About 1 in 5 students (19.2%) in grades 6 through 12 reported being bullied, according to a National Center for Education Statistics report. Sixth graders reported being bullied at a higher rate than students in any other grade. During the 2021-22 school year, 26.9% of sixth graders said they had been bullied. 

The most commonly reported form sounds a lot like what these parents are preparing their kids for: being "made fun of, called names or insulted."

Social challenges start early for kids.

For Alexandra McNeeley, who practiced comebacks with her 9-year-old daughter, Everly, the exercise was lighthearted — the two laugh their way through much of the video — but the reason behind it wasn't entirely hypothetical. Everly says in the video that she already knows what it feels like to have someone tell her they don't want to be her friend.

"It's much more about building confidence than having the 'perfect' comeback," McNeeley tells Yahoo. "I want my child to know that she doesn't have to let someone else's words define how she feels about herself."

McNeeley's own experiences have influenced that approach.

"I remember how much certain words can stick with you," she says, "so I want to give my child tools to handle those moments while knowing she can always come to me."

The limits of practicing comebacks

The perfectly timed responses that play well on camera may be harder to summon in a school hallway.

"I understand why these videos are appealing," Devorah Heitner, author ofGrowing Up in Public: Coming of Age in a Digital World, tells Yahoo. "There's something satisfying about imagining the perfect response we wish we'd had ourselves." 

But, to McNeeley's point, it's not about the perfect comeback. In the moment, those can be hard to come by anyway.

"We can't rehearse every possible social situation with our kids," Heitner says. "When someone hurts or embarrasses us, we're often shocked and don't think clearly. We rarely come up with the devastatingly clever response in the moment." 

Besides, a child doesn't need to "win" an exchange with a bully, Heitner says. They need to know how to "get through it without making things worse."

Rather than scripting specific responses, Heitner suggests giving kids strategies they can use in different situations. They can walk away, remove themselves from a situation, seek help or give themselves time to regroup.

"Those skills are more transferable than memorizing the perfect comeback," she says.

Heitner also points to a potential downside of getting specific about what a bully might target — crooked teeth, body size or body hair. That could put an insecurity on a child's radar that wasn't there before.

McNeeley wants Everly to come away with many of those same tools. "I hope she remembers … her own worth and that someone being unkind doesn't change who she is," McNeeley says. "I also want her to remember that she never has to handle something serious alone and can always ask a trusted adult for help."

In the latest relationship test making the rounds on TikTok, women are compiling lists of words they're fairly certain their husbands or boyfriends can't pronounce, then putting them on the spot. The results have not exactly been a ringing endorsement of the men.

In one video, a TikTok user with the handle @Dakota.Maffy shared a list of 15 words that she "knew my husband wouldn't be able to pronounce," then giggled as he struggled with such words as epitome (which he pronounced as "edamame"), rendezvous, conscientious ("conscious?"), indict and faux, for which he used an expletive.

"Zero faux given," one person commented on the video, which has been viewed over 1 million times.

"I want you to do your best," another poster, Jordan Rae, told her partner before presenting a similar list, only to watch him stumble on nearly all of them, including challah ("chalet?") and pseudonym ("poo-suh-die-num"). That video has surpassed 8 million views.

Then there's Katie Freeman's husband, Josh, who thought the word quinoa looked like "Quiznos," and pronounced hors d'oeuvres as "whores divorce." (He nailed "cupboard," though!)

Sure, some commenters are entertained. But others are finding the onslaught of videos less funny than alarming.

"The amount of boyfriends and husbands who cannot read is actually embarrassing," a TikTok user, SJ, captioned a video sharing his take on the trend. "Not just for them, but for their partners. The literacy crisis is not funny anymore (and maybe it never was). Pick up a book!"

Alissa, a history teacher who posts under the TikTok handle @TeacherInStyle, agreed, saying the "words my boyfriend can't pronounce" trend is just another symptom of the literacy crisis.

"I'm not sure pronunciation is the issue here, because it appears some of your boyfriends don't know how to read," she said in her own TikTok video. "You should ask them the last time they read a book."

Soon, another genre of video emerged: women proving that their partners could, in fact, pass the test.

"I heard that men that can read are unicorns right now," Jo Johnson Overby said in her TikTok. "So I thought I would present mine for show." Unlike the other videos, the list of words her husband read from was titled "Words I know my husband can pronounce."

"I didn't marry a loser," Vidya Gopalan, who posts on TikTok under the username @QueenCityTrends, captioned a video of her husband breezing through the list.

Several men took it upon themselves to post videos showcasing their pronunciation skills — no spouse needed — to counter the negative PR. 

What began as a silly couples challenge had become something considerably more loaded: a debate over whether grown men can read (or at least, know big words). But the outrage surrounding the trend may also help explain why it has spread so quickly.

Is this a literacy crisis — or rage bait?

TikTok has a history of turning relationships into tests. Women have asked their boyfriends to identify everyday feminine objects (everything from lash curlers to menstrual cups), pronounce makeup brand names and even test their girl grip. The entertainment often hinges on watching someone get an obvious answer spectacularly wrong or fail a task, only to let the internet decide what that failure says about them.

The pronunciation challenge fits neatly into that genre. And it gives viewers something to get mad about.

Rage bait — content intended to generate engagement by provoking anger — is essentially an evolution of clickbait, according to social media scholar Jamie Cohen.

"The goal of rage bait is to encourage reaction," he previously told Yahoo, noting that viral content often functions by piquing audience curiosity and playing on their emotions. "The easiest of all those emotions [to capture] happens to be anger," he said. But this type of content gives people the opportunity to pick a side when deciding how to react.

For the pronunciation trend, those sides are ready-made. There are those who think watching a grown man butcher hors d'oeuvres is hilarious and those who think it reveals something embarrassing or troubling about his intelligence, education or ability to read. 

There's also an impossible-to-answer question about how real these failures are. Viewers have no way of knowing whether someone genuinely thinks hors d'oeuvres is pronounced "whores divorce," is hamming it up for his partner's camera or has figured out that an outrageously wrong answer makes for better content.

Not everybody making these videos sets out to enrage people. But the format is designed to invite judgment — not only of the man but also of his partner — and some creators lean in.

After Freeman's original video attracted comments from people who were appalled by her husband's answers, she returned with a "part two for all the people that hate us."

Josh did even worse. But this time, the comments were overwhelmingly in on the joke, with viewers laughing along with the couple rather than scolding them. 

"How could anyone hate you?! Y'all CRACK ME UP!!!" one person wrote.

Whether these videos actually reveal anything meaningful about literacy may be beside the point. They reveal plenty about what makes content irresistible online: a low-stakes joke, a recognizable relationship dynamic and just enough perceived incompetence to invite strangers to weigh in. Some are aghast. Others are delighted. Either way, they're watching.

This is, of course, the reality show that is known for its hallowed tradition of encouraging contestants to engage in sexual acts on broadcast television. But this year, Love Island became tinged with the language of hellfire-and-brimstone, and lust was the utmost cardinal sin.

It’s not just happening to young people on TV. Online, biblical references have popped up all over the internet as hyperbolic memes, largely used to decry people and things. Gen Zers are throwing around phrases like “the type of greed they warned us about in the Bible,” “weaponized gluttony,” rebuking evil and lustfulness.

Food and lifestyle content creator Joelle Park, who has spoken openly about her Christianity, said that she doesn’t even remember when the Christian references entered the mainstream lexicon. Like most viral phrases, it just happened one day, and then kept happening. “We know Gen Z loves hyperbole,” she said. “It reminds me of how people will use other potentially more formal or antiquated language to emphasize part of a story, like ‘unbeknownst to me’ or ‘mind you,’ et cetera.”

Just as the seven deadly sins did not originate in the Bible itself (real ones know it was through early Christian theology), these Christian meme phraseologies didn’t originate with Gen Z. The first recorded instance of the “biblical levels of greed” joke dates back to 2013. But the terms really picked up steam as a meme on TikTok and Twitter in 2021, with people using it to describe their insatiable little pets, their overzealous friends during game night, beautiful celebrities who date other beautiful celebrities, people who order double Big Macs and the way that they themselves could tear up a fast-food order. 

Greed segued into talk of gluttony, with users joking that their burgers, hash browns, Taco Bell, and whipped cream-topped chocolate milkshakes were all sinful; the conversation then turned into a more serious one about “weaponized gluttony,” in which men eat all the food in a household with little regard for their partners or families. From here, dating creators began pointing to lust as the biggest red flag, with hypergamy influencers — women who advocate for marrying rich and “high-value” men — making videos that told women “male lust isn’t a compliment” while masculinity influencers implored men to “control your lust.” Online, there are videos about hating the lust in their own eyes, trying to meet someone who isn’t lustful and the difference between being in love vs. being “in lust.”

Jamie Cohen, assistant professor of media studies at CUNY Queens College, told Yahoo that it’s hard to brand any slang term on the internet as purely “good” or “bad.” But it’s clear that these turns of phrase are often being used to cast judgment, even if it’s said in jest — sort of. “In today's world, I think when these phrases are used, they can operate as both ironic and sincere simultaneously,” he said.

So what exactly is going on here? 

Despite being less actively religious, Gen Zers have been accused of rising puritanism and conservatism. Data shows that young people are having less sex, want to see less sex, and in the case of Gen Z men, are more supportive of traditional gender roles. These trends also coincide with the popularity of religious-adjacent content on social media, such as trad wives. “For the word ‘lust’ to be continuously used on such a large stage is a reflection of how conservative rhetoric around morality is becoming more prominent,” Laura Pitcher wrote for Dazed Magazine.

Park said she sees a darker undertone in the rise of biblically inflected language online. “I have definitely seen the rise of a lot of moral and ethical bullying online,” she said. “Some of us have grown too comfortable with constantly publicly commenting on other people’s behavior with morally loaded language. We can get a good reaction from viewers by calling someone out as ‘lustful’ without acknowledging it comes from a place of pride — another deadly sin — and condemnation.”

It’s the slippery nature of internet jokes — repeating them over and over begins to convey a message underneath. “I actually don’t think people care more about being ‘good’ or ‘bad’ in their own eyes more now than before, but I do think they are much more aware of the perception of their words and actions now that everything seems to have a digital footprint,” Park said.

The inclination to scold others in the most charged language possible can be seen as a byproduct of today’s internet culture, where everyone is both endlessly scrutinized and invited to judge others. Social media turns fleeting moments into morality plays, encouraging hordes of commenters to weigh in harshly on the behavior of complete strangers. Charged biblically inflected language is perfect for this task: Words like “lust,” “greed” and “gluttony” crank up the temperature. 

The inclination to scold others in the most charged language possible can be seen as a byproduct of today’s internet culture, where everyone is both endlessly scrutinized and invited to judge others.

Cohen said the rush to cast judgment is particularly apparent in moments like the now-infamous couple spotted at a Coldplay concert, whose indiscretion went viral, as their affair ignited a massive online pile-on for their alleged sin. Similarly, two lawyers who were recently spotted kissing in Central Park became the center of a firestorm of discourse as commenters quickly identified them and weighed in on their transgression: their age difference, their corporate power imbalance, their purported cheating and workplace affair. 

These situations naturally bring about questions of morality, but online, commenters get to play the role of judge, jury and executioner, with the ultimate punishment being cancellation, public shaming and eternal online damnation. “This is what I mean when I pray for God to expose my enemies,” one commenter said of the Coldplay incident last year. “So glad we’re bringing back public shame,” another reads. It has half a million likes.

Some online observers even seem eager for the next morality case to come across their feeds. “Just in time for the Coldplay anniversary 😂 let’s do one big one every year lmao,” one commenter wrote under a TikTok about the Central Park lawyers.

That doesn’t mean that jokingly calling your pet a greedy little pig for eating your lunch is a dangerous act of moral policing. Still, internet culture has made people unusually practiced at spotting other people’s purported bad behavior and moralizing their actions, whether it’s warranted or not.

Park said all the shaming and judging don’t feel true to her experience as a religious person. “Maybe I’m nitpicking internet language that’s meant to be casual and silly, but I have to believe that seeing judgment thrown around online affects the way young people move through the world,” she said. “Biblical language used to shame people without any of the redemption, grace or forgiveness that the Bible also talks about feels like the short end of the stick.”

The coffee chain's new menu includes two banana-inspired drinks: the Iced Banana Bread Chai, a "chai blend with bakery-inspired banana flavor and silky brown sugar cream cold foam," and the Iced Banana Bread Latte, which has "rich espresso and comforting notes of banana bread with a brown sugar cream cold foam finish." Both are topped with a sprinkle of cinnamon dolce.

Starbucks isn't the only coffee chain to go all-in on bananas. Back in March, Dunkin' also released a lineup of banana-flavored drinks, which included the Banana Puddin' Cloud Latte, Chocolate Covered Banana Iced Coffee, Banana Daydream Refresher, Bananarama Matcha and even a Banana Protein Latte — for those counting their macros. 

According to Axios, recent market data shows that banana is the fastest-growing beverage ingredient flavor at restaurants in the past year. 

Bananas are not only one of the most popular fruits in America, they're also one of the most affordable, even as food prices rise. Banana bread first rose to popularity during the Great Depression as a way to reduce waste and use overripe bananas. During the COVID-19 pandemic, affordable, relatively simple-to-make banana bread was particularly popular, with the Kitchn calling it the "comfort food of the coronavirus quarantine" in April 2020. 

Could banana-flavored coffee drinks be tapping into that same sense of comfort?

While pandemic lockdowns are long over, banana recipes still go viral on social media — and they're not just for banana bread. People have also been making things like banana pudding and, evidently, banana coffee. Earlier this summer, Eva Longoria went viral for making an iced coffee that included real caramelized bananas blended with brown sugar and milk. 

Experts say that most banana-flavored drinks are unlikely to have any of the actual fruit in them. 

"It's uncommon to see most flavors made directly from raw produce itself," Diego Mena, food scientist at Obscure Distillery in Los Angeles, tells Yahoo. "Most purees and juices are extremely volatile, prone to oxidation, full of sugar and other fruit compounds, and need pasteurization to be sold safely for any real length of shelf life." 

For the majority of banana flavors, "the most distinctive chemical signature is an ester called isoamyl acetate," he explains. 

"This is what most people recognize in confections that use it," he said, adding that the flavoring typically also contains lactones, vanillins and alcohols. 

If you are craving bananas, choosing the real thing can be a great health option, Life Time Fitness dietitian Chella Wahlin tells Yahoo. The fruit contains potassium, vitamin C and fiber. 

"​​I really like to recommend bananas as a pre-workout snack, especially if somebody's about to do some long-duration, high-intensity training," she says, noting that the less ripe a banana is, the more slow-releasing carbohydrates it will have, as well as potentially more fiber. 

While a sweetened coffee beverage can still fit into many diets, Wahlin says one mindful way to incorporate a banana into a beverage is to add it to a protein-packed smoothie.

"Throwing it in with some protein powder and your favorite milk of choice, along with some nut butter," she says, "could make a really good banana peanut butter protein drink that is low in added sugar." 

This is the "girl grip," the internet's name for carrying an unreasonable number of things in one hand instead of putting them in a handbag.

Videos showing off particularly impressive grips have taken off across TikTok and Instagram, where women are comparing their carrying abilities and loading up their husbands' and boyfriends' hands to see if they can do the same. (Spoiler: They can't.) Brands are also jumping on the trend, sneaking their own products into someone's already overloaded grasp. 

But unlike a TikTok dance or beauty hack, the girl grip isn't something women learned online — it's something they already do. (Somewhere, there must be cave paintings of a cavewoman grasping multiple rocks in one hand.) There are plenty of theories as to why: the mental load of (literally) juggling so many responsibilities, our maniacal commitment to multitasking, even Gen Z's supposed rejection of handbags. 

But the most striking part of the girl grip might be how many women saw it and thought, Wait, I do that too.

The internet didn't invent the girl grip. It gave women a name for a conveniently inconvenient habit they didn't realize they had in common.

Women were girl-gripping before there was a girl grip

Halle Robbe has the receipts. 

Five years ago, Robbe ran out for caffeine and encountered a two-for-one Red Bull deal. She bought two cans. There was one problem: She didn't have a bag.

She piled both cans on top of the keys, wallet, phone and headphones she was already carrying, snapped a picture of the resulting feat and posted it to her Instagram Story.

"After hundreds of years of evolution, this is what I can do," she recalls writing. Her friends responded: "I can do this too." Thus, @GirlsCarryingShit was born.

"I started posting pictures of people I knew carrying shit," Robbe, the editor in chief of Pinky magazine, tells Yahoo of the account, which now has 459,000 followers and features women juggling coffees, flowers, books, snacks, meds and whatever else they've decided they can carry in one trip. "It resonates with girls because we all do it."

She doesn't consider girl grip a new trend. "People were doing it offline for hundreds of years before I started documenting it," she says. What's new is treating the grip as something worth showing off. "Now taking pictures of what you're carrying is a combination of a creative exercise in aesthetics and a skilled competition of who can carry the most."

Can your boyfriend do it?

One way to find out whether the girl grip is actually a girl grip? Hand your stuff to a man. That's become its own genre of videos. 

Content creator Demi Schweers challenged her husband, Tom, to pick up a dozen or so items in a video that's reached 33 million views. "Where do I start?" he asks, overwhelmed from the jump. He picks up a set of keys. "This is already tough."

Two failed attempts later, he asks Demi to demonstrate.

In another video, Jake Cahoon comes one bottle of body mist away from successfully replicating his wife Courtney's grip.

But whether women are actually better at carrying seven things at once is beside the point. The fun is in recognizing the behavior and seeing whether someone else can do it too.

That cycle of seeing it, giving it a name and repeating it is part of what can turn something as routine as holding your stuff into internet content, according to Anna Borisova, a marketing and business development expert. 

And the format is already familiar. We've had girl dinner, girl math and hot girl walks — all ordinary or oddly specific behaviors packaged as things girls just get. Borisova sees girl grip as the latest spin on a formula that works. "Each new version just has to be a bit weirder or more specific than the last to earn the same reaction," she tells Yahoo.

Apparently, carrying half the contents of your purse in one hand is specific enough. 

There's more than one way to girl grip

Once the girl grip had a name, people started making it their own.

For some women, it's carrying every grocery bag inside in one trip. For moms, it might involve carrying a child in one arm and their belongings in the other. 

For Kennedy Peterson, it involves a fishing pole, her catch of the day … and a Diet Coke.

The variations are part of what keeps the joke going. Scroll through enough girl grips and they start to look like tiny, chaotic "What's in my bag?" videos, except nobody has to empty the bag. The objects are often mundane, but together, "they can create stimulating images," says Robbe. "It's interesting to see what people are willing to carry openly vs. what they hide in their bags."

Brands have figured it out too.

Jess Rauchberg, a lecturer in media and communication at the University of Leeds, tells Yahoo that girl-grip videos can function as "a very relatable advertisement" filled with Stanley tumblers, Rhode lip glosses and branded energy drinks. What makes it work, she says, is that "it's everyday women" participating, rather than major lifestyle influencers.

Though she arguably pioneered the women-carrying-things corner of the internet, Robbe doesn't use the term "girl grip" herself, saying it feels too "pinkwashed." 

For her, it's simpler. Women catch themselves carrying a ridiculous amount of stuff, share it and wait for someone else to recognize the triumph. It's shorthand, she says, "to acknowledge the ridiculousness or impressiveness of what they're doing and make each other laugh."

The tale came from a mom named Ashleigh, who told it via Instagram Reels. According to her, the drama went down in a group chat for her daughter's elementary school classroom. A fellow mom named Michelle had reached out to the group of parents to ask that they all stop sending Oreos in their children's lunches, because it made her daughter, Ava, too jealous.

"I just wondered if we could agree not to send things like Oreos, chocolate candy, etc. so the kids aren't comparing lunches?" Michelle asked.

Predictably, all hell broke loose. The story — which has involved multiple updates — had all the elements of modern parenting that people argue about ad nauseam online. On one side, there's the “crunchy” mom Michelle, who is willing to "snowplow" over everyone else's Oreo enjoyment to ensure her precious little child doesn't deal with any negative emotion. 

On the other side, there are the "normal" moms, who just want their kids to be able to enjoy their ultra-processed sugar in peace. And on the internet, everyone was quick to jump onto Ashleigh's (aka Team Oreo) side. They labeled Michelle as overly controlling, applauding Ava's quest for Oreos despite her mother's best efforts — and vowing to send the cookies with their own children to cheer her on.

"Feeling like we should all just go ahead and pack Oreos in our kids lunches this week," wrote one kids food influencer on Threads. Pediatric nutrition experts also waded in.

And of course, Oreo itself soon got wind of the tale. "OREO-gate was NOT on my 2026 bingo card," wrote the brand.

The drama is so juicy, the discourse so hot and the virtue signaling so satisfying. Does it matter if anything about Oreo-gate is real? 

Because there are lots of reasons to be skeptical of "Ashleigh's" story. The account, @AshleighJamz on Instagram, seems to exist for the sole purpose of turning alleged text-based drama from her life into silly songs using the AI song generator app Suno, which the account's creator lists as a "partner." 

Curiously, this isn't the first time "Ashleigh" has seen people throw down in the group chat. In fact, that's all she posts about. The account, which was created less than a month ago, also features videos about workplace drama, bachelorette party drama and dating drama — all of which are shown via group chats set to songs made using Suno. In fact, the account has never posted about anything else, and has tagged every post #SunoPartner.

I reached out to Suno to ask what the partnership between "Ashleigh" and the company entails, but a representative for the company said they did not have "anything to add" about the story, and would not confirm that the user behind the account had an active brand deal with the company. I also reached out via Instagram DM to "Ashleigh," but did not hear back. 

But if it is a planted or manufactured saga, whoever crafted it knew what they were doing. As Pamela Rutledge, the director of the Media Psychology Research Center, tells me, the story was internet gold.

"Oreo-gate has all the trappings of good viral content: low stakes, high relatability, escalating conflict and emotion, identifiable heroes and villains, humor and episodic suspense," she says. "Each installment raises the stakes just enough to make people wait for the next episode. The AI songs enhance entertainment value and shareability. It also invites moral judgment that encourages comments, sharing and identification with a side. The cookie becomes incidental."

And of course, parents aren't jumping to weigh in because they feel the need to defend the honor of the esteemed Oreo. It's all about telegraphing the type of parent they want to be, or want to be seen as. As Rutledge puts it, the drama turns a lunchbox dispute into a "battle over parenting identity."

"Oreo-gate resonates because it hits several current parental hot buttons into one entertainingly ridiculous dispute that turns ordinary, relatable conflict into public entertainment: food restriction, parental control, children's autonomy, social comparison, school boundaries and parent-group politics and backchannelling," she says.

As she notes, debate over food restrictions in school, especially when it comes to allergies or concerns over nutritional value, has become a huge talking point both in real-world and online parenting spaces.

"When it's not a school-wide rule, one person expecting others to follow her rules challenges people's parental autonomy," Rutledge says. "Michelle is acting as a community voice, but she is one parent. Other parents push back against her assumption of compliance."

In that sense, whether Michelle and Ava exist is essentially irrelevant. The value that online commenters get comes from the performance of publicly acting out their values, telegraphing to others where they stand and, ultimately, what kind of parent they are. In other words, those invested in Oreo-gate don't care so much if the child they are cheering on to get her Oreos is actually real — just that everyone knows what they'd do if she were.

Should we be concerned that these blatantly fishy stories are causing this level of internet drama? Yes, but it makes sense once you understand that Ava and her Oreo were never the most important characters in the story. The discourse was. 

Welcome back to Trust Me, I Know Baking! In this week's edition, I, a professional baker, have summer produce and back-to-school treats on the brain. If you've got a stone fruit surplus you don't know what to do with, well, you will soon.

On that note, I'm sharing 🧁 my go-to simple summer dessert, 🔓 the way I revive solidified brown sugar and 📱 the viral cookie every kid (and kid at heart) will want in their lunchbox.

Ready to revel in all things delectable? Sweet! Let's dive in.

🧁 Bake it

If you ask me, late summer is one of the best times to hit up the farmers' market: You've got peaches, plums, nectarines, cherries … a true cornucopia of nature's candy. And while few things are as pleasurable as biting into a ripe, juicy stone fruit, I think baking the extras from your haul into a streusel-topped fruit crisp is a close second. After all, these gems from the earth have delicate lifespans, and it would be such a shame to let them get all shriveled up before you've had a chance to enjoy them.

I like to think of fruit crisps as the ultimate non-baker's dessert, even though they do require an oven. They're a lot less finicky than, say, a light-as-air chiffon cake that calls for perfect precision. In fact, fruit crisps are so low-maintenance that you can customize to your heart's content and still wind up with something delicious.

A very loose fruit crisp recipe

• You can bake a fruit crisp in just about any oven-safe baking dish, so scale each component to fit your vessel of choice. (The amounts I'm listing work well for my 9-inchceramic baking dish.) To start, preheat your oven to 350°F and grease your baking dish with butter.

• Next, chop your fruit into bite-size pieces if it's not already small enough (it's fine to leave berries as is). Use enough fruit to fill about two-thirds of your baking dish, leaving some room for the streusel topping.

• Place your chopped fruit into a mixing bowl with 2 tbsp. freshly squeezed lemon juice, 2 tbsp. all-purpose flour, 1/3 cup white or brown sugar and a healthy pinch of kosher salt. (Note: Depending on how sweet or tart your fruit is, you can add or subtract a few tablespoons of sugar. I like my fruit crisps to lean more tart than sweet, so feel free to adjust according to taste.)

• In a separate bowl, combine 1 cup all-purpose flour, ¾ cup brown sugar, 1/4 cup granulated sugar, 1 cup old-fashioned rolled oats, ½ cup toasted sliced almonds, 1 tsp. ground cinnamon, ½ cup softened — but not melted — unsalted butter and a pinch of kosher salt. (I especially love adding almonds to crisps made with stone fruit, which can help enhance the flavor of peaches, cherries and the like. If allergies are an issue, feel free to skip 'em!)

• Add the fruit mixture to your baking dish, then crumble the flour mixture over it in large clumps. Bake until the top is crispy and the fruit juices are bubbling; for me, this usually takes a little over an hour. To prevent juices from dripping onto the floor of my oven, I like to keep my fruit crisp on a sheet tray while it bakes.

• To serve, wait until the crisp has cooled down a bit but is still warm, then scoop into bowls and top with whipped cream (or ice cream, if you prefer).

• Get creative with your fruits and toppings; I love a mix of berries and stone fruit, but use whatever you have! Sometimes, I'll swap out some of the all-purpose flour for almond flour or cornmeal for some variety in flavor and texture.

Britt Ross/Yahoo

🔓 Hack it

We've all been there; a recipe (for fruit crisp, perhaps?) calls for brown sugar, so you dig the bag out of the pantry, only to find its texture resembles petrified rock. Do you: (a) toss it or (b) chip away at it until enough small pieces fly off to cobble together and use in your baking? The answer is (c) neither!

When I first started baking for fun back in high school, I ran into this very issue, and thanks to the internet, I discovered a trick for reviving dried-up brown sugar that works like a charm:

• Place your brown sugar in a bowl (you don't have to measure it, but make sure it looks like there's at least enough for what you'll need for your recipe).

• Wet a paper towel, then wring it out so that it's just damp — make sure the sheet is large enough to cover your bowl.

• Lightly drape the paper towel over your bowl of brown sugar and place it in the microwave.

• Heat the brown sugar in 15-second intervals, checking on it in between (I also like to break up bigger clumps with a fork as it softens).

• The heat from the microwave and moisture from the paper towel will help loosen the hardened clumps. Once your brown sugar has softened, take it out and use!

Britt Ross/Yahoo

📱 Scroll it

When I think of back-to-school treats, cookies are what come to mind: They're easy to pack, don't require utensils and are just the right size to satisfy a sweet tooth without causing a major sugar rush. I'm sure most kids would be excited to find any type of cookie in their lunchbox, but if I were still in school? I'd be absolutely tickled to unwrap the TikTok-viral Jam and Buttered Toast Cookie from Lungi's Always Baking in the cafeteria.

The thick gobs of jam remind me of the jelly-slathered sandwiches I used to eat in my youth, but these cookies are a bit more sophisticated than a PB&J. The recipe involves making buttered toast, crushing it into crumbs and rolling the balls of dough into those crunchy bits. Large chunks of white chocolate provide a creamy sweetness that complements the tart jam, and the final result is a crispy-on-the-outside, chewy-on-the-inside cookie that kids and parents alike are sure to go gaga over. I don't even have children to pack lunches for, but if you ask me, "back-to-school season" is for all ages to observe. My plans? Making a batch of these and treating myself to a fresh pack of markers.

This story is sponsored by Ooni.

The two stay-at-home moms from Nashville first met when their kids, now in their 20s, were in kindergarten. They became fast friends, going to church together and supporting one another as they raised their combined six children. After years of coming up with fun and easy crafts and designing decor for various high school events, they were eager to flex their creativity to make their kids' rooms perfect, but within reason.

"I wanted her to be confident, and have all the things," Fox tells me of her oldest daughter, who attended Mississippi State. "But I also knew that I was going to set the precedent with her, and if I blew the budget, I would have to continue that. I spent a lot of time thinking it can be elegant, it can be elevated, but it doesn't have to be expensive."

The friends began helping out other moms in their community who found the process of outfitting a dorm room a bit overwhelming, and they loved it so much they decided to start their own company, which they named Petal and Pine Dorm Design. They weren't sure what to expect when they officially launched in June, but the response and the number of clients they have worked with have been beyond their wildest expectations.

"We're kind of overwhelmed and blown away, to be honest," Fox says. "We just thought we'd throw it out there, and we were quite surprised."

Their success is likely due to the fact that dorm design, as a concept, has gone viral. Gone are the days when you'd roll up at your first college living space with an extra-large twin "bed in a box" from Bed, Bath & Beyond and maybe a cute lamp or a poster and call it a day. Now, a perfectly aesthetic, curated dorm can take weeks or even months to create. Some students go all out, spending big bucks to make it perfect. 

Beautifully decorated dorms have been trending on social media, particularly TikTok, for a few years, but this year they've hit the cultural zeitgeist in a new way. After a few TikTokvideos of elaborately designed dorms being revealed to their gasping undergrads went viral, the internet at large began to obsess over the perfectly curated color schemes, matching monogrammed pillows and, one can assume, hefty price tags for touches like custom built-ins and a shelf to hold their designer bags. 

The fascination follows a broader online trend toward a cultural obsession with big public university culture in the South (see: #RushTok). But the dorm designers I spoke to also believe that the desire for a custom and comfortable room is unique to the current generation of college students. Sure, they want to post beautiful photos to social media to keep up with their peers, but they also value their personal space in a different way.

"Having a beautiful dorm space helps me to feel more at home," Kamryn Hall, a 19-year-old sophomore at Florida State, tells me. When she's not studying, Hall creates content geared toward other college students and has been sharing her journey of designing her second-year dorm room.

 "It isn't necessarily about the aesthetics," she says about her choice to invest in her space, which includes a pink ruffled duvet and a custom LED name sign. "It's more about self-expression and getting to showcase everything that I love in a space that's mine and having some feel of individuality, especially when you're in a shared space."

Shannan Bower has worked as an interior designer in Fort Worth, Texas, for 18 years, and added dorm services to her repertoire several years ago. She thinks the fact that Gen Z spent so much time indoors and at home during the pandemic gave them an appreciation of "how your environment can affect the way you feel."

"It's not just about making something pretty for social media," she tells me. "Students want personalization, comfort and a space they can come back to at the end of a long day and genuinely feel at home in. A dorm doesn't have to just be four walls, a bed and a few posters anymore."

Still, for those of us who grew up in that "four walls and a few posters" era, the juxtaposition between what we had and what we see online now can be hilariously stark. Content creator Melanie Ressa, who is 35, jokingly joined the conversation on Instagram by posting a photo of her old dorm, which had one piece of "art": a beer pong poster. She's endlessly fascinated by the rooms she keeps seeing online, she says, because she considers college to be a time when your life should be anything but curated.

"My hot take is that these girls have their entire lives to be adults," she says. "Dorm rooms are not supposed to be perfectly crafted design spaces. What happened to the display of liquor bottle trophies, stolen street signs and posters bought from Spencer's?"

Then there's the debate over costs. After videos of "dorm reveals" from one designer, Shelly Gates of Mississippi, went viral on TikTok last year, she revealed to People that her services can cost up to $20,000 for a custom room. But Fox and Cabale say you don't have to spend a fortune, and most people don't. The extremes may be going viral, but their clients are shopping on Amazon and at HomeGoods (their consultations start at just $100).

Bower advises her clients to invest the most in the items that will be functional for the most important parts of college life: studying and sleeping (what did you think I was going to say?).

"Invest in comfortable bedding and a good mattress topper because sleep is incredibly important for a college student," she says. "Make sure you have functional storage so you're not constantly living in clutter, and create a study space where you can actually spread out and focus."

Fox and Cabale have found that creating a beautiful living space, with the help of parents and/or a decorator, is often a cathartic experience for their young clients. Leaving home and attending college, after all, is a huge life change, and Fox likes to believe that making something cozy and chic can ease jitters for both moms and daughters before they step into the next chapter. 

"We feel like it's giving the moms [a chance to] bridge that gap between them being at home and launching them," she says. "It's also giving the girls a lot of confidence and comfort in their new space. … They're really proud of what they're creating."

"We were just making friends with the people around us," she tells Yahoo. "It was really cool to hear everyone's story on why they were there, where they're coming from."

Even after the doors finally opened — five and a half hours after they arrived — Kristen was still about 40th in line and had another hour and a half to wait. But the waiting had begun to turn into something else. 

Security handed out wristbands. Newport coffee shop Nitro Bar passed out caramelized banana lattes, a nod to a drink Bieber had talked about making at home. There were bingo cards with the chance to win free products. "The little surprises that came along the way got people so excited," says Kristen. "And that's when I was like, OK, waiting was worth it."

Kristen ended up nabbing a pocket bronzer, two lip liners and lip glosses, and an exclusive Newport Rhode hoodie. She returned again the next day and spent another six hours outside the pop-up, hoping Bieber would appear. (She didn't. But cinnamon rolls were passed around for attendees.)

Today's young people came of age in an era of one-click everything, where almost anything can be ordered to your doorstep in a matter of 48 hours. Given that fact, spending the better part of one (or two) days waiting outside a store sounds almost absurd. 

Yet this summer, lines have solidified themselves as a recurring feature in the lives of young people chasing after trendy consumer products: they've formed outside beauty pop-ups and bakeries, artist activations, coffee and matcha shops and stores carrying the latest cult item. Getting the thing that you want, line enthusiasts say, is almost more special because you had to prove that you really wanted it. 

The merchandise might be available elsewhere. But acquiring the thing isn't necessarily the point. "People don't wait in line for products anymore," Ryan Glick, founder of Coffee N' Clothes (CNC), a brand-experience agency that produces more than 200 events a year, tells Yahoo. "They're waiting in line to be a part of a moment." 

Why wait

Glick has seen the phenomenon evolve from both sides of the rope. He started his company by organizing meet-ups for online communities and eventually grew it into a business that helps brands across fashion, beauty, entertainment and tech produce IRL experiences. "In a world where digital made everything available to everyone instantly, showing up is proof that you're physically there for something that mattered," he says. 

There may also be something psychological happening as those hours tick by too, according to Derek D. Rucker, a professor of marketing at Northwestern University, who points to the concept of "effort justification" — the tendency to value something more once we've invested time or work into getting it. "The more effort we have to put into something, the more we justify it as, 'It must be worth it,'" Rucker tells Yahoo.  

Kristen could've waited for the Rhode products she wanted to arrive at Sephora. But the pop-up offered something Sephora couldn't. "It's just a cooler experience when you go to an event for it," she said. With only two U.S. pop-up locations at the time, being able to attend one made her "feel special."

That distinction — between buying something and being there — runs through the line phenomenon.

When Valeria Rose, 23, recently returned to Los Angeles after attending college in Santa Barbara, she went to Ariana Grande's Eternal Sunshine experience in West Hollywood. She had seen TikToks of fans arriving at 6 a.m. and not getting inside until mid-afternoon, so she strategically went on a weekday. She still waited nearly three hours.

The fan event was cool —  there was a photo booth and a flower-covered wall where fans could leave Grande notes. But more importantly, Valeria went with a friend who wanted to be there as much as she did. "Having someone to chat with honestly makes the time go faster," she tells Yahoo. 

Growing up near the entertainment industry, Valeria is a veteran of line culture. She's met people waiting in line for concerts, meet-and-greets and pop-ups — some of those friendships lasted long after the line disappeared. Returning to that ritual after years away from L.A. also offered an unexpected connection to her younger self.

"It was pretty funny that on my first day back home, I was waiting in line," she says. "I felt so connected to my past self."

Creating memories — and social content

On vacation in Arizona, Elizabeth and her sister had an open day and kept seeing Sablé Boulangerie, a viral bakery in Gilbert, on their TikTok feeds. They decided to see what the hype was about and spent an hour and 37 minutes in line to get their hands on a selection of pastries and the bakery's internet-famous chocolate chip cookie.

Around them, people worked on laptops, played games and sat in chairs. Families and groups of friends waited together. Chef Will Porter, whose social media presence has helped make the bakery a destination, briefly "walked the line" with a cameraman and bodyguards. 

Elizabeth started filming mostly because she was curious how long the wait would take. The resulting video got 50,000 views, when most of her posts typically draw around 500.

"If you post about standing in a line and say how long you stood in the line, people can't wait to tell you how dumb you are in the comments," says Elizabeth. "It drives engagement. It's essentially easy rage bait."

It creates a strategically efficient cycle: A viral place attracts a crowd. The crowd creates a line. People film the line because it is remarkable. The resulting content reaches more people, who then want to see what could possibly be worth waiting for.

If you post about standing in a line and say how long you stood in the line, people can’t wait to tell you how dumb you are in the comments.Elizabeth

It's a marketing jackpot. Whether you encounter it in person or watch it unfold on TikTok, you're seeing dozens of people weigh whether something is really that valuable in real time. Timothy D. Malefyt, a marketing professor at Fordham University, calls that "embodied social proof" and it naturally gives observers FOMO, the feeling that the people in line "apparently know something I don't." 

There is, Elizabeth admits, "a bit of excitement to try something that's trending and see for yourself if it's actually good." Going also gives you something to talk about when other people inevitably ask, "Was it worth it?"

In her case, yes — with a caveat. She still thinks about Sablé's pain suisse. "The pastries truly were delicious," she says, "but I wouldn't stand in that line again."

The lore of doing things the hard way

Of course, people stood in lines long before TikTok. There were Black Friday doorbusters, concert ticket sales and Supreme drops. Glick remembers waiting outside Supreme — which was created as more of a community space than a traditional retail store — with his mom as a kid.

What has changed may be how many ordinary products can now be transformed into events — and how quickly social media can create a craze around them. 

In Iowa, Anna T., 40, found herself waking up before dawn to hunt for NeeDoh squishy toys with her 11-year-old daughter. A local children's boutique would announce "drop" dates for harder-to-find designs, prompting customers to line up before opening.

The first time Anna went, she waited in the snow for roughly two hours. On another trip, she and her daughter arrived at 6:15 a.m. for a 9 a.m. opening. Eventually, Anna took her daughter and two friends at 5 a.m. By then, the wait had become an event of its own. "The store owner came out around 7:30 a.m. and had music," she tells Yahoo. "The kids were dancing, and it was a very fun and lively experience."

For Anna's daughter, the inconvenience was novel — and part of the appeal. "She told me she really wanted to because she has never waited in line to buy anything before and she said she wanted to experience that," says Anna. That struck her. "We've waited in lines for a ride, but never for a material thing."

In a childhood shaped by online shopping and instant gratification, even the hassle is part of the charm. "When something is easily accessible, we tend to think anyone could get it and that it's not as special as things that took work, energy, time or were scarce," Elizabeth Schwab, a professor in the Business Psychology Division at The Chicago School, tells Yahoo. 

But the hours spent waiting can offer something else that clicking "buy now" can't: doing it with others. "We enjoy feeling like we belong; that we've found our people and our community," Schwab says. 

That would explain why, for Anna, the NeeDohs themselves were almost beside the point. "I don't do it for the actual item," she says. "For my daughter, it was about getting the trendy new item, but I know these are memories that she will be able to talk about with her kids one day. And all of it is a reason for us to spend time together."

There is a limit to the romance of waiting. Elizabeth, who waited nearly two hours outside the bakery, says her ceiling is an hour or two. Valeria questions the appeal of standing around for something as fleeting as a celebrity-branded smoothie. Glick cautions that brands shouldn't manufacture lines simply to appeal popular — a badly managed wait can just as easily backfire, he says.

And even the people willing to queue for hours know how irrational it can look from the outside. Perhaps that's what makes the line work.

Convenience has stripped away much of the friction that once surrounded buying something. The line puts some of it back, but with friends, anticipation, exclusivity and a story attached.

The most telling thing about this summer of lines may be that Anna's daughter didn't simply want the NeeDoh. She really wanted to wait for it.

Gen Z grew up with parents who learned about sun safety the hard way, after spending their own youth coated in baby oil — or SPF 4 at best — and lying out in the backyard or baking in tanning beds. But as the saying goes, "When you know better, do better." And they did: shimmying their children into rash guards at the pool or beach and regularly slathering and spraying them with sunscreen.

Gen Z, it seemed, was on track to become the most sun-safe generation yet. But now that they're in their teens and 20s, some are deliberately "tanmaxxing," side-eying — or outright skipping — sun protection and falling for sunscreen myths online. A 2024 American Academy of Dermatology (AAD) survey found that nearly 30% of Gen Z respondents said getting a tan was a higher priority than preventing skin cancer.

So what happened to the "rash guard generation"?

For a clue, look no further than Gen Z's social media feeds. That's where you'll find teens and young adults sharing their tanning tips — and even proudly showing off noticeable tan lines, something previous generations went out of their way to avoid. 

Brooklyn (aka Brookie) Marie Win is one of them. Amid her multi-step skin care regimen and GRWM (get ready with me) videos, Win recently broke down her "fool-proof" tanning routine to her 230k followers, showing how to get "amazing, crisp" tan lines like hers. All you need is a triangle bikini — leave the sunscreen at home. "If you want me to be honest, I don't use SPF. I know I should," she says, before listing some sunscreen recommendations for followers who do. She then shares the tanning oil and gel she swears by, along with a cheaper trick: misting yourself with water.

Other TikTokers are co-opting the UV index — which measures the strength of the sun's ultraviolet (UV) radiation on a scale of 0 to 11 (the higher the number, the greater potential for UV damage) — to identify the "ideal" times to tan, instead of using it as intended: to know when to protect your skin from the sun. There are even apps like SunSafe and Sun Tracker: UV Index and Tan to make this easier, under the misguided pretense of a "safe tan."

Still others are questioning whether sunscreen itself is safe, including buying into the debunked claim that it can cause cancer. TikTok user Alicia Hally, for example, posted: "The sun gives you cancer. Sunscreen gives you cancer. We die either way so you may as well be tanned xx." (One response: "I'm trying to figure out if this is rage bait or not.")

Sunscreen misinformation aside, many, like Lauren Nagyvary, know that the real risk is using little to no sun protection — but they're doing it anyway. "I will only tan when I have no SPF on at all," Nagyvary says on her TikTok. "I'm not telling you this is good or bad advice, but if you want to tan easier, maybe just don't wear SPF and just stay out less. But again, I know that probably like increases your risk of skin cancer. I just feel like it's more efficient."

That contradiction is particularly surprising for a generation known for its fixation on wellness, longevity and elaborate anti-aging skin care routines. And it's not as if Gen Z missed the memo on sun damage: They've spent their entire lives hearing about the importance of sun protection from their parents, doctors and more recently, social media.

"Unlike many who experienced tanning culture in the 1970s and 1980s, Gen Z has grown up in an era when the link between UV exposure and skin cancer has been widely shared with the public," Dr. Elizabeth K. Hale, a dermatologist and senior vice president of The Skin Cancer Foundation, tells Yahoo. "But, unfortunately, tanning culture continues to make a resurgence despite best efforts to keep the public educated about their risk for developing skin cancer, as well as the risk of premature skin aging."

So why is this happening?

There are several reasons, say experts. One is that it's hard to resist a pervasive beauty trend — in this case, being tan. Bronzed skin "is often associated with looking healthy, fit or fresh from vacation," says dermatologist Dr. Annette Czernik. "There is also a natural tendency when we are young to place more value on how something makes us look or feel today than on a health consequence decades away. So even a generation that understands the science can still be pulled toward a trend that offers an immediate cosmetic reward."

But appearances can be deceiving. "A tan is a sign of UV damage, not healthy skin," Dr. Supriya Rastogi, a dermatologist at Schweiger Dermatology Group, tells Yahoo.

Social media can also make even harmful behaviors seem normal when you see them over and over again, explains Sanam Hafeez, a neuropsychologist and director of Comprehend the Mind. "If someone's feed is filled with influencers tanning on vacation, using tanning beds or showing off very bronzed skin, that look can quickly become familiar," she says. "The brain can start interpreting that repetition as evidence that 'everyone is doing it,' even when that is not actually true." Likes, comments and compliments help reinforce the behavior "by attaching a social reward to the appearance," she points out.

As anyone who spends enough time on social media knows, questionable health claims and dubious advice are everywhere — and sun protection is no exception. A 2026 AAD survey found that 64% of Gen Z respondents reported encountering sunscreen misinformation online. "Gen Z has grown up with unprecedented access to information, but that access also means that they are constantly exposed to unverified claims, opinions and misinformation," says Hale. "Social media can make it difficult to distinguish evidence-based health information from content that is simply popular or persuasive."

Hale points to a June 2026 study that found misinformation receives much higher audience engagement. "This really shows us how someone today might see a false sunscreen claim repeatedly from different influencers and begin to assume it must be true, even when the claim is not supported by scientific evidence," she says.

Rastogi agrees. "Social media can make personal experiences and influencer claims feel just as credible as medical advice, especially when misinformation is presented in a convincing or relatable way," she says.

The delayed price of a tan

One of the issues with tanning is that it feeds into our "get it now, pay later" culture. In this case, the "payoff" — bronzed skin — is immediate, while the consequences, like premature aging and skin cancer, can take years or even decades to surface. "The problem is that UV damage builds quietly in the skin and may not become noticeable for years," says Czernik.

Hafeez says that can create a false sense of safety. "Someone may tan repeatedly and think, 'Nothing bad happened last time,'" she notes. That thinking is especially true for teens and 20-somethings for whom health consequences years down the road can sound like a "future me" problem. 

However, some creators are starting to post about the consequences of skipping sunscreen and using the UV index as a tanning tool.

"The time 2 years ago i thought it was a good idea to spend 3 hours in UV 11 'tanning' with no sunscreen," posted TikTok user Cathryn Akers, revealing the blistering sunburn she developed on her face. Several people in the comments called it a "lifechanging sunburn" — and not in a good way. "I had a life changing sunburn like this in high school. I'm now 23 with melanoma," one person commented.

TikToker Kelly Trebendis shared her bright red sunburn after using tanning oil on the beach while the UV index was 8. She tried to head off criticism by captioning the video: "I know I'm stupid you don't have to tell me I'm so mad at myself." That didn't stop commenters from sounding the alarm and even sharing their own skin cancer experiences, including photos.

'There is no such thing as a safe tan'

So what should Gen Z know before trying to chase a tan? For starters, experts emphasize that sunscreen isn't the danger — UV exposure is.

"There's no good evidence that sunscreen, when used as directed, causes cancer in humans," says Czernik. "Overwhelming evidence shows that sunscreen helps reduce the risk of certain skin cancers by protecting from UV radiation."

And while some chemical sunscreen ingredients may enter the bloodstream, Czernik says research hasn't shown that this is harmful. Still concerned? Mineral-based sunscreen with zinc oxide and/or titanium dioxide mostly sits on the skin's surface and is generally considered very safe.

And sunscreen with SPF 30 or higher isn't your only line of defense. Experts also recommend seeking shade during peak sun hours (between 10 a.m. and 4 p.m.); wearing a hat and sunglasses; choosing clothing with UPF 50+, which is designed to block UV rays; and spending less time outside when UV levels are especially high — in other words, using the UV index as intended.

Swapping the sun for a tanning bed isn't a safer bet either. Hale notes that they can emit UVA radiation at levels up to 10 to 15 times stronger than the midday sun, and research shows that using a tanning bed just once before age 35 is linked to a 75% increase in melanoma risk.

"The bottom line is: There is no such thing as a safe tan," says Hale. "Protecting your skin now can help reduce the amount of UV damage you accumulate throughout your lifetime."

And if it's the bronzed look you're after, Rastogi suggests reaching for spray tans or self-tanners instead. "Ultimately, when it comes to your skin, it's best to look beyond social media trends and rely on evidence-based advice from dermatologists," she says.

The actor turned heads at the premiere of the Ridley Scott film in London on Thursday, arriving in a fringed black Chanel dress and a pair of the fashion house's much-discussed "barefoot sandals."

Jo Hale/FilmMagic via Getty Images

Calling them sandals may be generous. The unusual design consists of a leather heel cap secured around the ankle, leaving the rest of Qualley's foot — including her soles and toes — completely exposed to the raw, red carpet elements.

Naturally, the internet has thoughts.

“Calling it a shoe is too much,” wrote one X user.

“OK, but the Margaret Qualley barefoot shoes are kinda horrible?” read another X comment.

There’s already a dupe — one creator turned black face masks into her own toe-baring sandals.

The shoes debuted as part of Matthieu Blazy's Chanel Resort 2027 collection in April and immediately sparked strong opinions. (Not many were flattering.) The New York Times described the concept as "irrational, nonsensical luxury," while Vogue called the unconventional footwear "freaky." 

Now Qualley, a Chanel ambassador, appears to be the first celebrity brave enough to take the so-called "non-shoe" from the runway to the red carpet. She completed the look with diamond earrings, loose waves and a dark manicure and, yes, a pedicure. That's particularly important when one's toes are essentially the main accessory.

The premiere marked one of Qualley's most prominent public appearances since news broke in July that she and husband Jack Antonoff had separated after nearly three years of marriage. At the time, a representative for the actor pushed back on speculation surrounding the breakup, saying there were "no trust issues" and "no infidelity."

If Qualley was hoping to divert attention from her ring finger, the toe-baring look certainly gave everyone somewhere else to look.

The Dog Starsis a post-apocalyptic thriller that also stars Jacob Elordi as a young pilot who ventures beyond his isolated homestead after receiving a mysterious radio transmission. It's in theaters on Friday, Aug. 28.

If you fall into the latter camp, here's roughly everything you need to know: Chanty Beluga is a blond, bubbly young woman who has recently begun popping up across social media, introducing herself to Uber drivers, ordering coffee and otherwise going about her fairly ordinary life. She is relentlessly cheerful and seems to be navigating the world with the confidence of someone who never once wondered whether people might find the name Chanty Beluga strange.

There's just one catch: Chanty Beluga is not a real person.

She is the creation of comedian, actor and writer Courtney O'Donnell, who came up with the name while messing around with friends on a late-night movie set. "I just was like, 'Hi, I'm Chanty,'" O'Donnell tells Yahoo. Everyone laughed. Then she added the Beluga, and everyone laughed harder. Soon, she was imagining the mundane life of a woman cursed — or blessed — with this extremely unique name.

"There's nothing to explain. She's just Chanty," says O'Donnell. And somehow, that really has been enough. "It's surprising how big it's gotten. It genuinely started as something that I found really fun. So I was like, I'll just keep doing it." 

The repetition is part of the humor.

"It's a little bit of a satire of the kind of content we see now. If you're a creator and one thing pops off, you kind of have to keep doing that. So it's like, 'Part 77 of your annoying coworker,' or whatever it is," says O'Donnell. "I've certainly felt that as a person who creates on the internet."

Nearly eight years into creating comedy content online, she's taking that formula to an absurdly simple place. Instead of an elaborate premise, she is "literally a woman doing the most basic things" — but with an outlandish name.

The more interesting part of Chanty's rise, however, might be how people found her in the first place.

This wasn't a familiar story of one TikTok suddenly reaching millions of people. Chanty began on Instagram. Then she started circulating on X. O'Donnell eventually decided she should probably create a TikTok account for the character, which is where she's found her biggest audience. (Chanty has just over 83,000 followers as I'm writing this.) 

In certain pockets of social media, she already has the trappings of a minor celebrity. There are fan accounts and running jokes. TikTok users have even begun inventing stories about their supposed personal encounters with her. "It's either like, 'Chanty's the nicest person ever. We went to high school together,' or like, 'She's a bitch. This is what she did,'" says O'Donnell. "One of them was that I was at Walmart and I stole Pringles and a gallon of milk out of someone's cart."

O'Donnell is happy to play along. "I think it's fun for it to be collaborative as well," she says.

Outside of those pockets, though, plenty of people have never heard of Chanty. Even some people swept up in the buzz were confused to find that her earliest videos didn't have millions of views. 

"I thought she was a viral sensation," one X user posted, seemingly disappointed that Chanty's original video only had 7,854 likes when she saw it. "Bravely coming forward to say [I] don't understand why this is popping off," another poster admitted. Others disagreed: "Deserves to be seen more widely."

That disconnect gets at something both strange and interesting about internet culture now. Two people can use the same social platforms every day and come away with almost entirely different senses of what or who is popular. 

"We're in this time period where sometimes we're all seeing the same thing. Sometimes we're not," says O'Donnell. 

And besides: Going mainstream just isn't Chanty's style. O'Donnell says the randomness feeds into the character's lore.

"I'm glad it didn't just go to a million people at first," she says. "The nicheness of it is something that is special, and hopefully that flavor still stays."

For O'Donnell, Chanty is just another turn in a much longer attempt to figure out what kind of comedy she wants to make online. She's had other characters take off, only to find herself creatively ready to move on after eight or nine installments. The challenge, she says, has been finding the overlap between what fulfills her creatively and what people online actually want to watch. 

Even though she started as an inside joke, Chanty, at least for now, has landed there. "I'm really glad that I found a place where I can create from joy," says O'Donnell.

In the meantime, she's continuing her other work, including a solo comedy show she has performed for two years. She doesn't intend for Chanty to become her entire identity. ("Imagine, I, like, change my name," she jokes.) Instead, she's treating Chanty as a project that she plans to follow only as far as it will take her.

"The second that it feels done, then it's done," says O'Donnell. "Hopefully, people have been introduced to me enough that they want to keep following along."