by Atiqah Ghazali-alKashif
It was a quiet Saturday. I was out with Thalia after we stocked up on stationeries and postcards. She is one of thousands of sticker journalling influencers online. Three times a week, she records herself arranging stickers into journals after eight to ten hours of work. When she first started, she posted every other day, until she realized how exhausting it was. The process itself could take three to four hours, from planning themes and arranging stickers to editing videos and writing captions. She once considered venturing into stamping too, but quickly realized it would require even more tools, more money, more time.
“I miss not doing anything,” she said, stirring the melting foam of her green tea latte while we sat in the car beside a playground. “Like this. Just sitting around. When did every minute of our lives become something we had to optimize? Why do I have to record my hobby and put it online for people I don’t even know?”
Outside, children shrieked down the slides while parents scrolled through their phones on nearby benches. A teenage girl in an oversized hoodie was filming herself retaking the same pose in front of the swings. Somewhere in another car, someone was probably editing a video of themselves pretending not to care. I told Thalia she could always take a break. No one even knew the account belonged to her. No one was forcing her to continue. But even as I said it, the words felt unconvincing. The pressure no longer comes from people. It comes from the quiet fear of disappearing if we stop performing ourselves for too long.
“Why did you stop drawing? I miss the flowers, birds, and animals you used to draw,” Thalia changed the subject.
I just laughed it off. We said goodbye soon after, stepping out of the car and walking towards her parents’ house. I drove back alone to my rented apartment, just three blocks away. When I arrived, I saw the holding stick I used to screw onto the side of my Chinoiserie end table, the one with wheels underneath it so I could move it anywhere I wanted. I used to draw on it wherever I felt like it, not just in front of the television with jazz playing softly in the background.
What she said stayed with me longer than I expected.
It was true. This generation, the ones who witnessed the birth of Friendster, MySpace, YouTube, Facebook, Twitter, now X, Instagram, TikTok, Threads, and whatever comes next, have lived through the slow transformation of life into content. First photos, then posts, then videos, now podcasts. A never-ending loop of recording, posting, engaging, repeating.
Everything has become something to document. Everyone is trying to turn hobbies into side hustles. And if the numbers are big enough, those hobbies are no longer hobbies at all, but income streams, personal brands, survival strategies. A quick search told me there are around 64.5 million content creators on YouTube. Out of that, only about 60,000 to 100,000 make ten thousand dollars or more a month. That is roughly 0.12 percent. The number lingered longer than it should have. It made me wonder again, quietly, without urgency but with something heavier underneath it.
Since when did we start curating the idea of interestingness itself?
One of the content creators I used to follow is a woman from Southeast Asia married to a Westerner. Some called her husband a “passport bro,” others labelled her and the women from her country as “easy.” Under one of her videos, I once saw a comment that said, “You ladies are so easy. Just treat you for dinner, then I can f*ck you for free for a year.” I reported it, but before it was removed, the thread had already exploded. Her supporters from back home, diaspora voices from her community, and fans from elsewhere were all howling at the man who wrote it. I used to adore her. She reminded me of a colleague I once worked with, someone who carried the same quiet confidence in the way she spoke and showed up online.
Then one day, I saw her posting CCTV footage on her channel. I remember feeling slightly uneasy. Is there not a law that protects underage children from overexposure? Or at least guidelines about it? Is there not enough research already linking excessive social media use to mental health issues and suicidal ideation among young users? At that moment, something shifted in how I saw it all.
It felt like so many people had already buried RIP on their private selves, quietly, without ceremony, in the economy of digital stardom.
I talked about this with my team back at the office. Some agreed that there should be clearer guidelines, while others argued that the terms and conditions already exist, even if most people click the box without reading a word of it. A younger executive then added that more and more content creators are now recording their mundane lives. Driving to work, taking a bath, eating lunch. Some even go viral after livestreaming intimate moments, like arguments with their husbands, which in extreme cases have led to divorce unfolding in real time, in front of an audience.
I remember feeling genuinely shocked.
Are we now in debt to ourselves for not performing productivity? Do we record so much because we are trying to turn our lives into a kind of legacy? Are we so afraid of being forgotten, or even of death itself, that everything must be documented? Have personalities and identities become something that must undergo aesthetic surgery just to be liked, watched, or considered worthy?
I could not tell if this was societal expectation or societal decay. Perhaps it is both, overlapping until they are indistinguishable. I do not know if I have all the answers, but I know we need to begin talking about it.
Atiqah Ghazali-alKashif is a writer and former corporate professional residing in Malaysia and Egypt, with experience across marketing, and storytelling. Her writing often explores culture, identity, and contemporary social behaviour through reflective essays & lyrical fictions. She is particularly interested in anthology and perfect scrambled eggs on buttered toast.
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