In Trying to Be “Relatable,” We’re Missing a Deeper Way of Relating

What interests me more than your Sézane knitwear, statement loafers, and favorite red lip

I’m going to come straight out and say it: the “relatable aesthetic” is rotting my brain (and likely yours, too).

I call it the “relatable aesthetic” because it’s not one thing. It’s more of a collage, a feeling, a tastefully curated mood board, a sense that, “Ah yes. This is relatable. She is relatable.” 

Because it usually is a she and that she is often but not always American, white, upper-middle class, thoughtfully styled, and effortlessly, casually chic. She is well educated but not too well educated and smart but not too smart and cultured but run through a filter.

She is nice, she is smiling, she is unproblematic. She is the everyday woman but elevated.

She has all the right politics and sticks to the script but doesn’t need to mention that script because we’re all in on it, right? We all know the narrative; we’re on the same team. And of course there are coded tells that aren’t really coded. And of course there are moments where outrage is not only called for but the price of admission. But we’ll know those moments. We’ll make sure to perform them together.

Mostly, we’ll look to her, who looks to her, who looks to her. Because she and they know the exact thing to say and the exact way to say it. And while we may not know how to reproduce it (if only! we’ll try!), we’ll definitely know when we see it.

We’ll see their perfect white tees and new statement loafers and knits from the wool of baby alpacas. We’ll click on their splurgy investment pieces (and start calling clothes “pieces”) and gaze upon must-have fall basics like barn jackets. Such a timeless feel, don’t you think? To dress up or down? To pair with gold hoops or white trainers?

And fear not, because of course they won’t gatekeep their haircare or skincare or favorite red lip. Of course they’ll share everything they purchased and noticed in New York and Paris. Of course we’ll all watch the same shows and read the same things and support the same party and post the same memes. Of course they’ll tie things up with, “if that makes any sense!” (And it does! It really does! It makes so much sense!)

And absolutely they’ll acknowledge their privilege, and absolutely they’ll perform inclusivity and diversity and allyship, and absolutely they’ll repeat all the things they’ve been told they should say.

But they’ll stay within the same narrow narrative. Because it’s safe here—sanitary, even. There’s a clear, unspoken agreement. We have an agreement. We’ll consume without doubt. We’ll follow the rules. We’ll be good little members of the we’re-all-good-here collective.

Except, I don’t find it relatable, but dangerous. And even though it’s rotting my brain, I not only consume but inhale it.

It’s not the content. It’s the assumption of sameness.

Look, I follow and enjoy all kinds of content online. Most of what I read is by people who have much different lives from my own and come from much different backgrounds. I seek this out. I love having a window into different realities and realms of experience—including ones that are next-level “nice” and “relatable.”

What bothers me is when these lifestyles and choices are framed in such a way, and slipped into online content in such a way, and pop up everywhere in such a way that you’d imagine we’re all doing and thinking and believing the same fucking things. 

What’s dangerous is when shared-and-sanctioned opinions are presented as THE truth and THE reality. And when (politely, unproblematically) sharing those opinions is confused with actually doing anything helpful.

And so, I not only find the whole “relatability” question curious; I find my relationship to it curious. And I suspect that by even just consuming “relatable” content, I’m contributing to something that isn’t quite right.

Being “relatable” isn’t relatable or aspirational.

Why is it that I find the relatable aesthetic irresistible on the surface but irritating and oftentimes enraging within? Why do I feel pressure to not only inhale it, but be it?

Because most things the algorithm has trained us to flag as “relatable” aren’t relatable at all—at least not to me. They relate to a particular kind of life and a particular way of being in the world that’s wildly different from my own. And yet, they feel so familiar, so expected, so matter of course. They signal: this is the template. They suggest: this is the way we’re all meant to be.

But it’s not my template! Yes, I’m female, in my forties, white, and was born in America. But I’ve lived the majority of my adult life outside of America. I’m queer but married to a het-cis man. I don’t own a house or car or furniture or more than twenty items of clothing. I don’t belong to or support the major political parties. I don’t watch tv or drink alcohol. I’m off all social media except Substack. I love my life! (But I can assure you, it’s sure not relatable.)

And look, I’m not saying my choices are superior or inferior to anyone else’s. But what cool (yet approachable), cheerful (yet appropriately concerned), upper-middle-class American women are doing or shopping or watching or voting is not relatable or top of mind or in any way relevant for the overwhelming majority of the Earth’s population, despite what the algorithm sells you. And you don’t need to live an absurdly unconventional life to see this.

So, what’s the draw? What is it that I find so magnetizing and mesmerizing about so-called relatable content?

An obvious suspect is jealousy. Or, if not jealousy, aspiration. Or, if not aspiration, a desire for fairness. Because let’s face it: the distribution of opportunity and resources and power and status and ease in this world is not equal. And a central part of “relatable” writing’s appeal is that it falsely signifies the presence of those things, offers the pretense of fair play, and is aspirational for many.

And yeah, I guess you could say that’s true for me too: I crave the affirmation and ease and baby alpaca knits of it all (even if it’s all a performance). More than that though, what I really aspire to is to be accepted (despite or even because of my differences). Which comes down to wanting to belong. Which comes down to wanting to be safe.

But as a non-relatable person, I can tell you firsthand: The relatable aesthetic does not help us achieve acceptance, belonging, or safety. It does the opposite. It makes life feel lonelier, smaller, more fearful.

Relatable content may seem harmless, but it’s not. The Sea of Sameness isn’t real, but it causes real harm.

Even though I don’t aspire to be relatable in real life, I’m guessing I’m not alone in feeling pressure to present that way online. To pretend we’re one of (or at least a whole lot more like) the Relatable We.

The reasons I mentioned above loom large here: wanting to be liked and belong and feel safe. Not to mention earning a living online, realizing that “relatable” sells, and understanding that being un-relatable is a big liability.

But choosing to play this game—including passively, by consuming rather than producing “relatable” content—has consequences. Relatable content may seem harmless, but it’s most definitely not. 

The Sea of Sameness we’re fed online is a myth. That myth presents what’s true for an infinitesimally small group of people as the norm and majority. It also props up very real, very oppressive dynamics and systems that benefit certain groups at the expense of everyone else.

The tacit assumptions and wink-wink of groupthink assume we’re all sold on the same reality and the same dream and not only that but are actually living that reality and dream or will be if we follow along. Because, after all, everyone’s doing it. Because, after all, you don’t want to be the weird one, right?

The result is the silencing of other perspectives, experiences, and voices.¹ Also whitewashing and classwashing differences in backgrounds, circumstances, lifestyles, belief systems, learned or innate characteristics, and choices. And perpetuating patterns of consumption that are ravaging our planet. And revealing who and what we as a collective truly prioritize (outside of red-lip service). Not to mention signaling that it’s okay and even polite to turn a blind eye and numb out.

Personally, I’m not okay with this, I do not consent, I feel called to declare: NO, WE’RE NOT ALL DOING IT. NO, WE’RE NOT ALL BUYING ALL THE THINGS. NO, WE’RE NOT ALL NUMBING OUT THE WAY YOU’RE NUMBING OUT. NO, WE DIDN’T ALL CHOOSE THIS AND AREN’T ALL CHOOSING THIS. THERE ARE OTHER NARRATIVES, THERE ARE SO MANY OPTIONS, AND WE EACH HAVE MORE AGENCY THAN MOST SEEM TO REALIZE.

And absolutely, we have much, much, much in common. We’re all human! We all want to be comfortable and belong and feel safe. But the irony is, the relatable aesthetic not only isn’t about that, it acts to negate it. Because the relatable aesthetic isn’t about acknowledging our complex, shared messy humanness. It’s about insisting on one way and one narrative while ignoring, dissing, or downright dehumanizing everyone else.

Most disturbing of all, the relatability aesthetic demands that we take our cues from the internet. It programs us to trust what’s online and fed to us by an algorithm more than what surrounds us offline and what we feel deep within. The result?

• Walling ourselves up inside internet enclaves and separate, constructed realities

• Becoming increasingly intolerant towards others and difference

• Becoming increasingly willing to participate in shaming, othering, hatred, and violence (whether overtly, or through subtle messaging, or through selective ignorance and silence)

• Rejecting, censoring, and suppressing true inclusion, diversity, nuance, complexity, dissent, and honest, authentic expression

• Reinforcing unequal, lethal systems of power, control, and access

• Flattening and denying ourselves and others the full spectrum of humanity and human experience

• Forfeiting our personal and collective options and agency

• Insisting on “sameness” even as we deny our true sameness on a fundamental, heart-to-heart level

• Missing a powerful, beautiful opportunity to cultivate more meaningful connections and make online (and offline) spaces safer, more honest, more human

In trying to be “relatable,” we’re missing a deeper way of relating.

Look, I won’t pretend to have this sorted. Despite my missive above, despite my angst and ambivalence around consuming “relatable” content, I still enjoy “relatable” content! (And, to some extent at least, I give into the pressure to present as relatable.)

But I do find it essential to get really honest about what we’re up to, what we’re participating in, and what we’re perpetuating.

And I do know that one of the most tragic parts about all of this is that, in trying to be “relatable,” in looking to online sources as our primary reference, in disconnecting from our offline reality, in losing touch with our internal compass, we are missing a fuller, deeper way of relating. 

This deeper way of relating includes connecting with what’s most internal and connecting more courageously and honestly with others. This deeper way of relating offers the sense of belonging, acceptance, and safety we’re after when we reach for “relatable.”

Except, it’s not an aesthetic whispered in our internet ear. Except, rather than narrow narratives and surface sameness, it offers depth, expansiveness, and celebration of difference amidst all that we share.

I’d love to hear your thoughts.

I’d especially love to hear from those who create and share content online. (As always in this space, you’re invited to share your personal experience; no unsolicited advice or spreading of hate and division, please.)

• Do you experience pressure to be “relatable” as defined by dominant cultural narratives? How do you respond to such pressure? 

• Do you ever find yourself trying to be relatable or presenting as relatable at the expense of choosing a more honest, more courageous, deeper way of relating?

• Do you feel safe saying what you really think and believe online? Why or why not?

Thank you, from my heart to yours,
Dana

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1. Along similar lines, Danusia Malina-Derben discusses “The Curated Theatre of Relatability” and how it silences diverse perspectives, closes down possibilities, and limits our access to valuable insights and wisdom in her excellent essay: “7 Prompts to Free Yourself from the Likeability Trap.”