PUBLISHED
October 26, 2025
KARACHI:
Authenticity is the internet’s most sought-after illusion. When social media first promised a democratic space where anyone could speak, the appeal lay in its spontaneous and unorchestrated communication —its sense of being “real”. But as platforms professionalised, so did their users and the line between self-expression and self-promotion blurred. Today, even the most “unedited”, raw story is shaped by the logic of the algorithm. The grainy selfie, the offhand confession, all these have become part of an established visual language that in good ornbad faith evokes trust in users and followers.
Brands have welcomed this shift. Consumers no longer respond to overt salesmanship, but they do respond to emotion, relatability, and the feeling of being seen. Influencers who can sell a lifestyle while appearing unscripted hold immense power. Thus, authenticity—the very thing once thought to resist commodification—has become the most marketable quality. It’s what gives a creator credibility. The performance of sincerity has replaced the performance of glamour, but mind, it’s still a performance.
A world of too much
The influencer economy peaked during the pandemic: lockdowns, streaming breaks, social-media bingeing. Platforms flooded with unboxings, “what I bought this week” videos, endless branded posts. The promise of accessibility—anyone can share their life—met the logic of consumption: any life worth seeing could be merchandised.
Then came the fatigue. Both viewers and creators sensed the loop: buy, post, like, repeat. In the US, you saw TikTok creators rejecting the famed Dyson Airwraps, deriding viral skincare kits, declaring “I’m not shopping this month”. In Pakistan, the “no-haul” reel from Kanwal Aftab made headlines, partly because it seemed to run against the grain of luxury-aspiration influencer culture that had been thriving locally.
Content creators posted videos about “Why I’m Done Buying Trendy Things” declaring they were stepping back from “haul culture” and “the non-stop #sponsoLife”. Comments for these clips ranged from supportive—“Finally someone says it!”—to sceptical—“Another influencer telling us not to buy while she still posts ads?” This was a “de-influencer” moment. Content creators who had thus far jumped on one bandwagon or the other to sell cool and hip lifestyles, were now admiting fatigue.
The initial appeal was moral — restraint over excess. The audience liked it—finally someone was acknowledging how overwhelming this consumer culture is. However, this too quickly became a trend: “What I Bought vs What I Didn’t”, “One-Month No Shopping Challenge,” “True Cost of Influencer Life”. Hashtags sprouted and the loop restarted.
Authenticity as aesthetic
One of the great ironies of social media is that authenticity is no longer outside of style — it is style. The “real me” selfie, the messy bun, the no-filter room, the raw confession are all essentially curated. The so-called de-influencer will still shoot in perfect lighting, still wear labels, all while produce content cloaked as honesty.
The credible creator now is the one who shares a budget skincare routine despite having a brand deal.
Yet this aesthetic of imperfection is globally marketable. The algorithm loves relatability. Brands now pitch “real talk” ads: “I only buy what I love” while hiding affiliate links. The viewer buys into the feeling of “someone like me”, even as the content remains designed for engagement.
If the influencer economy turned talent into content and content into sales, the de-influencer economy turned honesty into brand. Corporate marketing teams now pitch “honest review” formats, creators sign “no-haul” sponsorships (yes, those exist), minimalism becomes a niche market, and sustainable alternatives a luxury option. The “anti-haul” video may criticise mainstream consumption—but it often ends with an affiliate code for a boutique ethical brand.
Capitalism is remarkably adaptable. The rebellion against it becomes its next product line: pushing “less is more” while selling the look of less. One viral de-influencing post about rejecting fast fashion may send viewers to second-hand luxury resale sites. The critique of consumption becomes consumption of the critique.
In Pakistan this plays out in local iterations: an influencer whose reel says “I’m done with over-the-top brands” might still link to a premium local label marketed as “ethical Pakistani made”. The difference is semantic, not structural. The economy of attention, of personas, of platforms remains unchallenged. In fact, it strengthens by absorbing dissent.
What “authenticity” means varies region to region. In Pakistan it often aligns with modesty, sincerity, grounded-ness: being “not too western”, being “just me – with chai and kids and modest fashion”. Social class narratives slip in: the creator who claims she still shops in Aashiana is signalling both authenticity and aspiration. In the Middle East, authenticity might signal minimalism, value-driven living, “ethical luxury”, but still features mansions, influencers in abayas, designer modest wear. In the US, authenticity is emotional visibility, vulnerability, sharing one’s mental-health journey.
Yet the code of authenticity often travels. Pakistani influencers adopt the “raw room” aesthetic popular in the US; Western influencers romanticise modest-fashion creators from Dubai. The irony: authenticity becomes globalized. The performance of “real me” looks the same whether you’re in Lahore or Los Angeles—bare lightbulb, no filter, “just being me”.
And yet local culture filters it. The “real” of Islamabad includes the veranda tea-time, the aunties’ comments in Urdu; the “real” of Miami includes the smoothie bowl, the Peloton bike, the minimal apartment. But both share the same architecture: showing what looks un-produced, while still being produced.
Emotional underpinnings
Showcasing authenticity is emotionally labour. The de-influencer still posts immaculately timed videos, still edits to look unedited, still cultivates a persona of exhaustion or honesty. They must monitor comments, maintain engagement, remain visible. The line between self and self-as-content extends further.
The viewer too is affected. We scroll for sincerity, but what we get is performance of sincerity. The constant stream of “real talk” can feel hollow. Cynicism creeps in: one more “I’m quitting buying” reel feels less like liberation than a fresh marketing angle. We crave quiet, but the platforms reward noise.
Underlying all this is anxiety—about relevance, about comparison, about self-worth. The influencer economy commodifies identity. The de-influencer economy commodifies resistance. The audience buys the illusion of escape, while the system continues unabated. And we are left scrolling, liking, subscribing, still part of the loop.
How can we detach?
Can the de-influencer genuinely break free of consumption’s logic? The evidence suggests not easily. Challenging fast fashion by promoting a boutique local label still frames consumption as virtue. The algorithm still needs attention, engagement, virality.
The resistance becomes another aesthetic. Just like past subcultures—punk turned fashion line, activism turned Instagram post—what started as rejection gets absorbed, repackaged, resold
In Pakistan, the aura of modest living has become a major selling point. “Real Karachi girl” or “Urdu heart, couture closet” types sell authenticity. Meanwhile global brands adopt the aesthetics of minimalism and “rawness”. The de-influencer moment might blunt the sharp edge of influencer marketing, but it doesn’t dismantle the infrastructure.
Which brings us to the most uncomfortable question: what remains authentic when authenticity is sold? Maybe what is real no longer shows. Maybe the unsaid, the unposted, the uncurated matter more than the reel. The moment when the phone is off, the filter untouched, the product unmentioned. The truth may live in what we don’t broadcast.
You, the scrolling audience, hold a kind of agency. You may choose what you consume and what you believe. Knowing the architecture behind the feed is the first quiet rebellion. Real authenticity might not be a post—it might be the pause.
We might need to stop believing that we must see everything we’re told to see. Authenticity might survive not in what we post, but in what we choose not to post.
So next time you scroll and see someone declaring their “freeing myself from consumption” moment—ask: who is buying this freedom, and who’s being sold it?
Maybe the most authentic thing left is simply to scroll once, then shut the app. Let the silence between notifications be your act of resistance.
