TikTok and the Democratization of Trendsetting

There’s something quietly revolutionary happening on our phones. In between 15-second dance clips, GRWM videos, and chaotic product reviews, TikTok has managed to reshape who gets to start a trend. And surprisingly, that power no longer rests with celebrities or legacy brands. It belongs to everyone. Trendsetting once followed a clear path. Designers debuted their latest collections on runways. Fashion editors and celebrities determined what was in and what was out. Campaigns were meticulously planned months in advance to maintain a certain level of exclusivity. This structure created a cultural hierarchy where a select few dictated the aesthetic direction for everyone else.

But TikTok disrupted that model. What once required industry influence, glossy production, and insider status can now be sparked by a single relatable video filmed on an iPhone. It could be someone talking about a lip liner that changed their routine or showing a $10 Amazon find that looks high-end. These moments are raw, unscripted, and rooted in personal experience. And they spread faster than any campaign ever could. The beauty of TikTok is that it rewards resonance over perfection. The algorithm does not favor status, it favors engagement. That means an everyday creator has just as much potential to influence the masses as a celebrity or brand with a multi-million-dollar budget. A random haul, an offhanded comment, or a “dupe” recommendation can ignite a cultural moment that drives consumer behavior in real time.

This shift has created what many are calling the era of micro-trend cycles. These are rapid, often short-lived surges in popularity that don’t come from institutions but from communities. One week it’s the coquette aesthetic, the next it’s tomato girl summer, followed by mob wife energy. While it can feel overwhelming, it also reflects a cultural desire to explore, play, and express individuality in new ways. TikTok is less about chasing a singular ideal and more about giving people the freedom to try on different versions of themselves, without needing permission.

Brands are paying attention, but they are also learning that cultural relevance is no longer something you can buy. It must be earned. In this new world, prestige does not guarantee virality. People are far more interested in authenticity and relatability than they are in polished campaigns. If a product or idea does not feel accessible or real, it won’t stick. This is why brands often find themselves catching up to a trend that was born without them. The challenge is no longer about starting the conversation, it’s about knowing how to join it meaningfully. For consumers, this democratization is empowering. It flips the narrative from aspiration to participation. TikTok users are not passively absorbing what they’re told is cool, they are deciding what cool looks like. This participation fuels a sense of ownership over culture that hasn’t existed before in the same way. You’re not just following a trend, you’re shaping it, interpreting it, sharing it with your community. This feeling of co-creation has redefined how people see themselves within the cultural landscape.

What’s even more interesting is how this change reflects broader societal shifts. People are craving spaces where they feel seen, where their voices matter, and where they can experiment without judgment. TikTok provides that in a way no other platform has. Whether you're a fashion student in Paris or a high schooler in Texas, your influence is not limited by your background, it’s amplified by your perspective. That shift is significant, not just for trend cycles but for the entire marketing and cultural ecosystem.

Trendsetting, once exclusive, now feels communal. And in that shift lies something more than a change in style, it’s a redefinition of cultural power. TikTok didn’t just create a new channel for trends. It opened the floodgates and gave everyone a seat at the table. What comes next will not be dictated from above but created by the millions who now have the tools to lead from wherever they are.

Do You Even Like That, or Did the Internet Tell You To?

There’s a moment that hits me sometimes when I’m scrolling through my feed. I’ll pause on a trending dress, a curated kitchen aesthetic, or a color-coded bookshelf and think to myself, do I actually like this? Or do I just think I should?

It’s a question that lingers, especially when so many of our preferences are formed in public. We’re constantly liking, saving, sharing, and reposting. And in that process, we’re not just expressing ourselves. We’re absorbing what the internet tells us is worth wanting. Whether it’s a viral oat milk brand or the right shade of beige, what we consume begins to reflect more of what we’ve seen than what we’ve actually chosen.

This isn’t new. Social influence has always played a role in shaping consumer behavior. But what’s different now is the scale and speed at which it happens. Platforms like TikTok, Pinterest, and Instagram collapse the gap between trend discovery and adoption. What used to take months to trickle down through fashion magazines or peer networks now happens in hours. We don’t just notice trends, we internalize them, often before we even realize it.

Psychologically, this is tied to what researchers call the mere exposure effect. The more we’re exposed to something, the more we tend to like it. It’s not because we’ve reasoned through why we like it. It’s because our brain equates familiarity with safety, and safety with preference. What shows up repeatedly on our feeds becomes more than just noise. It becomes normalized. Desirable. Even aspirational.

This can create a feedback loop, where visibility drives preference, and preference drives further visibility. It’s the reason why trends often feel like they’re everywhere all at once. It’s also why taste can start to feel homogenous. When everyone is curating their lives from the same visual moodboard, individuality becomes harder to locate.

But it goes deeper than that. On a more emotional level, the internet offers a kind of collective reassurance. When thousands of people agree that something is stylish, smart, or aesthetically pleasing, it gives us permission to like it too. We are social creatures, and part of how we form identity is by aligning ourselves with signals of belonging. There’s comfort in shared taste. There’s also status.

And this is where the performative aspect of taste comes in.

Online, we don’t just engage with things we like. We also engage with things that make us look a certain way. A well-timed book recommendation, a niche coffee order, a neutral-toned apartment — these aren’t just lifestyle choices. They’re subtle brand signals. We’re constantly managing how we are perceived, and taste becomes another tool for that. Not because we’re being disingenuous, but because self-presentation is now part of how we navigate both social and professional spaces.

So what does that mean for authenticity?

I think the answer lies in intentionality. Real taste is not about resisting trends for the sake of rebellion. It’s about being aware of how influence works, and then pausing long enough to ask whether something actually aligns with who you are and what you value. That pause matters. It’s where discernment begins. It’s where you begin to tell the difference between what resonates and what simply circulates.

For me, this means occasionally stepping away from the scroll. It means noticing what I’m drawn to without a thousand other voices shaping my reaction. It means allowing my preferences to evolve more slowly, outside the pace of what’s trending. Sometimes I find that I genuinely love the thing. Other times, I realize I was just caught up in the moment.

As someone who studies consumer motivations, I think one of the most important shifts we can make is toward more reflective consumption. Not just asking what we like, but asking why we like it. Who told us it was desirable? Whose version of taste are we borrowing? And is it actually serving us?

Because in a world full of curated feeds and manufactured desire, reclaiming your own taste might just be the most authentic choice you can make.

Why Nostalgia Sells: The Return of Y2K, Vinyl, and Flip Phones

Lately, I’ve been thinking about the fact that my TikTok feed looks like a mash-up of 2002 and today. Low-rise jeans. Glittery butterfly clips. Flip phones being marketed as “aesthetic.” Even Gen Z, many of whom weren’t even alive during the Y2K era, are obsessed with everything from disposable cameras to chunky wired headphones. This isn’t just a coincidence. It’s nostalgia. And it sells.

Nostalgia marketing isn’t new, but it’s having a serious moment right now. We’re seeing brands bring back vintage logos, rerelease archival designs, and lean heavily into retro packaging. But this wave feels different. It’s not just about tapping into warm memories. It’s about comfort, control, and a quiet resistance to the overstimulated, hyper-digital world we’re living in.

From a behavioral lens, nostalgia works because it creates emotional safety. When things feel uncertain—economically, socially, globally—consumers tend to reach for what feels familiar. Psychologists call it a coping mechanism. Marketers call it a brand strategy. Either way, it taps into the same core need: to feel grounded.

What I find especially interesting is how younger generations are participating in nostalgia for things they never actually experienced. A teenager walking around with a Walkman isn’t reliving a memory. They’re reaching for a version of simplicity that predates the noise of today’s algorithm-driven world. There’s something refreshing about the idea that not everything needs to be instantly optimized or captured for a story.

Flip phones are a perfect example. People are romanticizing the idea of clicking a phone shut and disappearing from constant notifications. That physical gesture symbolizes boundaries in a way that “Do Not Disturb” never could. Similarly, vinyl records aren’t about convenience. They’re about ritual. About intentionally choosing to slow down and sit with something rather than shuffle past it.

I think brands have picked up on this need for analog moments, not just for the sake of trend but because it allows them to meet consumers in a more emotional place. It’s less about pushing innovation and more about inviting reconnection. Even tech companies are joining in. Look at the reemergence of pixelated fonts or camera apps that mimic the delay and imperfection of old film. These are aesthetic choices, yes, but they’re also emotional signals. They say, we remember what it felt like before things got so fast.

But nostalgia, like anything, comes with tension. When used carelessly, it can feel inauthentic. It becomes a costume rather than a connection. Consumers pick up on that instantly. The brands that get it right are the ones that don’t just replicate the past. They reinterpret it. They understand the emotional context and update the experience for today’s world. That’s where the power lies.

Nostalgia sells not just because it reminds us of who we were, but because it gives us something to hold onto in the present. It makes us feel something real in a time where so much of what we interact with is filtered, fleeting, and carefully curated.

So when I see a flip phone commercial scored with a 90s pop song or a skincare line using grainy Y2K graphics, I don’t roll my eyes. I get it. There’s a reason these things hit. We’re not just buying a product. We’re buying a feeling we miss, or maybe a version of life we wish we had.

And that, more than anything, is what makes nostalgia one of the most powerful selling tools in today’s marketplace.

When Main Character Energy Becomes a Marketing Strategy

There’s a moment happening in culture right now where the lines between self-expression and self-performance are getting harder to distinguish. One of the clearest signals of this is the rise of what we now call “Main Character Energy.” It’s the idea that each person is the protagonist of their own story, worthy of attention, aesthetic curation, and emotional investment. At first glance, it sounds empowering. Who wouldn’t want to feel like the center of their own narrative? But as with most things that originate in internet culture, what begins as self-celebration quickly becomes commodified.

Main Character Energy has officially made the leap from social media buzzword to strategic marketing playbook. Brands are now using it as a framing device, inviting consumers to see their products as tools in the making of their personal stories. The campaign is no longer just about what the product does. It’s about how the product supports your evolution. How it helps you “romanticize your life.” How it turns mundane moments into movie scenes.

There is something clever about it. There is also something unsettling.

We are living in a time when selfhood is curated across platforms. We edit, filter, caption, and post versions of ourselves that are meant to be consumed, not just seen. The marketing world has followed that shift. It no longer speaks to the functional aspects of products alone but to the aspirational identities we’re all trying to shape. Main Character Energy taps directly into this need to feel like we matter in a world that often tells us we don’t.

But we have to ask: What happens when this narrative becomes a sales tactic? Who benefits when consumers are encouraged to view themselves through the lens of perpetual self-performance?

From a business perspective, the strategy makes sense. Consumers are far more emotionally responsive when they feel seen. Give them a campaign that mirrors their self-image or offers a more elevated version of it, and you have their attention. But not all attention is equal, and not all consumers see themselves in these idealized portrayals of “the main character.”

That’s where the gap is growing.

Many of the people being asked to adopt Main Character Energy don’t see their lived experiences reflected in the curated campaigns that claim to represent them. The protagonists we’re shown are still largely filtered through conventional standards of beauty, privilege, and aesthetic polish. When everyone is told they should be the lead but only a select few are actually portrayed as such, the result is a quiet reinforcement of exclusion. The strategy promises empowerment but often defaults to familiarity.

This also puts pressure on individuals to constantly perform their lives for the sake of the narrative. Not feeling like the main character today? That’s now a deviation from the script. That’s something to fix, purchase, or reframe. In this way, the consumer is never just consuming. They are always actively participating in a story that is being written for them, often by someone else.

What I would argue is this. Main Character Energy does not need to be discarded. But it needs to be redefined. The most meaningful brands today are not just those that place the consumer at the center of a story. They are the ones that allow for messiness, for nuance, for moments where the story stalls. They create space for co-authorship. They recognize that selfhood is not always cinematic and that value lies not in how captivating a person appears, but in how honestly they show up.

This version of storytelling is slower. It is more human. And it requires brands to stop trying to insert themselves into every narrative and instead, offer tools that support the complexity of real identity.

Because in the end, not everyone wants to be the main character every day. And that should be more than okay. It should be part of the story.

Why Marketers Need to Start Thinking About Gen Alpha Now

While most brands are still trying to figure out how to connect with Gen Z, there is already a new generation forming expectations. Generation Alpha, born between 2010 and the mid-2020s, is growing up in a completely different world than any cohort before them. They are digital-first, brand-aware, and already shaping household purchase decisions, even if they are still in elementary school. Marketers cannot afford to wait. The habits, preferences, and values of this generation are already taking shape. And the brands that start paying attention now will be the ones that win long-term trust later.

Gen Alpha has never known a world without smartphones, voice assistants, or algorithm-driven content. They are being raised by millennial parents who value personalization, transparency, and convenience. This means they are growing up with high expectations around how brands communicate, how products work, and how quickly they get what they want. They are used to having access to information, to asking questions, and to seeing themselves reflected in content from a very young age.

That matters. Because it means that Gen Alpha is developing a natural filter for inauthentic messaging and generic experiences. They do not respond to one-size-fits-all advertising. They expect relevance. They expect interaction. And most of all, they expect brands to speak their language, not just visually, but socially and culturally. For marketers, this is both a challenge and an opportunity. The challenge is clear. Traditional brand strategies are not designed for a generation that swipes before it speaks. Gen Alpha will not wait for a message to get good. They are already moving on. Attention is no longer just short. It is earned.

But the opportunity is just as powerful. Gen Alpha is incredibly engaged. When something resonates, they share it, shape it, and stay with it. They are not passive consumers. They are early co-creators. Brands that give them tools to play, remix, or explore are more likely to earn loyalty. And that loyalty can start forming earlier than most marketers realize. Already, Gen Alpha is influencing what their families buy. From snacks to tech to entertainment, they play a real role in shaping household behavior. They are also watching how brands show up in the world. They are growing up in a culture where ethics, inclusion, and sustainability are discussed at the dinner table. They are paying attention. And they will remember.

If Gen Z demanded transparency, Gen Alpha will expect alignment. They will expect the brand’s message, product, and values to all match, because they will be able to spot the disconnect immediately. And when they do, they will not hesitate to look for something else. This generation is not going to be won over with trend-jacking or surface-level engagement. It is going to take intentional design, meaningful interaction, and long-term strategy. Marketers need to think about how they are laying the foundation now. That means rethinking content formats, platform presence, product design, and even internal team culture. Because by the time Gen Alpha reaches peak purchasing power, it will be too late to start trying to understand them. The brands that succeed will be the ones who chose to learn early, listen carefully, and build trust from the start.

China Is Exposing the Luxury Industry. Here’s Why It Matters.

As trade tensions between China and the West intensified, the luxury industry found itself caught in the middle. Higher tariffs on Chinese exports were intended to pressure the country’s manufacturing sector. But instead of quietly absorbing the hit, some Chinese manufacturers responded by exposing the very brands they once worked for. Using platforms like TikTok and Xiaohongshu, factory owners and workers began revealing how luxury products are actually made. They showed video clips from production lines, highlighted shared materials between high-end and lower-end products, and explained how similar goods, sometimes nearly identical, are made in the same facilities. Many of the luxury brands in question have built their value on exclusivity and craftsmanship, but these videos tell a different story. They show mass production, repeated processes, and minimal difference between a “luxury” item and a lookalike alternative.

This reaction from manufacturers is not random. It is a response to being pushed out of the trade conversation while continuing to be used for production. If China is being treated as an economic rival, these manufacturers are making sure consumers understand just how dependent Western luxury brands still are on Chinese labor and expertise. It is a form of digital retaliation, and it is having a real impact. This exposure is challenging the core of what luxury branding relies on. For decades, high price points were explained through words like heritage, artistry, and precision. But now, consumers are seeing the markup laid bare. If the same bag can be made in the same factory using the same materials, and one costs $3,000 while the other costs $90, the logic behind luxury starts to fall apart.

This connects directly to my research on dupe culture. In my studies, I found that consumers are not choosing dupes because they are trying to fake status. They are choosing them because they no longer believe that paying more automatically means getting more. Dupes let people access the same look, feel, and function without buying into what they now see as an outdated pricing model. When the manufacturing process becomes visible, the emotional justification for luxury weakens. It is harder to attach meaning to a product once you see it broken down piece by piece on a factory table.

For consumers, this kind of transparency is empowering. Many already suspected luxury pricing was inflated. Now they are seeing evidence. What was once hidden behind brand marketing is now being explained by the people who built the products themselves. And in a world where side-by-side comparison videos and real-time commentary spread instantly, brand narratives can be undone in a matter of minutes.

The impact on brand perception is serious. What used to be seen as premium now risks being seen as overpriced. If a product’s value is based solely on its label, it becomes vulnerable. The more informed the consumer, the more likely they are to question not only the product but the brand’s ethics, pricing strategy, and overall credibility.

Luxury brands need to respond. That starts with transparency. If a product is truly different, brands should be prepared to show why. That includes sourcing, labor standards, design innovation, and anything else that sets it apart from a lookalike. Vague language about “quality” or “heritage” no longer carries weight if consumers cannot see the proof. Brands also need to rethink what they define as exclusivity. Today’s consumer is not necessarily chasing status. They are chasing alignment. They want to feel that what they buy reflects their values, not just their image. That includes price fairness, ethical production, and a sense of authenticity. In that sense, exclusivity is shifting from a product you cannot afford to a product that respects your intelligence.

The dupe effect is not just a trend. It is a reflection of this shift in consumer priorities. It shows that people still care about design and experience, but they are more selective about who they give their money to. If the dupe delivers the same result without the inflated branding, many will choose it, not out of rebellion, but out of logic.

The trade war may have sparked this exposure, but it is consumer behavior that will keep driving it forward. As long as people have access to information and alternatives, they will keep asking smarter questions. And the brands that survive this shift will be the ones that stop hiding behind their price tags and start proving their value.

When Ethics Meet Marketing

Marketing has always been about influence. It is the art and science of persuading people to see value, to feel desire, and to act. But as consumers grow more informed and expectations rise, influence alone is no longer enough. Today, marketing is increasingly judged not just by its effectiveness but by its ethics.

When ethics meet marketing, the conversation shifts from how to sell more to how to sell responsibly. It raises questions that cut deeper than price points, features, and brand awareness. It asks whether the tactics used respect consumer autonomy, whether the narratives reinforce harmful norms, and whether the promises made align with the realities delivered.

Historically, marketing has not always had a strong ethical reputation. The profession has been criticized for creating artificial needs, promoting unrealistic standards, and using emotional vulnerabilities for profit. Some of that criticism is fair. There have been countless moments when marketing chased short-term gains at the expense of long-term trust. But times have changed, and so have consumers.

Today’s consumers, particularly younger generations, are not passive recipients of brand messages. They are active participants. They question. They compare. They call out inconsistencies. They reward brands that act in alignment with their stated values and walk away from those that do not. In this environment, ethical marketing is no longer an option. It is a necessity.

Ethical marketing starts with transparency. It means communicating honestly about what a product is, what it can realistically deliver, and what it stands for. It means resisting the temptation to overhype, to manipulate urgency where none exists, or to exploit insecurities that brands themselves have helped to create. Transparency builds trust, and trust is the only currency that compounds over time.

Beyond transparency, ethical marketing demands a deeper sense of responsibility. It asks brands to consider not only what they are selling but how they are framing it. Language matters. Imagery matters. Storytelling matters. When marketing promotes narrow definitions of beauty, success, or happiness, it shapes cultural standards in ways that can either uplift or harm. Responsible marketing recognizes that brands do not just reflect culture. They help create it.

There is also an ethical responsibility around inclusivity. Representation should not be a seasonal campaign or a diversity checkbox. It should be embedded into how brands see their consumers every day. Ethical marketing reflects the reality of the world we live in, not an idealized, filtered version of it. It makes space for more people to see themselves in the narrative, not just a select few.

One of the most overlooked aspects of ethics in marketing is the ethics of attention. In a world where attention has become the most valuable commodity, brands often fight for it at any cost. Algorithms reward outrage, clickbait, and sensationalism. Ethical marketing resists that pull. It respects consumer attention as a privilege, not a right. It strives to offer value, relevance, and meaning rather than simply grabbing eyes for the sake of metrics.

When ethics meet marketing, brands have an opportunity to do more than sell products. They have the chance to build relationships based on integrity. Ethical marketing does not mean abandoning ambition or creativity. It means recognizing that influence is powerful and that with power comes accountability. It means playing the long game.

There is no perfect brand. Consumers are not asking for perfection. What they are asking for is honesty. They are asking for consistency between what a brand says and what it does. They are asking to be seen as people, not just targets. Brands that understand this will not just survive the shifts in consumer expectations. They will lead them.

Ethical marketing is not a trend. It is the future of meaningful business. It is a return to the understanding that marketing, at its best, is not just about transactions. It is about connection. It is about serving real needs, inspiring real aspirations, and building real trust. In a marketplace crowded with noise, ethics are not a liability. They are a signal. They tell consumers who they can believe in and why it matters.

The Emotional Language of Product Descriptions

At first glance, product descriptions appear simple. They explain what a product is, how it works, and why someone might want it. But the most effective descriptions do not just inform. They influence. They create emotional movement, shifting a product from something interesting into something essential.

Consumers rarely make decisions based on features alone. They respond to how a product makes them feel about themselves. Emotional language inside product descriptions is not just a stylistic flourish. It is a strategic tool. It invites consumers to imagine a better version of their lives. It taps into core emotional needs like confidence, belonging, self-care, and even control. A serum that "hydrates skin" is functional. A serum that "restores your glow and reignites your confidence" speaks to something much deeper. It creates a bridge between the product and the person's self-image.

Effective emotional language does not rely on clichés or overused adjectives. Words like "amazing," "incredible," or "best-ever" are often meaningless to the consumer. True emotional engagement comes from specificity. Instead of "high-quality material," a product description might say "woven to feel like a second skin." Instead of "long-wear lipstick," it becomes "color that holds its power through every meeting, every memory, and every moment you own." These descriptions do more than tell you what the product does. They suggest who you are when you use it.

There is a psychological foundation behind this approach. Decades of behavioral research have shown that emotions drive the majority of human decisions. Logic often plays a supporting role, used mainly to justify choices that have already been made on an emotional level. Emotional language in product descriptions does not manipulate the consumer. It meets them where they already are, helping them find words for the outcome they are hoping to achieve.

Understanding which emotional levers to activate is just as important as how they are expressed. In the beauty industry, emotional language often leans into transformation, self-empowerment, and ritualistic self-care. In technology, it might focus on mastery, ease, and a sense of future-readiness. In luxury products, emotional cues tend to revolve around exclusivity, status, or generational legacy. The most successful brands are those that match their emotional storytelling to the functional and symbolic value the product already carries.

The best product descriptions are also subtle. They do not overpromise. They do not tell consumers what to feel. They create room for the consumer to see themselves inside the story being offered. A description that says "this moisturizer will change your life" feels disingenuous. A description that says "wake up to skin that feels as refreshed as you do after a Sunday morning sleep-in" feels personal and believable. Specificity anchors emotion. It makes aspiration feel accessible rather than distant.

There is a reason emotional product storytelling has become essential in a crowded marketplace. As choices multiply and brand loyalty becomes harder to earn, the emotional connections consumers form with products have become one of the few defensible advantages brands have. The product description is often one of the last touchpoints before a decision is made. At that moment, clarity and emotional resonance are more powerful than a list of features.

It is not enough today for a product to work. It must matter. And the language that surrounds it must reflect that meaning. A face cream is never just about hydration. A fragrance is never just about scent. A dress is never just about fabric. These products offer moments of transformation, memory, power, and self-definition. Great emotional language reveals that truth without shouting it.

Crafting emotional product descriptions is not about embellishing reality. It is about articulating the silent hopes that live behind every purchase. It is about understanding that every decision to buy carries with it a small story about who the consumer wants to be. When done well, emotional language does not just sell a product. It strengthens identity. It turns an object into a memory. It deepens a relationship between the consumer and the brand that may have started at a point of transaction but grows into trust.

In a world where every brand claims to have the best solution, it is not the facts that distinguish them. It is the feeling they create. Emotional language is not an accessory to effective marketing. It is the language of choice itself.

What Consumer Behavior Gets Wrong About Gen Z

There’s no shortage of think pieces, marketing decks, and brand strategy briefs trying to decode Gen Z. We’ve labeled them everything from digital natives to ethical shoppers to chaos-loving maximalists who only communicate through memes. And while some of those patterns may hold true, the way we talk about Gen Z in consumer research has become lazy, reductive, and outdated.

The biggest mistake marketers and researchers make is treating Gen Z like a monolith. We keep trying to fit them into a neat box with one personality, one set of values, and one aesthetic. The truth is, Gen Z isn’t a moment. It’s a mosaic. And it’s long past time we stopped analyzing them as if they’re just a hyperactive, ultra-woke version of millennials.

If you’ve worked in marketing or research, you’ve likely seen this kind of oversimplification play out in phrases like “Gen Z values authenticity” or “Gen Z is all about self-expression.” While both statements may be true in spirit, the way we interpret them has become hollow. Authenticity, to Gen Z, isn’t about being raw and unfiltered in the way brands imagine. It’s about being in control of your own narrative whether that means curating a feed, embracing contradictions, or calling out performative behavior when they see it. They don’t want brands to be messy. They want them to be real and intentional. There’s a difference.

Another thing researchers get wrong is assuming Gen Z’s ethical awareness always translates into purchase behavior. Yes, they care about sustainability, representation, and fairness, but they’re also financially stretched, digitally overstimulated, and constantly targeted. Their values don’t disappear when they make convenience-driven decisions. They’re just navigating a different reality. Gen Z can want to support small businesses and still buy a twelve-dollar dupe they saw on TikTok because it fits their budget and delivers results.

We also need to stop framing Gen Z’s digital fluency as a flaw or a gimmick. This generation was raised with a high awareness of how content works online. They know when they’re being sold to. They know when something is being boosted, suppressed, or pushed through social proof. They engage with content strategically, often for entertainment first, information second, and trust only if earned. Just because they’re fluent in irony doesn’t mean they lack substance. They’re simply better equipped to see through manipulation and call it out before your campaign even gets its first wave of impressions.

One of the most misunderstood aspects of Gen Z is their relationship with identity. We often talk about them as if they’re constantly reinventing themselves, but what we miss is that they’re actually layering who they are. They don’t feel the need to be just one thing. They can be politically engaged and obsessed with reality TV. They can thrift for sustainability and still shop fast fashion. They don’t see that as a contradiction. They see it as real. And brands that expect them to flatten their personalities into neat personas often miss the mark entirely.

It’s also worth noting that Gen Z’s buying behavior is less about aspiration and more about alignment. They aren’t as driven by prestige or exclusivity as previous generations. They’re driven by resonance. They want to feel seen, not sold to. They want to remix trends and put their own spin on them rather than just adopt what’s already been declared cool. That’s why dupe culture exploded during their rise. It’s not about faking luxury. It’s about reinterpreting it. It’s about access, creativity, and the thrill of discovery without giving up control.

The truth is, Gen Z isn’t hard to understand. We just haven’t been paying close enough attention. They’re not anti-brand. They’re just not loyal to brands that haven’t earned their trust. They’re not flaky. They’re adaptive. They’re not distracted. They’re selective. If we want to understand Gen Z, we need to stop asking how to market to them and start asking what they’re responding to and why. Because Gen Z isn’t resisting the market. They’re reshaping it. And the brands and researchers who don’t adjust their lens will get left behind in the scroll.

Why Dupe Culture Is Deeper Than Copying

Let’s get one thing out of the way. Dupe culture isn’t just about finding a cheaper version of the “it” product. It’s not some clever trick to save a few dollars on lipstick or a designer lookalike. It’s become a full-blown movement. And like any movement, there’s a lot more going on beneath the surface.

I’ve spent years researching consumer behavior and social influence, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this: people don’t buy based on price alone. We buy what makes us feel something. What fits into our lives and identities. What reflects how we see ourselves or how we want to be seen. And dupes say a lot more than most people think.

Let’s start with the obvious. This isn’t about faking it. Most consumers today know they’re buying a dupe and they’re proud of it. There’s no shame. It’s actually more of a flex. Why spend $90 when you can get the same vibe for $18 and still look amazing. It’s not about deception. It’s about discernment. And that distinction matters.

There’s also a layer of identity baked into it. In a world where aesthetic choices are social currency, dupes give people access to the same signals without the heavy price tag. A lipstick shade, a handbag silhouette, a fragrance profile—these aren’t just products, they’re tools of self-expression. Dupes let consumers participate in that language on their own terms. They’re not settling. They’re choosing differently.

It’s true that social media amplified this behavior. TikTok, in particular, made dupe culture an aesthetic of its own. One swipe and you’ll find creators showing side-by-side comparisons with conviction. That visibility changed the game. It turned the act of finding a dupe into something joyful, intentional, and shared. Still, let’s be clear. Dupes aren’t new. People have been finding alternatives for decades. The difference now is that discovery happens faster, with a much bigger audience, and that kind of collective attention gives dupes power.

There’s also something quietly rebellious about the whole thing. In a market where luxury is designed to be unattainable, choosing a dupe can feel like opting out. It’s not a rejection of quality. It’s a refusal to play by rules that feel outdated or exclusive. People aren’t just buying similar products. They’re rejecting the idea that value should be defined by branding alone. That decision, even when unspoken, carries meaning.

So what does this all mean. Is dupe culture good or bad. Like most things in consumer psychology, it’s layered. Dupes challenge how we think about authenticity. They invite questions about originality, access, and intent. And they shift how we evaluate worth, not just in products, but in the systems behind them.

What’s clear is that dupe culture isn’t a trend. It’s a lens. A way people are responding to price, pressure, and perception all at once. And if we want to understand it, we need to move past the surface-level comparisons and start listening to what these choices are actually saying.

Because sometimes, buying the dupe isn’t about saving money. It’s about taking control.