This week, I was delighted when I opened my inbox to see Kate Lancaster’s latest newsletter on influencers, wealth, and relatability. 

I was delighted because this is something I have been mulling over for a while. It’s one of the primary reasons I don’t like – and am not on – TikTok. And was one of the core drivers behind my social media detox for the first half of this year.

Returning to social media in June, after many months away, had crystallised an odd phenomenon that many of us just accept as normal. Which is, the proliferation and normalisation of social media content that can only be described as wealth porn.

In the echo-chambers of our algorithms, you would be forgiven if you assumed that every person in the world had a wardrobe of luxury handbags (will it be the Chanel, the Miu Miu, or the Prada today?), owned a stack of Cartier bracelets, bought diamonds just cause, holidayed in hotels whose day rate cost more than a months’ rent, and wore daily fits totalling $10,000+. 

Now, this is absolutely no shade on the influencers (and people) who live like this. I have no judgement on how people choose to spend their money. In fact, I staunchly oppose people needing to – or feeling like they need to – apologise for their wealth and lifestyle. I’d far prefer this to the dreaded ‘cos-playing as poor’ phenomenon.

In saying this, however, there are elements of this social media behaviour that are absolutely worth interrogating. The primary being how certain influencers use wealth as an aesthetic, and how we, the consumers, so desperately and sycophantically lap it up. 

A clear but nuanced distinction must be made here in regards of the kind of content I’m talking about. Here, I’m not referring to fashion content – content that showcases style, design and, inevitably, luxury brands and fashion houses. Here, I’m referring to wealth porn content – content that emphatically emphasises, insistently displays and indulgently exhibits luxury and wealth.

 As Kate so eloquently puts in her Substack: “The codes of wealth are immediately (and often deliberately) made visible by certain creators. Money acts like the secondary character within each post, hinting the details of every frame that this particular POV will probably never get close to that of your own.”

 While creators don’t owe us relatability (for many this truly is just their lifestyle), I often wonder what propels someone to emphasise their wealth so intently? What drives them to need this kind of validation? To be emphatically known as Rich with a capital R?

When viewed from this lens, I can, at times, find compassion for these creators. (It’s quite sad to desire validation from money and financial status in this way…) 

But at other times, I can’t help but lament over the harm they’re creating. This kind of social media wealth porn skews the narrative; it contorts what is perceived as normal and leaves an onslaught of damage in its wake. 

My heart genuinely saddens for the unknowing users – likely girls younger than me, probably from a background far different than mine – who comment ‘how are you so rich’ on these creators’ posts. Sad because they are asking this question in earnest. Sad because they seemingly believe that, if they just knew how, they could enjoy that life of luxury, too.

The (ugly) truth is that – while these creators may have jobs, may receive those products as gifts, and/or make good money from influencing – often, they are rich because they are born rich. (Or marry rich).

When we (and the algorithms) platform, admire, and praise rich kids for essentially, just, being rich kids, we create a dystopian environment where their behaviours appear normal, standard, even common. 

The impact of this is immense. Some may seek to emulate their ways – burrowing themselves into debt and financial hardship. Others may spiral into comparison, self-doubt and negative wellbeing. Apathy, nihilism, and hopelessness may ensue.

The blame here, of course, doesn’t just lie with the creators or the algorithms that favour their content. We, the users, are as much responsible for the problem. Our attraction towards this content is understandable; there will always be a desire for a certain kind of voyeurism. It’s ‘enjoyable’, ‘aspirational’, ‘inspiring’, ‘insightful’.

But social media wealth porn is quite distinct from the movies and TV shows that depict excessive displays of luxury and wealth.

For one, these social media profiles are connected to real people; on platforms that we use daily. ‘They’re just like you and me,’ we say. But they’re not like you and me… Because even if Princess Maria-Olympia posts photo dumps of blurred restaurant plates, outfit shots, and mirror selfies… she is the aristocratic princess of Greece and Denmark. We are not. 

This familiarity creates a (false) sense of relatability and accessibility, within which comparison is rife, easy, and (sadly) inevitable. Case-in-point: I will never forget Isabelle Truman on After Work Drinks podcast lamenting over not being able to buy a $6000 dress because ‘Bella Hadid can’ (hard relate). 

In this way, wealth porn content is akin to junk food – it feels good in the moment, but afterwards, we’re left with this shitty, off feeling that is far more insidious, toxic and sadistic than we’d like to let on.

I don’t have the solution to this predicament… but I think it’s important to be having these conversations. At a time when it can feel that everyone lives a life of luxury and wealth online, it’s a beautiful thing to bring a much-needed reality check as to the lives and lifestyles of my peers.

 Because of how these platforms champion this type of content, I’ve found much solace in limiting my time online or eschewing certain platforms altogether. I find inspiration and connection elsewhere anyways – and those avenues do far less damage to my mental health and inner peace. And in my opinion, there’s nothing more luxurious than that.

Originally published 4 October 2024.

Original piece can be read here.

Images sourced from Pinterest.