What used to be TMI is now content gold—but have we gone too far?

Do you ever see something online and think… literally wtf did I just read?

People dropping absolutely insane “lore” for the sake of attention is not new. But it’s become a common phenomenon on my FYP, and I’ve decided it means one thing: we all need to know less about each other!

Social media has always encouraged self-mythologising. What started as curating an aesthetic Instagram grid evolved into TikTok confessionals where influencers turn their life struggles into serialised content. The more compelling your lore, the more engagement you get.

Wound-baring has long been a surefire way to rack up likes.

But today, oversharing comes with a new layer: a performative detachment that makes personal trauma feel like a damn franchise. (And if that was the case, I’d be stinking rich. Only I’m not selling my soul to the algorithm.)

In the world of "get ready with me" videos, influencers pair their makeup routines with painful personal stories, making trauma consumption as casual as bronzer application. Now, many of these videos come with “lore drops.” These are not just personal anecdotes. They're gossip, hearsay, and revelations about friends, exes, and celebrities. The more shocking the drop, the better the engagement. But am I the only one thinking… it’s gone too far?

The erosion of personal boundaries online is nothing new, but the way it’s bleeding into real life is.

The internet has trained us to engage with each other’s deepest secrets as if they’re part of an ongoing TV series. It makes sense, then, that the etiquette of the online world doesn’t always translate well to the physical realm.

Asking, “Where is your shirt from?” under a TikTok where someone exposes an abuser might feel normal online. But that same lack of spatial awareness doesn’t play well in real life. We are living in an age of context collapse. Strangers have access to each other’s most intimate details at any given moment.

The result is a collective inability to distinguish between what should be shared publicly and what should remain private.

We’ve reached a point where people aren’t just sharing their experiences. They’re also constructing whole ass narratives. And when your life is a story for public consumption, the temptation to dramatise, exaggerate, or fictionalise becomes inevitable.

The pressure to turn personal pain into engagement is dangerous—not just for the person sharing but for audiences who become emotionally invested in the trauma of strangers. And let’s not forget that the internet literally rewards this.

Platforms amplify emotionally charged content because it keeps users engaged. The more shocking the revelation, the more viral potential it has. But what happens when this culture of oversharing turns into a kind of social competition? When someone’s “lore” is deemed unremarkable, do they feel pressured to up the stakes? Does this lead to reckless and dangerous behaviour?

So, where do we go from here?

The internet thrives on extremes. If we can turn our lives into folklore, why wouldn’t we? But at some point, we have to ask: Are we losing something in the process? Chronic oversharing is a disease, and we’re all infected to some degree.

The ease of sharing everything online has fundamentally changed how we understand boundaries, both on and off screen. There’s an urgent need to reclaim some level of privacy—to recognise that not everything needs to be immortalised as part of our “canon.” Because, honestly? Some things are better left unsaid. Especially how your mom slept with your boyfriend. Thanks, Becky.

-Sophie, Writer