Picture an Instagram feed full of blurry flash photos, captions that read “whatever” or “it is what it is.” Reels of people sitting expressionless in passenger seats, music low, eyes lower. Tweets that say, “idc lol,” even when they clearly do. Welcome to the aesthetic of being nonchalant: where everything’s a vibe and nothing’s a feeling.
It’s all about detachment now. You’re not supposed to show excitement; that’s embarrassing. You’re not supposed to cry over a movie; that’s dramatic. You’re not supposed to post earnestly about something you love; that’s cringe. You’re supposed to care ironically, because caring sincerely makes you look like you still believe in things, and apparently, that’s out of fashion.
But let’s be real: it’s boring. It’s beige. It’s emotional taxidermy. The culture of not caring has stripped us of colour, texture, pulse. Somewhere between the “that’s mid” comments and the quiet quitting of emotions, we forgot that passion is not a flaw; it’s the evidence that we’re alive.
Nonchalance is the ultimate performance. You act chill so no one can accuse you of wanting too much. You lower your voice so you won’t stand out. But what if I told you that the loudest, most unfiltered people, the ones dancing off-beat, confessing love too soon, clapping too hard at concerts; they’re the ones actually living?
Because the truth is: pretending not to care isn’t cool. It’s cowardice in cute lighting.
The lie of effortless detachment.
We keep calling it “chill,” but what we really mean is scared. Nonchalance isn’t confidence, it’s camouflage. It’s fear dressed up as aesthetics. Fear of being seen trying. Fear of being seen failing. Fear of being earnest in a world that treats sincerity like a punchline.
Somewhere, someone convinced us that feeling deeply makes us weak. That excitement is childish, heartbreak is embarrassing, and caring “too much” is a social crime. So we learnt to play dead. We started pretending that nothing touches us. But in the process, we stopped touching life at all.
We’ve mistaken irony for immunity and detachment for depth. But the truth is when you stop letting things move you, you stop moving altogether. You stop growing, glowing, becoming.
Nonchalance is the enemy of joy, but it’s also the enemy of grief, and you can’t numb one without numbing the other. You can’t close yourself off to pain without also closing the door to wonder. It’s emotional minimalism: looks good on the outside, empty on the inside.
And I get it. Vulnerability is terrifying. It’s easier to laugh at everything than to admit it matters. But the lie of detachment is this: it doesn’t protect you. It just isolates you.
Try instead what we’ve been taught to avoid: the cringe, the care, the chaos. Be the person who texts first. The one who says “I love you” without irony. The one who laughs too loud at their own jokes. That’s not desperation, that’s presence.
The revolution of loud living.
Imagine this instead: you and your friends scream-singing old songs in a cab at 1 a.m. You clap too loud at your friend’s open mic. You cry during a cartoon movie because something about it just hit. You post about your favourite book like it changed your life, because maybe it did.
That’s living loudly. It’s messy, it’s sincere, it’s the opposite of curated cool. It’s showing up to life in HD when everyone else is on power-saving mode.
I don’t want to be calm. I want to be alive. I want to feel my own heartbeat when I talk about something I love. I want my laughter to echo in a way that startles strangers. I want to feel, embarrassingly, completely, recklessly.
We’ve built a culture that worships the chill guy, the stoic girl, the person who “doesn’t care.” But caring is punk now. Crying is punk. Trying is punk. Showing up as your full, uncool, unfiltered self is rebellion in a world that profits from your apathy.
The next time someone calls you “too much,” take it as a compliment. It means you’re not anaesthetised. You’re still plugged into the power grid of existence. You’re still here, darling, and loudly so.
The cultural glitch of being nonchalant.
Let’s talk about how we got here: the internet. The birthplace of irony, the graveyard of sincerity.
Everywhere you scroll, someone’s trying not to look like they’re trying. We call it “effortless,” but it’s effort, just disguised. We live in loops of performative indifference: the soft-spoken influencer, the minimalist apartment, the caption that says “idc” but took three drafts to sound effortless.
Gen Z grew up on the fear of being cringe. The comment sections taught us that passion is risky, that earnestness invites ridicule. So we developed emotional firewalls. We became fluent in sarcasm and allergic to sincerity.
But here’s what we forget: all the great revolutions, social, cultural, emotional, were led by people who cared too loudly. The people who marched, sang, screamed, protested, danced, wrote, and loved out loud. Nothing world-changing has ever come from indifference.
We call it “cool” to stay calm, but history remembers the ones who made noise. The ones who risked looking foolish for something they believed in. The ones who clapped when others stayed quiet.
If you’re scared of being cringe, remember: every movement that mattered started with someone refusing to mute themselves.
Care so loudly it embarrasses you.
Here’s your call to chaos: stop performing chill. Stop trying to be the aesthetic of apathy. Stop dimming your joy to make others comfortable. Cry when it hurts. Scream when it thrills. Laugh so loud it makes people stare. Tell your friends you love them in the middle of the street. Wear colours so bright they make grayscale hearts flinch.
We are not meant to live half-heartedly. We are meant to be ridiculous, radiant, real. The world doesn’t need more people pretending not to care; it needs more people who care so much they overflow.
Nonchalance is a cage. Kick it down. Let your joy echo. Be brave enough to be earnest in a world terrified of sincerity. Because indifference might keep you safe, but it will never make you alive.
So go ahead. Live. Laugh. Love. LOUDLY. Because the only thing worse than being cringe, is being quiet.
Want more emotional anarchy, unapologetic feels, and essays that clap at life too hard? Slide into Her Campus at MUJ; we’re basically the Wi-Fi hotspot for heartbeats, chaos, and unfiltered enthusiasm.
And if you’re wondering who decided to make caring loudly sound like punk rock with glitter — yeah, that’s me, Niamat Dhillon at HCMUJ, screaming into existence so you don’t have to whisper.