Be honest with me for a second: we’re living in the renaissance of cringe. A cultural revolution where everything, from journaling to dancing to breathing too loudly, is apparently “so cringe.” The internet used to celebrate weirdness; now it collects it in a museum of secondhand embarrassment. You could cure cancer and someone on Twitter (sorry, X or whatever Elon’s fever dream is called) would comment, “this nerd is lowkey cringe but good for you I guess.”
Somewhere along the way, “cringe” stopped meaning awkward and started meaning human. The act of caring too much? Cringe. Loving something loudly? Cringe. Posting your art? Cringe. Dancing in public without looking like you choreographed it for reels? Maximum cringe. The irony? The people calling everything cringe are usually scrolling alone in the dark with Cheeto dust on their fingers and trauma in their Notes app.
I remember when the internet used to feel like a playground. You’d post fan edits, bad poetry, random selfies, and no one cared. Now it feels like a courtroom. Every post stands trial for crimes against aesthetic. You can’t even use emojis without wondering if it’s giving millennial energy. Like, sorry for expressing joy with pixels instead of emotional detachment.
But here’s the truth bomb hiding under all this sarcasm: the fear of being cringe is just fear of being seen. The moment you stop curating yourself, people start panicking because they can’t control how much you enjoy your own existence. And that, my love, is power. Because the real cringe isn’t dancing badly. The real cringe is being so scared of yourself that you stop moving entirely.
When cringe became currency.
Remember when “cringe” was just a reaction to that one uncle trying to use slang at family gatherings? Yeah, now it’s a full-blown economic system. You get social validation for not being cringe — for being ironic, detached, sigma, above it all. It’s exhausting. Everyone’s performing nonchalance like it’s a religion.
We’ve reached the point where doing anything sincerely is seen as embarrassing. You post a sunset caption that’s not sarcastic? Cringe. You say “I love you” without an emoji buffer? Cringe. You wear a butterfly clip because it makes you happy instead of because it’s trending? Revolutionary cringe.
But here’s where it gets juicy. The internet can’t decide what it wants. It mocks you for caring, then turns your authenticity into a trend three months later. Suddenly, the same people who called you cringe for collecting Squishmallows are now collecting Labubus. The same people who called you cringe for writing prose or poetry are writing think pieces about “the resurgence of soft culture.” It’s like being bullied and then plagiarised.
There’s a weird freedom in recognising the hypocrisy, though. Once you realise that everyone is performing, you start to see how freeing it is to opt out. If being cringe means posting your karaoke video, writing an article battling the “cringe culture” at 2AM, or running a niche Pinterest board for frogs in bowties, then maybe cringe is the last authentic thing left.
Because behind the eye-rolls and the “this ain’t it” comments lies a secret: people only call things cringe when they secretly wish they had the courage to do them. Cringe is passion stripped of permission. It’s being brave enough to be uncool on purpose.
The science of secondhand embarrassment.
Cringe isn’t about you. It’s about them. The observers, the ones who flinch at visible joy. There’s actual research on this — secondhand embarrassment activates the same brain regions as physical pain. So when people call something cringe, they’re basically confessing that your happiness gives them psychological hives.
Cringe culture thrives on shame, but shame is the cheapest form of control. It’s how society keeps you quiet. You know who gets called cringe most often? Teen girls. Queer kids. People with enthusiasm. People who care. Because nothing scares the system more than someone unafraid to be ridiculous.
Think about it. Every cultural movement that started as “cringe” eventually became cool. Tumblr poetry? Now it’s published lit. Cosplay? Now it’s Comic-Con couture. TikTok dances? Olympic-level cardio. Even Harry Styles wearing pearls was once called “doing too much.” Now it’s Vogue cover material.
So yeah, cringe is basically innovation in its puberty phase. It’s messy, loud, and embarrassing, but that’s how transformation works. We laugh at the awkward stage because we’re terrified of admitting we’re still in it. But that’s the point. Cringe is human metamorphosis. It’s art before the critics arrive.
The revolution will be awkward.
Let’s make a collective promise: we’re done being allergic to sincerity. We’re bringing back the era of doing things because they make our souls sparkle, not because they make our feed cohesive. Life isn’t a curated highlight reel. It’s a blooper reel with a decent soundtrack.
To be cringe is to be free. It’s dancing at the club like your ex isn’t watching. It’s starting a YouTube channel no one asked for. It’s wearing your comfort hoodie to a fancy dinner because the dress code didn’t pay your therapy bills. It’s laughing too loud, crying in public, singing off-key, posting your art even when it looks like a toddler made it.
There’s a strange magic in giving up on being impressive. Once you stop auditioning for coolness, you finally start living for joy. You realise that cringe is just the tax you pay for authenticity. That it’s better to look ridiculous and feel alive than to look perfect and feel nothing.
So yeah, maybe I’m cringe. Maybe my playlists are dramatic, my tweets are too earnest, and my handwriting looks like a serial killer’s. But at least I’m real. At least I’m trying. And if that makes people uncomfortable… good. Maybe they’ll start asking themselves why joy looks like rebellion.
Because the truth is, being cringe isn’t a crime. It’s a confession. I care. I feel. I’m here.
And if that’s embarrassing, then baby, pass me the mic. I’ll sing about it loudly, off-key, unbothered, and beautifully free.
Want more chaos, confession, and catharsis typed at 2AM? Step into Her Campus at MUJ, where we turn embarrassment into art and call it journalism. Written by Niamat Dhillon at HCMUJ, singing off-key and unbothered since forever. 🪩