Celebrity kids have always existed, but our fascination with them has never been this intense. Social media makes their lives constantly visible, documented, and open to commentary. The term “nepo baby” captures this attention. It is not just a label, it is shorthand for inherited fame under constant scrutiny.
We love to hate nepo babies because they occupy a space most of us cannot. They benefit from fame and opportunity they did not earn, and their lives are public property. Their choices, what they wear, where they go, and what they buy become easy targets for judgment. This creates a mix of envy, moralizing, and entertainment that is hard to resist.
A clear example is Alabama Barker. During the holidays, she shared a TikTok showing her Christmas gifts, which included designer bags, jewelry, and lingerie. Many headlines framed the lingerie as if her father had personally picked it out, sparking outrage. The reality is that the pieces were chosen by Kourtney Kardashian and purchased by Travis Barker. Alabama did not pick them herself, but the story spread quickly, and a teenager was being publicly criticized for something largely out of her control. This illustrates how partial information fuels instant judgment and how celebrity kids often become symbols of excess.
The same dynamic appears at events like Le Bal des Débutantes. Celebrities’ daughters attending the exclusive Parisian ball face criticism for their gowns, wealth, and visibility. Most of the backlash focuses on the girls rather than the traditions or institutions that make the event possible. They become the easiest target for broader conversations about privilege.
This is why we cannot look away. Nepo babies are visible, identifiable, and relatable enough to spark strong opinions. Criticizing them feels easy and satisfying because it gives a concrete target for frustrations about inequality and fame. A Christmas gift or a debutante gown becomes shorthand for debates we might otherwise find too abstract.
Privilege exists. Nepo babies benefit from wealth, exposure, and access that most people will never experience. But the speed and intensity of the backlash often goes further than criticism. It becomes personal, performative, and speculative, especially when directed at teenagers like Alabama who did not choose to be public figures.
Our obsession says more about the audience than the kids themselves. We watch, dissect and judge while insisting we are removed from the spectacle. We love to hate nepo babies because they give a face to privilege, offer drama on demand, and are endlessly easy to talk about.
In the end, Christmas gift hauls and debutante appearances are not scandals on their own. They are mirrors that reflect our discomfort with visible wealth, our impulse to assign blame and our fascination with fame culture. Nepo babies may inherit opportunities, but our obsession with criticizing them says more about us than it does about them.