A Looming Ban
I downloaded TikTok a week before the initial proposed ban in January of 2025. I had been avoiding it for the longest time hearing that it was rumored to hijack your attention span. I wasn’t too keen on short-form videos, preferring to read articles to maintain the skill of reading. That hadn’t been working out for me for some time (I blame the “pivot to video” push) and I didn’t want to make it worse. Short-form videos like Vine and TikTok were made to keep you on the app, soaking up as many dopamine hits as possible – I knew it was not a way for someone with ADHD to live, even way before I was diagnosed.
But on this fateful week, I downloaded TikTok for the second time to see what the kids were up to (my previous account, made to make tiktoks of my dog that were never published, was made inaccessible), and what I found was the beauty of humanity beyond compare.
A Video for Every Body
Some of the first videos I was served related to dogs of various levels of funny, skilled, and cute. The app figured out quickly that I would linger on these videos for the longest period of time, smiling all the while a dog balanced on a skateboard down a set of stairs.
But sooner or later, the app found the aspects of humanity and community that I found the most precious. I found Stick Nation, an account that featured sticks of various shapes and configurations that people showed proudly to the camera.
I found babies choosing their starter Pokemon, thrift store finds, cardinals showing off in the snow (“I’m seeing this, lying in a 1000 pieces in a retirement home!”). It instantly brought me back to my younger years on early social media, finding communities that fit my every interest. Connecting with people who had the same humor, same values, was an important part of my maturation. I grew up online, and stepping into a space like TikTok felt like coming home.
After the ban was extended (and extended, and extended!), I realize I grew such an affinity for TikTok, that I was quickly addicted. I dare not look at my average time spent on the app (it’s 7 hours a week as of publication), but I anticipate it’ll represent the psyche of a person starved for entertainment. So here I am, 8 months later, still using the app. Never contributing, always watching, receiving, listening. I’m the purest form of content consumer, and while I’m not sure that I like it that way, on TikTok it feels just right.
This Little Life
I avoided TikTok but it’s not like I didn’t use other addictive social media apps. My goal is to always decrease social media usage, not spread it out over several websites. Despite this I was exposed to TikToks through other websites like Twitter and Instagram. As time went on with TikTok, I realized how one of the memes (stitches? reposts? not sure what to call them) that became inescapable was set to the song, “This Little Life,” by Cordelia. It was a simple tune, often set to simple scenes of people (seemingly) living in the moment, watching their children play, or cooking something delicious and enjoying their spaces.
The song would especially be used in an aesthetically pleasing way, often shorthanded online to the adjective aesthetic. Videos saturated in calm and peaceful colors like coral or forest green while dappled sunlight cascaded into a room. I watched nearly all the ones I came across, if the statistic was provided, I wonder if TikTok could tell me how much time I’ve spent watching videos with that specific “sound.”
They often reminded me of stores like Anthropologie or the vibe of “500 Days of Summer” (maybe ’cause the singer’s voice reminds me of Zooey Deschanel). I often found myself enjoying my space, looking around at my plants, my dog, my tiny studio apartment and thinking, “I think I love my little life too?”
I Fall in Love with Myself
In May of 2020, the phrase “romanticize your life” appeared for the first time online. Born out of the American desire to see oneself as the star of their own story, it became a rallying cry for the social media era. Previous generations tend to see the newer ones as more and more self-obsessed, the way we chronicle our every move online suggests someone who is fully committed to their own ego. But romanticizing your life offers an alternative, to see every moment of every day as something worth relishing and celebrating, and yes, even indulging in. It evokes a sinfully pleasurable way to experience life, by indeed seeing oneself as the star of their own story, and celebrating and documenting it thusly.
While I do consider myself somewhat self-obsessed, I don’t think I’ve always romanticized my life. I have blogged and been on social media since I was in middle school, but this was often through the lens of teenaged angst, or mid-life crises. I felt guilty for often trying to portray my life online as a perfect one, meanwhile I would be swimming in debt or struggling with depression.
The idea of romanticizing something so stressful seemed outlandish to me. What was there to romanticize? Living alone in a box? Burning the candle at both ends to survive burnout and dissatisfaction. I had moments of love, and levity, and enjoyment, but not nearly enough to justify my own rom-com or coming of age film.
Christina Caron of the New York Times says the that phrase, “romanticize your life,” “asks us to appreciate what we have right in front of us and to live with intention, no matter how mundane our daily rituals might be – a reminder to look for moments of beauty and embrace minimalism.“
Instagram in particular, has been profoundly impactful regarding consumerism and the urge to achieve a certain visual aesthetic within one’s life. Through the juxtaposition of an influencer’s feed, filled with photos of women eating fruit in a floating tray in a pool in Bali or a just-married couple running through the streets of Paris, France in their ceremonial outfits, Instagram can quickly become a thief of joy. A slogan daring you to appreciate what you have in front of you is enticing, a way to enjoy your life and exalt it, no matter how mundane (or in the worst cases, no matter how privileged).
I’m often reminded of a post I saw, talking about how younger generations are chided for self-absorption with their selfies, when people have romanticized themselves since the dawn of time. What are self-portraits if not selfies from another time? What are still-life paintings if not flat-lays of one’s meal?
Caron also notes the context in which this trend has appeared, during the COVID-19 pandemic and afterwards, when many realized the depth of uncertainty and fear they were holding. The lack of control was palpable, and romanticizing the little joys we create with each other and encounter is a mindfulness practice that wards off despair. These practices are found in philosophies all around the world: hygge in Scandinavia, ikigai in Japan, gezelligheid in the Netherlands, ubuntu in Zulu-speaking Africa, and hózhǫ́ among the Navajo nation, and many others. People have always tried to recontextualize their experience on Earth with a higher purpose. We want our lives guided with meaning.
This is the Whole Point
After a few months of binging TikTok in the morning, I uncovered another trend. This one was set to a cute snippet of “Take My Hand” by Matt Berry with a caption that often said something to the effect of, “Never forget that this is the whole point.”
What I loved about this trend was the variety of things that were featured as “the whole point”: A group of people watching an elderly candy maker through the glass, a dog getting the zoomies and racing around a home, a couple enjoying each other’s company over a meal.
Granted, most, if not all of these moments were private, recorded by a stranger posting it for views online. This is the drawback of social media in general: while you’re out living in the moment, someone else is romanticizing your life… or worse, demonizing it. A woman filmed in a gym to shame her body, a camera following a Black man while he takes out the trash, or even the lovely couple enjoying their meal – the modern American is surveilled by strangers and corporations alike. It is in this society in particular, that romanticizing one’s life can become an act of resistance and reclamation. My life is my own to share as I see fit. No matter what happens to my image, I know the version of me that I want to share.
Romanticizing This Little Life
I’ve been blogging since I was about 15 years old and on the internet for a bit longer than that. At 34 years old, my relationship to it has changed a lot. Social media sites have come and gone, peaked and fallen (RIP Myspace, RIP Vine, RIP Facebook, RIP Snapchat, RIP Tumblr…), and my digital footprint is deep and wide. Coming back to this blog has been a difficult process. Hosting websites have come and gone, peaked and fallen (RIP Blogspot, RIP Typepad). A Ticket for Two has been FantasieSignVirgo, MaravilhaKristina, and now, A Ticket for Two. It has always evolved with me, and with every move of my work from one space to another, many photos, writings, and details have been lost while new ones are created. You can’t. take everything with you, but you always can create more on that fertile ground.
After the latest hosting transfer, so much was lost that I wasn’t sure if I wanted to continue. What’s the point of creating when the work has the potential to disappear?
Over time I’ve come around to the idea that I write because I need to, I write because I have to, I write because I love to. I’m sharing my little life, and if someone happens to resonate with it, great. If not, that’s okay. I’m romanticizing my life, typing at my laptop while looking out the window. This little life is mine and mine alone, and I want to experience it.
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