From thrifting to national parks, popularity isn’t the problem—our relationship with it is.
What Became So Popular It Ended Up Being Ruined for Everyone?
There’s a strange paradox to popularity—when something becomes loved by many, it often becomes unrecognizable to the ones who loved it first.
Once upon a time, thrifting was a refuge for the frugal and the curious. It was a treasure hunt, a quiet rebellion against fast fashion, and a way to build your identity out of what others left behind. But then came the flippers—the “side hustle” generation armed with smartphones, scouring Goodwill for anything they could resell for triple the price online. What was once a resource for the economically cautious turned into a market distorted by profit.
Streaming was born of the promise of freedom. Ditch cable, watch what you want, when you want. It felt revolutionary. But now, fractured by countless services each hoarding content behind paywalls, it feels like we’re paying more for less. What was once an escape from ads, is now riddled with them—unskippable, loud, relentless.
Even chicken wings couldn’t escape. Once considered scraps, they were the stars of budget-friendly bar nights. Now? They’re a delicacy. Oxtail, brisket, and even beef cheeks—formerly the province of poor people making do—have been gentrified into boutique cuts with boutique prices. The irony? Luxury was once born from necessity. Now, necessity can no longer afford it.
Social media was meant to connect us. But the more people joined, the less we actually related. At some point, it stopped being about connection and became about curation. About being seen, not seen with. Today, algorithms feed us what we fear and envy. We once logged in to share a life; now we scroll through performances of life.
Beautiful places—beaches, forests, national parks—have fallen victim too. First came the footprints, then came the trash. The same people who posted panoramic views on Instagram forgot to pack out their garbage. The more “untouched” a place is, the faster it’s trampled in the digital stampede for content.
Even the internet itself—that once wondrous, weird, and wild frontier—is barely recognizable. The open web has been paved over with walled gardens, surveillance, and clickbait. We traded curiosity for convenience, dialogue for dopamine.
The truth is: popularity is not the problem. It’s exploitation.
We don’t ruin things by loving them—we ruin them by loving only what we can extract from them. By squeezing joy out of them until all that’s left is a business model.
So how do we protect the things we love? Maybe by loving them more quietly. More gently. Without demanding they perform for us, or profit us. Not everything needs to scale. Not everything needs to grow.
Some things are sacred because they aren’t for everyone.
Leave a Reply