The first time I installed TikTok, I was shocked at how many videos I saw of people crying. They were crying in cars, crying at restaurants, crying on the toilet. Everyone was crying and it seemed normal to take out your phone and press ‘record’. Then, there were the 'hidden camera' videos of fights between couples and families, full-blown mental breakdowns and sometimes even humoured recordings of hospitalised relatives on death’s bed. The only thought that I could process during these videos was, might there be a worse time to film something?
Throughout history, people have gained power through mystery. Control over self-presentation makes characters (and real-life people) compelling. The ability to withhold information is a luxury. Just think about the people with true power in this world – how much do we actually know about them? For the everyman (those who don’t own multinationals or know the nuclear codes), mystery and privacy have become unpopular, strange and almost unappealing because our world operates on interest and engagement driven by self-exposure. But is this because allure relies on the unknown, and in an age of constant visibility, mystery no longer holds the same power? Or has the definition of power shifted to favouring relatability over the enigmatic and untouchable?
Mystery can yield social and cultural advantages too. Often, women – both in real life and in fictional characters – use it as a tool to create intrigue or maintain a perceived depth, complexity and desirability. In the fictional world, the best example of this is the trope of the femme fatale. She is defined as “a woman who is very attractive in a mysterious way, usually leading men into danger or causing their destruction," and she’s been around since ancient times – Circe, who lures Odysseus’s men into her home and turns them into pigs; the Sirens, whose song sinks sailors to their deaths; and Clytemnestra, who murders her husband Agamemnon after drawing him into a false sense of security. These women 'weaponise' their allure and mystery (attributes internalised by their male counterparts) to regain control. While the morality of such is contentious (see: Gone Girl’s scorned woman Amy Dunne), these women’s stories are backgrounded by systemic oppression. It would be remiss to consider the motives of the femme fatale to be purely superficial. The cultural context of gendered discrimination and domestic power dynamics always comes into play.
"For the everyman (those who don’t own multinationals or know the nuclear codes), mystery and privacy have become unpopular, strange and almost unappealing because our world operates on interest and engagement driven by self-exposure."
In the celebrity and high fashion world, privacy and mystery are coveted – and not everyone can pull it off. Actor Cillian Murphy and the Olsen twins are public figures whose celebrity images are defined by absence and negative space. They reveal little about themselves during press interviews and have little-to-no online footprint. Murphy is also known for his stoic mannerisms and mild facial expressions. This calculated restraint has a 'playing hard to get' effect, leaving the viewer wanting more. Writer Raven Smith says, “We cannot deny this is extremely chic. Chicness is, of course, amorphous – hard to pin down to a sum of parts, at once mystical and tangible. But the less the Olsen’s give us, the more we want. Their privacy is the ultimate luxury.” For musical artists like Beyoncé, Frank Ocean and Daft Punk, the refusal to overshare serves a different purpose: it redirects attention away from their personal lives and back onto the work itself. In both cases, withholding becomes a powerful tool – one that invites desire, preserves autonomy and transforms what isn’t there into a source of fascination.
When Bottega Veneta deleted its social media accounts in 2021, the Italian fashion house tapped into this psychology, rejecting the endless cycle of digital promotion in favour of cultivating quiet prestige. The fashion community reacted with surprise and intrigue. Industry observers noted that, in an era where brands heavily rely on digital platforms for promotion, Bottega’s move was unconventional. Some saw it as a strategy to enhance the brand’s exclusivity and luxury appeal by reducing online presence. Others questioned its effectiveness in a time where social media is so strongly intertwined with e-commerce. However you see it, the stunt sparked conversation and analyses – both essential for cultural influence and publicity.
Similarly, at The Row’s Paris Fashion Week FW24 show, guests were asked not to use their phones – a gesture that intended to prioritise presence over performance. In an industry where access is already restricted, limiting digital documentation raised questions about who fashion is ultimately for. With most shows being invite-only, social media has become the only way for broader audiences to experience runway moments in real time. By removing this altogether, The Row (owned by the Olsen twins – coincidence?) reinforced its air of exclusivity, at the cost of distancing itself from the wider fashion community. This decision built on a growing tension in the industry: in an era where inclusivity and accessibility are championed, is withholding still a mark of prestige, or does it risk alienating the very audience that sustains the brand’s cultural relevance? Both brands operate on the belief that desire is heightened by distance, making their products – and the worlds they build around them – feel all the more rarefied. In this context, scarcity isn't just a marketing strategy, but a philosophy – one that trades mass exposure for an aura of untouchable cool.
Our culture, both online and off, has moved with reckless abandon towards radical transparency and oversharing. In this information age, the insatiable urge to know and share everything is difficult to ignore. Social media has turned self-disclosure into currency, rewarding those who share the most – whether it’s unsolicited opinions, personal dramas or sexual encounters. Publicising daily emotional toils and their intimate details can draw easy engagement and grow a person’s following substantially. We have even seen companies resort to using personal struggles to sell products. Personalised ads on platforms like Meta have been known to track and monetise our insecurities, leading to concerns about the predatory nature of such marketing strategies. For instance, there are companies who have targeted new mothers with advertisements that exploit postpartum insecurities. The cultural phenomenon of packaging lived experience into 30-second vlogs and marketable products is a symptom of a post-pandemic world and the pervasive loneliness epidemic. Audiences are as desperate as ever to connect with others, and through oversharing can a falsified sense of intimacy grow. Don Draper of Mad Men said, “You are the product. You feeling something. That’s what sells.”
"In this context, scarcity isn't just a marketing strategy, but a philosophy – one that trades mass exposure for an aura of untouchable cool."
Another aspect of oversharing that’s being critiqued is The Trauma Dump. The first time I came across the term trauma dumping, I was dealing with the loss of an immediate family member. I had spoken to several friends about my experiences, thoughts and feelings within my personal boundaries. Shortly after, I came across the term (meaning: the act of telling another person or other people in a detailed way about problems and emotional pain that you have experienced, expecting them to give you sympathy and comfort, when they may not be able or willing to do this) and began questioning whether I’d been 'trauma dumping'. It was equally insightful and horrific – anytime I wanted to announce a thought, I would think about the weight of it on my receptor’s shoulders; are they going to be burdened by this information? Is this a good time to say anything at all?
As women, we are constantly fighting an internal battle of how much information we should share about ourselves and how 'mysterious' to be in order to retain desirability. Even before the trauma dump was defined, women have played tug-of-war with what we should and shouldn’t say. Women are often expected to be emotionally open and available – being mysterious can be seen as manipulative or cold, or pandering to a 'playing hard to get' game. To be mysterious is to risk being labelled manipulative, playing into tired tropes of women wielding silence as a power play rather than a form of self-protection.
"Audiences are as desperate as ever to connect with others, and through oversharing can a falsified sense of intimacy grow."
This tension is only magnified in the digital age, where vulnerability has become both a performance and a commodity. The rise of online oversharing has redefined personal struggles as social capital, particularly for women, who are often rewarded for their confessions of vulnerability and rawness. Platforms like TikTok and Instagram incentivise the public unravelling of private lives – crying videos, candid stories of breakups or mental health spirals – packaging emotional pain into content that feeds the algorithm. There’s power in collective vulnerability, but the pressure to mine one’s own suffering for engagement raises questions about who benefits from women’s pain. Have we been conditioned to believe that constant emotional exposure can replicate interpersonal connection and relatability?
Brands have been quick to capitalise on this culture of confession, using personal struggles to sell products under the guise of empowerment. P&G’s Thank You, Mom campaign tapped into the emotional labour of mothers, while beauty brands target new mothers’ insecurities with hyper-personalised ads about post-baby bodies. Even mental health – a historically taboo subject – has been folded into corporate messaging, with companies like YesMadam staging marketing stunts around workplace anxiety. Vulnerability sells, especially when women’s pain is framed as something to be soothed, fixed or consumed.
In this landscape, holding back and saying less is radical. To resist the pressure to air all your dirty laundry is not cold or arrogant, but a reclamation of privacy – a refusal to let your life become performance. Perhaps the most powerful thing we can do is decide for ourselves what to share, what to withhold and who gets to bear witness. What will you tell and how will you do it?
