I've spent 12+ years in online reputation work and noticed this exact shift--especially after 2020. From my vantage point building personal brands, I see it as a protection mechanism gone wrong. People are terrified of being screenshot, clipped out of context, or memed into oblivion, so they default to ironic detachment. The Greta example is spot-on. When we help clients build their online presence, we actually coach them to dial down authentic emotion in certain contexts because the internet punishes vulnerability with mockery. A CEO I worked with removed a heartfelt video about their company's mission after focus groups called it "too much." That's backward, but it's the reality we're operating in. What changed post-2020 is that everyone became hyper-aware they're being recorded and judged constantly. Before, your cringe moment lived and died at the club. Now it's permanent, searchable, and attached to your name on page one of Google. I've had clients hire us specifically to bury passionate college posts they worry will hurt their professional image. The irony is that in personal branding, authenticity still wins--but only if it's calculated. People want "real," but not too real. That calculated passion feels hollow, which is probably why you're seeing the nonchalance everywhere. We're all performing detachment to avoid the risk of being genuine.
I run a third-generation luxury car dealership, and I've noticed something interesting: the customers who walk in *excited* about a new Mercedes are the ones who build the longest relationships with us. The ones who try to play it cool, acting like a $100K purchase is no big deal, often disappear after the sale. My great-grandfather was a blacksmith in Southern Italy making custom goat carts. He was *proud* of his work--showed every farmer exactly how he'd crafted their cart. That enthusiasm built our family business over four generations. If he'd acted nonchalant about his craftsmanship, we wouldn't exist today. Here's what I see in the luxury car world: people *want* to be passionate about their purchase, but they're performing indifference because they think it makes them look sophisticated. I actually tell my sales team to give customers permission to be excited. When someone's eyes light up sitting in an AMG for the first time, we lean into that moment instead of matching their fake coolness. The dealerships that treat passion like it's embarrassing are losing to online sales. The ones that celebrate a customer's genuine excitement--even if it's "cringe" to some--are building communities. Passion isn't just okay in business; it's literally the difference between a transaction and a legacy.
I run a nonprofit marketing agency and here's what I've noticed in our donation campaigns: the organizations that let their passion show publicly raise 3-4x more than those trying to maintain a "professional distance." We tested two identical fundraising campaigns for different clients--one leaned into emotional storytelling with their founder crying on camera about their mission, the other kept it polished and corporate. The emotional one hit 800 donations in 30 days. The polished one barely cracked 200. The shift happened around 2020 when everyone moved online and suddenly had an audience of strangers instead of just their friends. In our data, we see people self-censor way more on public social posts versus email campaigns to their existing community. They're performing for the algorithm and the potential trolls, not for the people who actually care. Here's the thing: ironic detachment doesn't move money or build movements. When we strip the corporate-speak from our clients' campaigns and let them sound like actual humans who give a damn, donor retention jumps by 40-60%. The people mocking passion from their couch aren't your audience anyway--they were never going to take action. The ones who resonate with genuine emotion? Those become your monthly donors and volunteers.
As a 23-year-old commentator and public policy graduate student at Georgia Tech, I've spent years speaking up about civic engagement and advocacy even when it wasn't "cool." Since middle school, I've delivered speeches and tried to inspire my peers to care about issues bigger than themselves. Some laughed or called me "too passionate," but that only reinforced how uncomfortable people can be with genuine enthusiasm. My perspective: * I've seen firsthand how people are becoming more nonchalant out of fear of being judged or labeled "cringe." * The digital age and social media culture have conditioned people to suppress emotion and act detached because vulnerability doesn't trend well. * When people mock passion, it often reflects their own insecurity or longing to express themselves without fear. * What we're really seeing isn't apathy but fear of authenticity. True passion takes courage. The irony is that the same people who roll their eyes at others' excitement often wish they had the confidence to speak out loud. Please feel free to contact me for any questions or if you need anything else. I hope this helped! Best, Ashleigh Ewald
I've noticed this playing out in real time through 20+ years of working with business owners on their marketing. The clients who are genuinely excited about their business--even if it comes across as over-the-top--consistently outperform the ones who adopt that detached, "whatever happens, happens" attitude. Here's a concrete example: I had two HVAC companies as clients around the same time. One owner would get visibly pumped talking about new filtration technology and how it helped families with allergies. The other treated his business like he was too cool to care, always downplaying his expertise. The passionate guy's content performed 3x better on engagement metrics, and his lead conversion rate was nearly double. People could *feel* the difference through a screen. What I've seen shift since 2020 is that businesses started leaning into corporate-speak and playing it safe--scared to seem "too much" or polarizing. But the data tells a different story: personalized, authentic marketing (even when it feels vulnerable) drives measurably better results than bland, detached messaging. When we help clients inject real personality and genuine enthusiasm into their brand voice, their metrics improve--traffic, time on site, conversion rates, all of it. The irony is that being "cringe" is actually better for business than being forgettable. Nobody shares, remembers, or buys from boring. The businesses winning right now are the ones willing to look a little ridiculous because they actually care about what they do.
I've been coaching at Legends Boxing for over two years, and I've watched this shift happen in real time on the gym floor. Before 2020, new members would walk in nervous but willing to look foolish while learning. After our 24-week shutdown during COVID, people came back different--more guarded, more hesitant to fully commit to anything that made them vulnerable. What I see now is members apologizing before they even throw a punch wrong. They'll literally say "sorry" for not being perfect at something they just started learning. The fear isn't about getting punched--it's about looking stupid in front of others. I've had to completely change how I coach because people need permission to suck at something before they'll even try. The interesting part is what happens when someone breaks through that wall. I've trained hundreds of people for amateur fights, and the moment their walkout music hits and they step into that ring in front of a sold-out crowd, all that self-consciousness disappears. They remember what it feels like to care deeply about something, and it's like watching someone come alive again. The fighters who fully accept looking ridiculous during training--the ones who grunt, make weird faces, celebrate small wins loudly--they're always the ones who perform best under pressure. What's worked for me is actively rewarding people for being "too much." When someone gets genuinely excited about landing a good combo, I amplify it. I've learned that people need to see passion modeled before they feel safe expressing their own. The gym becomes this little bubble where it's okay to be intense about something again, and members tell me constantly how that bleeds into other parts of their lives.
I've been doing marriage and individual therapy in Lafayette for over 35 years, and what you're describing maps directly onto what I call "relational numbing." Since 2020, I've noticed couples coming in who describe their arguments as "just existing together" rather than fighting--they've lost the energy to even be angry. The shutdown taught people that caring less hurts less, and that's become a survival strategy they can't shake. The Greta Thunberg example you mentioned hits on something I see constantly in Discernment Counseling with couples on the brink of divorce. When one partner shows raw emotion about saving the marriage, the other often responds with eye rolls or mockery--calling them "dramatic" or "too intense." This contempt for genuine emotion is what Gottman research identifies as the number one predictor of relationship failure. We've somehow collectively decided that being detached is safer than being invested. What's shifted dramatically in my practice is that I now spend the first three sessions just giving people permission to want something badly again. I had a 28-year-old client last month who literally asked me, "Is it normal to care this much about my marriage?" That question would've been unthinkable in 2015. The real issue isn't that people don't feel passion--it's that they've learned to suffocate it before anyone sees it. The couples who make it through are the ones who can tolerate looking foolish in front of each other again. I make them do vulnerable exercises in session--reading love letters out loud, expressing needs without hedging--and the discomfort is visceral. But once they survive being "cringe" together a few times, something open ups.
I've noticed this shift in my clinic work, particularly with adolescents and young adults who've developed what I call "emotional flattening" as a stress response. During COVID lockdowns, when half of Australians missed face-to-face contact according to ABS data, people lost the safe spaces where they could practice being genuinely expressive without permanent documentation. The club, the party, the messy moment--these used to exist in memory only, not on someone's Instagram story forever. What I see clinically is that this nonchalance actually maps onto burnout symptoms. My patients describe the exact feeling you're talking about--everything requires too much effort, including enthusiasm. When 20-30% of Australians reported during COVID that "everything was an effort," that included the effort of caring visibly about things. Passion became exhausting because it required defending yourself constantly. The "cringe" phenomenon is particularly destructive because it short-circuits meaning-making, which is essential for mental health. In my work helping people through adjustment issues, I emphasize reconnecting with what genuinely matters to you--not what's defensible online. When patients stop asking "will this look cringe?" and start asking "does this align with my values?", their depression scores improve measurably. I've worked with LGBTQIA+ and neurodiverse clients through my team who face this doubled--they're already hypervigilant about judgment, and adding this cultural layer makes authentic self-expression feel dangerous. The solution isn't performing detachment; it's building tolerance for being misunderstood, which is therapeutic work but shouldn't have to be.
I've been sober for over nine years now, and I can tell you exactly when I see this fear of genuine emotion: it's in people who are actively drinking or struggling with other addictions. When you're medicating yourself daily, you *have* to maintain emotional distance because feeling things fully is terrifying. The drink becomes your protection against being "too much." In my early recovery, I couldn't even enjoy throwing a ball with my stepson at the beach without overthinking it. I'd spent years drunk and detached, and suddenly being present and enthusiastic felt vulnerable and unsafe. That shame around authentic emotion? It's a trauma response. When I was active in my alcoholism, I mocked people who were passionate because their freedom to feel things openly reminded me of what I'd lost. What changed for me was hitting rock bottom in 2012 and choosing rehab over ending my life. The 12-step meetings I attended were full of people sharing their most embarrassing moments, and everyone would laugh together--not *at* each other, but in recognition. That's when I realized: connection requires dropping the protective shell. The meetings worked because nobody was performing cool detachment. Now running The Freedom Room, I see clients terrified to admit they need help because asking for support feels "cringe." But the ones who push through that shame and show up authentically? They're the ones who actually recover and rebuild their lives. Ironic detachment keeps you sick and alone.
I've spent three decades working with people in mental health crisis, homelessness, and recovery--populations society often dismisses as "too much" or uncomfortable to witness. What strikes me is that vulnerability has always made people uncomfortable, but now there's a new layer: performing detachment has become a social currency. In 2020, when we maintained a 98.3% housing retention rate with formerly homeless residents, it wasn't because people acted cool about their second chance. It was because they let themselves be desperately, openly grateful--crying at key handovers, calling us at midnight when they were scared of relapsing. That raw emotion is what kept them housed. The few who performed like everything was fine? Those were our at-risk cases. I chair the American Association of Service Coordinators, and we're seeing a troubling pattern with younger case managers. They document everything clinically but resist the messy, passionate advocacy work--calling a landlord five times, showing up unannounced when someone's in crisis. They treat emotional investment like it's unprofessional. But the 100,000+ residents we serve across California don't need polished neutrality. They need someone who gives enough of a damn to be "cringe" about fighting for them. The seniors aging in place in our properties? They dance in our community rooms, cry about their grandkids, get furiously passionate about bingo night rules. They're our most stable population. Connection requires the willingness to look foolish, and we've somehow convinced ourselves that's weakness instead of strength.
I've spent years crafting campaigns for a humanitarian nonprofit, and here's what I've learned: authenticity isn't cringe--it's what cuts through the noise. When we grew our social media following by 3233%, it wasn't by playing it cool. It was by showing real stories of the communities we serve, unfiltered emotion and all. The "nonchalance" you're describing shows up in our engagement metrics too, but in a different way. People scroll past polished infographics without blinking, but stop dead when we post raw footage of a mother seeing clean water for the first time. The difference isn't about being loud or quiet--it's about being real versus performed. What changed after 2020 is that everyone became hyper-aware of being watched and judged by thousands instead of dozens. I manage content that reaches 120,000+ stakeholders, and I've noticed people are actually starving for genuine passion--they just don't want to be the first one to show it. When someone does break that barrier and posts something heartfelt, the engagement spikes tell me people were waiting for permission. Our seasonal campaigns consistently hit $500K+ because we refuse to sanitize the mission. The supporters who matter don't want us to be cool about suffering or strategic poverty reduction. They want to know we actually care enough to be uncomfortable, to ask directly, to show we're not above being earnest about saving lives.
I supervise MSW interns across the country and teach at UK's College of Social Work, and I've noticed something specific in clinical sessions since 2020: clients now pre-emptively mock their own emotions before sharing them. They'll say something vulnerable, then immediately follow with "I know that sounds dramatic" or "That's so cringe, right?" It's like they're beating others to the punch line of their own feelings. What's striking is how this shows up in couples therapy at Kinder Mind. Partners will describe serious relationship pain using meme language or TikTok terminology instead of direct emotional words. When I gently redirect them to name what they're actually feeling--"I'm scared you'll leave" instead of "giving off major anxious attachment energy"--there's this visible discomfort with being sincere. The internet dialect has become emotional armor. I wrote about this in our blog on high-functioning anxiety in Black women, where perfectionism masks as capability. The "nonchalant" trend you're describing is similar--it's performance of invulnerability. The cultural shift treats genuine emotion as a threat to social status, so people flatten affect to avoid mockery. My practicum students report their Gen Z clients literally cannot sit with uncomfortable silence without pulling out their phones. In sessions, I've started explicitly labeling earnestness as strength rather than weakness. When clients risk being direct about what they want or feel hurt by, I name that courage out loud. It's the only way I've found to give people permission to care about things again without the protective layer of irony.
I've noticed something specific in my practice over the last few years: clients apologizing for their emotions before they even express them. They'll preface crying with "I'm sorry, this is so stupid" or downplay their anger with "I know this is dramatic, but..." It's like they're pre-rejecting themselves before anyone else can. What's fascinating from a trauma and addiction perspective is that this self-protective detachment mirrors what I typically see in people with severe emotional wounds. The difference is these newer clients haven't necessarily experienced major trauma--they've just learned that emotional restraint is safer than potential embarrassment. In CBT terms, they've developed a core belief that authenticity equals vulnerability equals danger. I had a 19-year-old client last year who told me she'd rather relapse on substances than post an Instagram story showing genuine excitement about getting into grad school. That stuck with me. She could handle the physical consequences of using, but not the social risk of seeming "too invested" in her own success. We had to rebuild her tolerance for being seen as someone who cares. What breaks through this pattern in my office is permission-giving that feels almost parental. I literally tell clients "you're allowed to be excited about this" or "anger is a completely reasonable response here." Once they realize the therapy room is a judgment-free zone for full emotional expression, they start practicing it elsewhere. The ones who make the most progress are usually the ones who eventually stop apologizing for taking up space.
I've launched dozens of tech products over the past decade, and I can tell you exactly when this shift happened in consumer behavior: when mockability became more viral than authenticity. Around 2020, our social media metrics showed engagement dropped 40% on posts showing genuine product enthusiasm, while ironic meme content exploded. Here's what I saw with the Robosen Buzz Lightyear launch: we had two creative directions tested. One played it safe with "cool" detachment, the other went full nostalgic passion--showing grown adults genuinely excited about a robot toy. The passionate version generated thousands of shares and drove pre-orders through the roof. The "cool" version? Crickets. What changed my approach completely was the SOM Aesthetics rebrand. We could've gone the typical sterile medical route everyone expects, but instead we leaned into the founder's genuine care about natural beauty and personalized treatment. Their patient bookings jumped significantly because people were starving for that authenticity in an industry full of fake perfection. The brands winning right now aren't the ones playing it safe--they're the ones brave enough to show they actually give a damn about what they're doing. When we launched Syber's white gaming PCs, we didn't apologize for being excited about a color change. We owned the passion behind the evolution, and the gaming community responded because real recognizes real.
I've been covering society events and galas for over 40 years, and I can tell you exactly when the energy shifted--it wasn't gradual. At the Met Gala afterparties in 2019, people danced until 4am with abandon. By 2022, half the room was standing against walls, phones out, watching rather than participating. What I'm seeing isn't fear of being cringe--it's fear of being *seen* being cringe by the wrong audience. When I was at Studio 54 in the '70s or covering Andy Warhol's parties, your embarrassing moment lived in someone's memory, maybe a diary. Now at events I cover, I watch people literally check how they look on other attendees' Instagram stories before they'll let loose on the dance floor. The philanthropy world shows this most clearly. I've watched major donors at charity galas go from giving passionate speeches about causes to reading carefully vetted statements their PR teams wrote. One prominent collector told me off-record they'd rather write a check than speak at all because "someone always finds a way to twist your words." The money flows, but the soul is gone. The cruelest part is that in my column work, the moments that actually resonate with readers are still the unguarded ones--when someone forgets to perform detachment and just *feels* something. But I'm watching fewer people willing to give me those moments because they've seen what happens to public passion in the algorithm.
I've been meditating since I was 10 and have worked with hundreds of women through bodywork and business mentorship, and what I'm seeing isn't fear of being cringe--it's nervous system dysregulation masquerading as "chill." When your body is in chronic stress mode (hello, 2020 onwards), passion feels physiologically unsafe because it requires vulnerability, and vulnerability requires a calm parasympathetic state. At my spa, I work with the craniosacral system and do trauma-informed treatments. What I notice is clients literally holding their breath when I ask how they're really doing--their bodies have learned that expressing anything real might trigger criticism or require energy they don't have. Dancing, crying, getting excited... all of that needs a regulated nervous system, and most people are running on fumes with cortisol through the roof. The Greta thing makes total sense from this lens. Her passion demanded an emotional response from viewers, but responding authentically (whether agreement or genuine disagreement) takes more energy than mockery does. Memes are the lowest-energy way to process something that actually moved you--it's emotional avoidance dressed up as humor. I teach the women I mentor that you can't build anything meaningful from a collapsed state. Before we talk business strategy, we do breathwork and somatic regulation--because passion isn't cringe, it's just incompatible with survival mode. People aren't choosing detachment, their bodies are.
I've been creating content since 2019 and filming documentaries with real people telling vulnerable stories--what I've noticed is that passion isn't cringe until it's performed for validation. When we shot "Unseen Chains" about human trafficking with Drive 4 Impact, survivors shared raw emotion on camera without worrying about being "too much." That documentary connected because the passion had purpose, not performance. The shift I saw happen was people confusing authenticity with aesthetic. During my submarine years, nobody worried about looking cringe when troubleshooting a reactor issue--the stakes were real. Now people are optimizing their passion for likes instead of impact. When we produce branded short films at Gener8, the ones that bomb are always the ones where the client wants to "look passionate" rather than actually being passionate about solving a problem. The Greta example you mentioned--people mocked her because she was genuinely upset about something bigger than herself, which makes nonchalant people uncomfortable. I see this in our commercial work constantly: brands that try to manufacture emotion fall flat, but the ones solving real problems with visible urgency? Those cut through. The data backs it--our clients who drop the cool-guy act and show they actually care about their mission outperform the "polished" ones by massive margins in engagement and conversions.
The teens I work with are scared to seem too excited about anything. They call it being cringe. I think it comes from social anxiety and this pressure to be perfect all the time. What helps is when I share my own awkward stories. It usually breaks the tension and they finally relax enough to have a real conversation.
Psychologists describe "cringe" as a modern form of social shame, amplified by the internet. Unlike embarrassment, which is personal, cringe is often "embarrassment by proxy"—we feel secondhand discomfort when someone else is too earnest, too emotional, or too vulnerable online. In a culture where everything can be recorded, memed, and mocked, people have learned to self-censor enthusiasm to avoid becoming the next viral joke. The pandemic intensified this. With so much of life moving online, social interactions became more performative. Every dance, speech, or opinion risked being clipped, shared, and ridiculed. As a result, many young people adopted a nonchalant, ironic posture—a kind of emotional armor. Passion, whether it's dancing in a club or delivering a fiery speech like Greta Thunberg's, can feel risky because it exposes sincerity in a world that rewards detachment. But here's the paradox: while fear of cringe suppresses visible passion, it also reflects a deep hunger for authenticity. People still crave genuine expression—they just fear the social cost of showing it. That's why movements around vulnerability, mental health openness, and "unfiltered" content resonate so strongly. In short, the rise of cringe culture is less about apathy and more about self-protection in a hyper-judgmental digital age. The challenge ahead is reclaiming spaces—online and offline—where passion feels safe again.
Hi there, I'm Lachlan Brown, a mindfulness-focused psychologist and co-founder of The Considered Man (a platform on men's mental resilience and mindful living). I often write about how online dynamics reshape emotion and behavior in the real world. You can find my bio on these links: https://hackspirit.com/about https://theconsideredman.org/about I'd like to contirbute to your piece since I find the topic of "cringe" very interssting these days. What you're seeing isn't isolated. Since 2020, I've noticed a sharp rise in defensive detachment, specifically people perform "I don't care" as armor. Based on my research, rhree forces drive it: 1. Platforms reward high-arousal reactions. As a reuslt, arnestness becomes a liability because it's easily clipped, memed, and mocked at scale. 2. After years of collective stress (pandemic, politics), many default to cool distance to avoid more disappointment or ridicule. 3. Social life now happens under imagined surveillance (e.g., we wonder "What will this look like online?"), so we choose safe irony over visible passion. I believe that Greta's backlash fits the pattern: memeification converts passion into a punchline, teaching bystanders that earnest stakes are socially risky. The club example is similar - people are dancing less because being seen feeling now carries a reputational cost. In my work, small enclaves of psychological safety rapidly reverse the effect. It could be something like phone-free rooms, invitation-only dance nights, communities with explicit "no-mocking" norms. When the perceived audience shrinks, passion returns. Thanks for this query and hope you find my insights useful! Let me know if you need more insights. Cheers, Lachlan Brown Mindfulness Expert | Co-founder, The Considered Man https://theconsideredman.org/