Scroll a little more and I'm offered a "5-step morning routine to survive the apocalypse," complete with matcha recipes and neutral-toned loungewear. Somewhere between an OOTD and a trending sound, a country is burning.
The TikTokification of everything has turned news into an entire new format. And it's changing the way we see, feel, and respond to global crises. Because when every crisis becomes content, the result isn't always awareness. It's trivialisation.
News, once delivered by anchors, now comes via creators. Some thoughtful, some literally just grifting clicks from tragedy. The Ukraine war quickly spawned "war-core," a fashion aesthetic of utility vests, cargo pants, and military palettes. U.S. election coverage took on a bizarrely beige tone, with TikToks styled like minimalist wellness updates. And coverage of Gaza? It's heartbreaking, urgent-and endlessly reshared in a format eerily similar to fan-made cinema clips.
The TikTok algorithm rewards emotion, simplicity, and shareability. That means complex global events often get reduced. And creators, some on the ground, others watching from afar, tend to package information in ways that are digestible but sometimes dangerously diluted.
Distilling complex political struggles into palatable, memetic content risks the trivialisation of such issues, reducing them to a catchy hashtag or viral video challenge.
This is the performative side of activism, where awareness is curated for shareability, and engagement is measured in story reposts. This isn't inherently bad. It can be a powerful gateway for learning, but it often stops short. People feel emotionally involved, but intellectually disconnected. Like, "I saw it. I shared it. I care. That's enough, right?"
And, there is of course a catch: algorithms shape what we see and don't see. If you engage with one perspective, the algo keeps feeding it back to you. Over time, the content narrows. Suddenly, your worldview is a perfectly manicured echo chamber-matching your values, reinforcing your biases, and drowning out dissent or complexity.
TikTok is increasingly a news source for Gen Z, but it isn't built for fact-checking. The most emotionally resonant videos spread fastest, regardless of accuracy. And when creators compete for views and virality, outrage often wins over nuance.
That means unverified claims, AI-generated "news," and conspiracy theories can travel just as far, if not further, than legitimate journalism. Add to that the issue of algorithmic bias and censorship in certain regions, and you've got a deeply unreliable distribution system for some of the most critical stories of our time.
Even well-meaning creators can unintentionally mislead when they oversimplify or remove necessary context. In a feed where anyone can be a reporter, the lines between truth, opinion, and performance blur fast. This results in less trust, more divide, and audiences becoming increasingly unsure of who (or what) to believe.
Post, and you risk being accused of virtue signalling. Stay silent, and people assume you don't care. And yet, some brands are managing to get it right. Ben & Jerry's consistently aligns statements with policy and action. Patagonia lives its values with donations, lawsuits, and divestment. They don't just "speak"-they do.
Others? Not so much. The black squares, the "praying for insert-location" captions, the branded infographics that feel like a parody of sincerity. It's crisis communication as aesthetic curation.
Firstly, know when to stay out of it. If your brand doesn't belong in the conversation, you are in no way obliged. It's okay to amplify others instead.
Don't rush to post. Clarity > speed.
Match message with action. If you can't do anything, ask why you're saying something.
Consider your format. Not every crisis needs a freaking Reel.
The constant exposure-especially when aestheticised-breeds desensitisation. We see more, we feel more, but we do less. We're exhausted, emotionally frayed, and stuck in a feedback loop where attention replaces action.
And let's not ignore the privilege baked into this experience. The ability to scroll past war, to "engage" with tragedy while sipping your iced coffee, is a luxury many can't afford. For some, it's life. For others, it's content. This is the reality we live in.
It's easy to point fingers at TikTok or Instagram, but we also need to check our own habits. We reward what we consume. We shape the feed, too.
Some things aren't digestible. Some stories deserve more than a trending audio and a sad beige filter. Maybe the most radical thing we can do isn't to post, but to pause. To read the article. Donate. Show up. Speak up in ways that aren't always seen. We can't solve the world's problems in 30 seconds. And maybe we were never supposed to.
