If there’s one thing a Ngāpuhi likes, it’s arguing a case. Unfortunately for everyone else, I’ve always got one.
There was a time when personality was something you developed. Somewhere along the way, we outsourced our personalities to the algorithm.
Nobody simply likes reading anymore; they're "dark academia." On the other hand, nobody just goes for a run; they're entering their "marathon era." Even coffee has become less of a drink and more of a personality assessment, where ordering an oat flat white more or less suggests environmental consciousness and an iced matcha hints that you've mastered emotional regulation. Coffee itself has become the least important part of ordering coffee.
It turns out that the modern personality is less about who you are than what your camera roll looks like. But this is not entirely our fault. After all, we’ve grown up in an economy where everything demands to be legible, marketable and, above all, aesthetically pleasing. The Internet has become remarkably good at convincing us that identity is something to assemble rather than discover. Apparently, self-discovery now comes with a Pinterest board.
Identity ≠ Aesthetic
Don't get it twisted, though. Humans have long signalled identity through music, fashion and taste. The strange part is not that aesthetics exist, but that they’ve replaced judgement altogether. We no longer ask whether something is thoughtful, useful or true, but whether it feels like “us”. The "clean girl" was never just about skincare, just as "old money" was never really about wealth. Both promised something much more valuable than fashion: they offered an identity that arrives in its final form. Cottagecore, quiet luxury, tomato girl summer – none of these trends tells us very much about the world, but an extraordinary amount about our desire to package ourselves into something that is easily categorised. Perhaps the more accurate question is whether it feels like the version of ourselves we've been rehearsing online. Why spend years becoming an interesting person when you can become immediately recognisable?
The algorithm no longer recommends products alone. Like a catalogue, it recommends lifestyles, complete with a shopping list and a five-step routine for becoming someone you’ve basically never met. Suddenly, buying a film camera feels like becoming creative, owning a tote bag feels politically articulate, and filling your bookshelf with the right novels starts looking suspiciously similar to having read them. The mood board has become both the consultant and the life coach.
Performance Review Underway
University has also become its own elaborate game of charades. Students are expected to be not only academically ambitious but also politically informed, sustainably conscious, emotionally intelligent and professionally employable, all while cultivating an online presence that appears effortlessly authentic. The performance doesn't end there, though. Every purchase now arrives with an implied moral lesson attached to it: a reusable water bottle, a carefully chosen tote bag and a curated online presence begin to function less like personal choices and more like evidence submitted on our behalf. But have we mistaken curation for character? The essential difference matters because character is inconvenient: it changes its mind, contradicts itself and occasionally makes unfashionable decisions. In fact, one could argue that curation is considerably easier in an age where it can be ordered online. It’s the question that simply asks whether the choice will still look good once it's posted.
Character Sold Separately
The problem is not really that we are influenced by the world around us; that has always been part of being human. The unsettling part is how quickly said influence has become an instruction to feed the algorithm. But there was a time when personality was something you developed. It took years, a few questionable decisions and the occasional embarrassing phase. Now it arrives suspiciously, complete with a Pinterest board, a coffee order and a colour palette. So, at what point did becoming ourselves become something we could outsource?
Long Live the Question
