What Is Deinfluencing? Unpacking TikTok’s Unlikeliest Shopping Trend

In an era dominated by microtrends, the gravitational pull toward hyper-consumerism can feel unavoidable. I, for one, would never have considered buying two different portable blenders if not for the hashtag #TikTokMadeMeBuyIt—and I’m hardly alone. In 2022, 28% of surveyed TikTok users reported making purchases due to celebrity or influencer endorsements.

Over this past year, however, more and more people began to think twice before buying what influencers were selling. Just note the hashtag #Deinfluencing, which now has over a billion views on TikTok. The user-led intervention, which sees an army of self-described deinfluencers discouraging their audiences from buying into overhyped stuff, represents a notable departure from the usual calls to “swipe up” and “buy now.”  

But is deinfluencing a bona fide antidote to the gluttonous consumerism of the internet age or just a savvy marketing ploy in its own right? Let’s dive in. 

So what exactly is deinfluencing?

Deinfluencing is a rapidly growing social media trend that purports to “educate the general public on the need to divest away from obtaining or upholding an excess of products that are not needed in [our] daily lives,” says environmental educator Isaias Hernandez. 

TikTok content creator @sadgrlswag helped to catapult the term into virality in January 2023, posting a video in which she railed against a long list of trendy accessories, devices, and even books. “I’m here to deinfluence you. Do not get the Ugg minis. Do not get the Dyson Airwrap. Do not get the Charlotte Tilbury Wand,” she urged. “Do not get the Stanley cup. Do not get Colleen Hoover’s books. Do not get the AirPods Pro Max.” Other TikTokers soon adapted the audio, including @chez.amelie, whose iteration garnered more than 4.7 million views. 

Deinfluencers are still influencers, ultimately seeking to sway your spending habits. But instead of propping products up, they tend to tell their followers what they shouldn’t buy—whether because it’s overpriced, potentially harmful, or ethically questionable. In many respects, they have carved out a distinctive niche in influencer culture, one characterized by candor, subjectivity, and a general credibility no longer reliably ascribed to creators with brand endorsement deals.

How did it start?

While the movement’s precise origins are difficult to pinpoint, skepticism about influencers and paid content has been mounting online for years. Social media personalities like Khabane Lame (@khaby.lame), who found internet fame creating playful (and silent) takedowns of so-called life hacks, reflected a broader frustration with a world (and, more specifically, a social media landscape) choked with unnecessary products. (Boasting more than 161 million followers, Lame has become the most-followed person on TikTok.)

What was Mascaragate, and what did that have to do with deinfluencing?

A touch of social media scandal also had its part to play in the rise of deinfluencing. Back in January, beauty influencer Mikayla Nogueira posted a rave (and paid) review of L’Oréal’s Telescopic Lift Mascara. The video, which includes a shot of Nogueira’s suddenly voluminous lashes, went viral after fans speculated that she’d used Ardell Wispies to enhance the makeup’s effect. (Nogueira denied the claims.) 

Yet beyond the demand for greater transparency from social media users, a growing consumer fatigue—and sense of consumer guilt, particularly against the backdrop of global war and eco-anxiety—has also motivated the trend toward deinfluencing. “Especially in the current climate, any kind of shopping feels almost dystopian,” says Venetia La Manna, cofounder of Remember Who Made Them, a collective that spotlights the plight of modern garment workers. “I will scroll through my feeds, and it’s so incredibly jarring to see a post about genocide, and then the next point you see is someone trying to sell you hot chocolate.”

While some deinfluencers have pivoted to recommending different goods—platforming products that they feel are superior to the ones being pushed—the real spirit of the exercise, according to La Manna, is to get people to stop shopping, period. “There’s absolutely space to encourage people to buy an item that is either secondhand or from a brand that is really thinking about their supply chains and the ethics within that supply,” she says. But the question that deinfluencing really asks is: “How can we be buying less and instead educating ourselves more?

“The reason the deinfluencing trend has seen this trajectory is because it’s next to impossible for us to unlearn consumption,” La Manna continues. “We’re socially conditioned to believe that the only power we have is our buying power. I’m trying to help people realize that their power is more than what they buy.”