We Miss the Stars
Who Didn’t Text Back
Who Didn’t Text Back
Somewhere between TikTok challenges, “influencers with a soul,” and endless documentaries about “the artist’s inner journey,” we lost the very idea of a star. Not the cosmic kind — the human one.
Today’s celebrity isn’t someone unreachable. It’s someone who goes live in a bathrobe, complains about anxiety, and says they’re “just human.”
And you know what? We love them for that — but we don’t worship them anymore.
Welcome to the post-glamour era, where the cult of untouchability turned into the cult of vulnerability — and the word “icon” now sounds like nostalgia for a time when stars were larger than life instead of just “relatable.”
Once upon a time, being a star meant belonging to a different species
In the 1950s, Elvis drove teenage girls insane with one hip movement. In the 1980s, Michael Jackson turned concerts into religious-level rituals.
And in the 1990s, Madonna became the ultimate symbol of rebellion against morality.
And in the 1990s, Madonna became the ultimate symbol of rebellion against morality.
Back in 1956, psychologist Donald Horton coined the term parasocial relationships — the one-sided emotional bond between an audience and a public figure. It was rare then: fans dreamed of touching their idols, knowing they never would. Distance made the cult possible.
Then the internet happened. First MySpace and YouTube, then Instagram, TikTok, and livestreams. The barrier between “us” and “them” collapsed — and so did the aura of the unreachable.
Now, if a star doesn’t reply to comments, people take it personally. We’re living through a cultural revolution: divinity replaced by engagement metrics.
Once, stars reflected our dreams. Now they reflect our anxieties.
Modern culture demands authenticity — to be “real,” “honest,” “no filters.” But the paradox is that authenticity itself has become another mask.
Psychologist Sherry Turkle wrote in Alone Together: “We create connection without intimacy.” What used to be distance is now an imitation of closeness.
Artists open their souls, cry on camera, talk about panic attacks — and it’s no longer catharsis, it’s branding.
Cultural theorist Chris Rojek, in Celebrity Culture, called it the desacralization of fame: celebrities are no longer a separate caste, just another product of the media economy. A star isn’t light anymore — it’s an algorithm.
Fans once wanted to become Madonna. Now they just want to be seen, like her. We don’t crave heroes; we crave visibility.
And here’s the catch: admiration requires humility, and the modern person doesn’t look up — they look sideways.
We don’t measure greatness anymore; we compare ourselves.
Every Story makes us both spectators and competitors. If Billie Eilish says she’s insecure, maybe I’m not doing that bad. If Lana Del Rey posts an unflattering photo, maybe I can stop trying to be perfect.
We no longer need stars as projectors of dreams — we need them as mirrors that justify our ordinariness.
Look at how the visuals have changed.
In the 2000s, Britney and Christina competed over who could show more skin and fewer flaws. Today Billie Eilish wears baggy clothes and talks about depression. Taylor Swift turns her love life into a poetic series, while Kanye West turns his into a live breakdown.
Music has lost the idea of the untouchable icon. MTV turned into TikTok, where the algorithm gives you stardom for 24 hours. Lil Nas X can wake up a meme and go to bed a legend.
Even aesthetics changed: gloss gave way to domestic reality.
Music videos ditched gold cars and pyrotechnics — now it’s “real life”: smudged makeup, iPhone footage, unmade beds as stages.
Pop culture stopped selling dreams and started selling therapy. Instead of “look at me,” it’s “feel me.”
But here’s the problem: the more artists “open up,” the less room there is for mystery. And when everything’s shown, everything loses meaning.
Mystery was the fuel of the cult. Without it — it’s just content.
2025 is the moment when the line between public and private fully disappeared.
Social media made everyone a little famous.
On one hand, the democratization of fame is cool. We stopped idolizing, we started seeing the humans behind the images. On the other hand, the sense of wonder vanished.
Psychologists already call it a crisis of symbolic authority. We no longer believe anyone can be “above” us — morally or aesthetically. And with that, we lose the ability to admire.
Pop culture has always been a mirror of society.
If it once reflected dreams, now it reflects exhaustion.
And when everything becomes “real,” the most radical thing you can do is be mysterious again.
So what now?
First — stop expecting artists to save you from boredom. They’re not superhumans, but they don’t have to be “just like you” either.
Second — bring back distance. Admiration needs space to breathe.
And third — admit that stars didn’t die. They just left the group chat.
Their glow isn’t from filters — it’s from not trying to fit in.
If you want to feel the magic again, turn off the Stories.
Real light is only visible in the dark.
Now, if a star doesn’t reply to comments, people take it personally. We’re living through a cultural revolution: divinity replaced by engagement metrics.
Once, stars reflected our dreams. Now they reflect our anxieties.
Modern culture demands authenticity — to be “real,” “honest,” “no filters.” But the paradox is that authenticity itself has become another mask.
Psychologist Sherry Turkle wrote in Alone Together: “We create connection without intimacy.” What used to be distance is now an imitation of closeness.
Artists open their souls, cry on camera, talk about panic attacks — and it’s no longer catharsis, it’s branding.
Cultural theorist Chris Rojek, in Celebrity Culture, called it the desacralization of fame: celebrities are no longer a separate caste, just another product of the media economy. A star isn’t light anymore — it’s an algorithm.
Fans once wanted to become Madonna. Now they just want to be seen, like her. We don’t crave heroes; we crave visibility.
And here’s the catch: admiration requires humility, and the modern person doesn’t look up — they look sideways.
We don’t measure greatness anymore; we compare ourselves.
Every Story makes us both spectators and competitors. If Billie Eilish says she’s insecure, maybe I’m not doing that bad. If Lana Del Rey posts an unflattering photo, maybe I can stop trying to be perfect.
We no longer need stars as projectors of dreams — we need them as mirrors that justify our ordinariness.
Look at how the visuals have changed.
In the 2000s, Britney and Christina competed over who could show more skin and fewer flaws. Today Billie Eilish wears baggy clothes and talks about depression. Taylor Swift turns her love life into a poetic series, while Kanye West turns his into a live breakdown.
Music has lost the idea of the untouchable icon. MTV turned into TikTok, where the algorithm gives you stardom for 24 hours. Lil Nas X can wake up a meme and go to bed a legend.
Even aesthetics changed: gloss gave way to domestic reality.
Music videos ditched gold cars and pyrotechnics — now it’s “real life”: smudged makeup, iPhone footage, unmade beds as stages.
Pop culture stopped selling dreams and started selling therapy. Instead of “look at me,” it’s “feel me.”
But here’s the problem: the more artists “open up,” the less room there is for mystery. And when everything’s shown, everything loses meaning.
Mystery was the fuel of the cult. Without it — it’s just content.
2025 is the moment when the line between public and private fully disappeared.
Social media made everyone a little famous.
On one hand, the democratization of fame is cool. We stopped idolizing, we started seeing the humans behind the images. On the other hand, the sense of wonder vanished.
Psychologists already call it a crisis of symbolic authority. We no longer believe anyone can be “above” us — morally or aesthetically. And with that, we lose the ability to admire.
Pop culture has always been a mirror of society.
If it once reflected dreams, now it reflects exhaustion.
And when everything becomes “real,” the most radical thing you can do is be mysterious again.
So what now?
First — stop expecting artists to save you from boredom. They’re not superhumans, but they don’t have to be “just like you” either.
Second — bring back distance. Admiration needs space to breathe.
And third — admit that stars didn’t die. They just left the group chat.
Their glow isn’t from filters — it’s from not trying to fit in.
If you want to feel the magic again, turn off the Stories.
Real light is only visible in the dark.
