Read Flags: When Life Is Lived for the Look

People these days don’t just live—they curate. One sip of matcha and suddenly someone becomes “that matcha girl,” the kind who treats her tote bag like it can carry the weight of her unresolved trauma. If performativity had a mascot, it would be someone reading A Little Life in public with noise-cancelling headphones… switched off.

Public spaces have turned into miniature stages. Sidewalks feel like catwalks, cafés pass for movie sets, and bus rides become soft-launched episodes of someone’s aesthetic existence. Goffman’s 1956 theory of impression management feels more prophetic than ever; if he were alive today, he might update his book to The Presentation of Self With a Tote Bag and Matcha.

Look around any city and you’ll see these everyday actors: a student annotating a feminist theory book she’s barely halfway through, a teenager brandishing a limited-edition Labubu as a shield against mundaneness, a trio discussing their “healing era” over overpriced matcha. They aren’t pretending to be interesting—they’re trying to feel more themselves, even if it takes a little theatrics.

This desire is especially visible in the age of fourth-wave feminism, which champions authenticity but also birthed the “aesthetic feminist”—someone who carries an Angela Davis tote yet panics when asked to explain intersectionality. Still, intention is a kind of identity. Even small aesthetic gestures can be early forms of becoming.

Headphones, too, have become character props. Wired ones whisper “I’m not like other people,” while wireless ones declare “I’m functioning today.” Without saying a word, they announce boundaries, moods, and playlists, turning silence into self-expression.

Public reading has evolved from quiet hobby to cultural signal. BookTok turned A Little Life, The Song of Achilles, and Normal People into identity markers; The Guardian reported a 300% spike in their sales in 2023. But readers in cafés aren’t always performing. Sometimes they’re chasing insight, ambience, or attention—and sometimes all three.

Performative behavior often gets dismissed as “trying too hard,” but trying is profoundly human. It reveals our longing to belong, to stand out, to be seen in ways that feel truer than we currently are. A feminist book signals empowerment. A misunderstood art tote signals culture. A cup of matcha signals calm. Exaggerated gestures, genuine emotions.

In an age of rising loneliness—confirmed by a 2024 APA study showing record-high isolation among young people—these small performances become lifelines. A tote becomes a confession, a Labubu becomes comfort, a book becomes a bridge. Aesthetic choices say what people are too scared to say aloud.

What if performativity isn’t fake at all? What if our curated selves are gateways to the selves we’re trying to grow into? The girl with A Little Life might not be showing off—maybe she’s surviving her own untold chapters. The guy holding a Labubu might be holding on to the last thing that feels like childhood. The feminist with the annotated book might simply be learning.

These personas aren’t masks; they’re mirrors—unfinished, unpolished, but honest in their attempts.

In a chaotic world, people cling to symbols: tote bags, green drinks, thick books, vinyl headphones. These small objects become anchors in a digital sea, quiet declarations of aspiration and identity.

We have always performed. Cavemen painted walls. Renaissance thinkers posed for portraits. Today’s youth pose with matcha and tote bags instead. Different props, same yearning. The stage is not the enemy; it is the setting where identity is rehearsed.

So the next time you see someone “trying too hard,” remember: every person is just a story practicing how to be told.

And maybe the most honest performance of all is the one we give every day without realizing it.