I noticed it first in my hyperfocus spirals. One week, I fell down a rabbit hole about Antarctic krill, their biomass, their role in carbon sequestration, the mind-bending fact that their swarms are visible from space. I read papers, watched documentaries, saved infographics. By Friday, my TikTok feed was a curated oceanography symposium interspersed with ads for sustainable seafood subscriptions and eco-friendly krill oil supplements. The algorithm hadn’t just mirrored my curiosity; it had monetized my obsession.
The next week? Mid-century case study houses. Suddenly, my Instagram was all clean lines, post-and-beam construction, and Eames chairs. Ads for architectural tours, vintage furniture dealers, and "authentic" replica lighting fixtures flooded my feed. The algorithm saw my deep dive and decided: This person needs to build a personality around minimalist design. And here’s how to buy it.
It wasn’t random. It was a profile being built in real-time: Neurodivergent Hyperfocuser. A niche, but highly profitable demographic. The algorithm didn’t care about the joy I found in obscure facts or beautiful design. It cared that my intense, sustained attention was a golden ticket for engagement and conversion.
Identity by Suggestion
Remember when discovering yourself meant messy exploration? Now it’s a curated path of least resistance. We don’t find ourselves; we’re recommended ourselves. The algorithm observes a flicker of interest -a late-night search, a 30-second video watch, a paused scroll - and builds an entire persona around it.
Your Spotify Discover Weekly doesn’t just reflect your taste; it predicts and shapes your next obsession. Your TikTok For You Page isn’t a mirror; it’s a funhouse, amplifying certain facets until they dominate. The algorithm isn’t interested in your contradictions or your quiet joys. It wants consistency. Predictability. A marketable pattern.
"You didn’t find yourself—you were recommended to yourself."
This shift from introspection to iteration means we’re constantly being edited by predictive models trained not for understanding, but for optimization. The algorithm doesn’t care if you’re authentic; it cares if you’re consistent enough to be sold to.
Trauma as Branding
Scroll any platform, and you’ll see it: vulnerability performs. People build online identities around wounds because trauma content converts. It gets clicks, comments, shares, and that sweet, sweet algorithmic visibility. The system teaches us that our pain isn’t just part of our story; it’s our brand.
"Healing" has become an aesthetic. There’s a specific visual language: soft lighting, aesthetic journaling, carefully curated crying faces. We’re encouraged to "do the work" publicly, turning our deepest struggles into shareable content. The algorithm doesn’t reward healing; it rewards performing healing.
"The algorithm thinks I'm an insomniac with abandonment issues. Honestly? Not wrong." (This still works perfectly – it’s about the algorithm's perception, not your literal reality)
The danger isn’t sharing struggles; it’s the incentive structure. Your complex grief becomes a marketable category, your anxiety a demographic, your depression an advertising opportunity. The algorithm doesn’t see a person; it sees a profitable pain point.
Shopping Habits as Personality Architecture
You are what you buy or, more accurately, what the algorithm thinks you’ll buy next. Our consumer choices are the bricks and mortar of our digital identity. Each purchase (or abandoned cart) reinforces who we are (or who the algorithm wants us to be).
Amazon doesn’t just sell products; it sells your next self. That book on brutalist architecture leads to recommendations for concrete planters, which leads to targeted ads for "architect digest-worthy" homewares. Instagram doesn’t just show you outfits; it shows you the person you could become if you just acquired the right things.
"You are no longer what you think. You are what converts."
Even our aspirational clicks tell a story. The algorithm remembers the mid-century chair you lusted after but didn’t buy, folding it into your profile. It builds a composite sketch of your desired self, often more valuable to advertisers than your actual self.
The Feedback Loop of You
The longer you scroll, the more you become the person the algorithm expects. It’s confirmation bias on steroids. Your preferences are co-authored by behavioral economics and cookie-tracking, creating a "you" optimized for engagement, not authenticity.
The algorithm doesn’t just reflect interests; it reinforces them, narrowing your world with each interaction. The person you are online becomes increasingly predictable, increasingly marketable, increasingly valuable to platforms profiting from your attention. And it feels like growth! When the algorithm serves up content that resonates, it feels like discovery. When it recommends products that fit your vibe, it feels like self-expression. But you’re not exploring; you’re being guided down a path paved by your past data, optimized for future profit.
Opting Out Isn’t a Personality Either
So, delete everything? Go analog? The system already commodified resistance. Cottagecore isn’t just pastoral yearning; it’s a rebellion against digital life, perfectly packaged for Pinterest. Dark academia isn’t just literary passion; it’s a moody aesthetic that thrives on TikTok. The "tradwife" trend? A rebellion against modern feminism, curated for Instagram Reels.
"Main character energy is just market segmentation with eyeliner."
The system makes even resistance aesthetic. Your attempt to opt out becomes just another data point, another identity category ripe for monetization. The algorithm doesn’t care if you’re buying in or dropping out, as long as you’re consistent enough to be categorized and targeted.
Conclusion
We’re living where our personalities are co-authored by algorithms designed to keep us scrolling, clicking, and buying. Our identities are products in an attention marketplace, optimized not for truth, but for transaction.
The solution isn’t opting out, that’s impossible. It’s developing algorithmic literacy: recognizing when our preferences are being shaped, when our identities are being curated for commerce, and when our "authentic" selves are just market segments.
The algorithm gave me a personality: 30% trauma (perceived), 70% shopping habits (projected), fueled by neurodivergent hyperfocus it saw as a revenue stream. But I’m learning to take back the pen. Not by rejecting digital life, but by approaching it with awareness, intention, and a healthy dose of skepticism. My deep dives into krill and case study houses are mine, not just data points for the next targeted ad. The first step to reclaiming your self is admitting the algorithm has a stake in defining it.
My attention isn’t a product. My obsessions aren’t inventory. And my personality? That’s still under construction, my construction.