As a woman in my 30s, Instagram makes me question every decision I make. Questions that I barely thought about a few years ago now seem urgent. Is my face asymmetrical? Is it hanging? Do I need retinol or retinal? Am I tired because of my lifestyle, or am I deficient in magnesium, omega-3, or something else I haven’t discovered yet?
These fears may feel personal or even trivial, but they are deeply political. In an economy where emotions are monetized and beauty is treated as a form of responsibility, women’s insecurities become profitable assets. Here is Affective capitalism And Advertising culture cut. Our fears, desires and self-doubts are not only reflected back to us, but are actively shaped and sold.
Social media platforms and beauty brands aren’t just catering to women’s needs; they produce them. Through influencers, algorithms and wellness marketing, femininity itself is increasingly associated with constant self-improvement. Looking good is no longer just about aesthetics, but about discipline, productivity and moral worth.
When capitalism meets emotions
The Indian skin care market is valued at 3 billion dollarswhile worldwide it is at a staggering level $446 billion from 2023and is expected to grow at 6 percent annually. Rapid urbanization and rising middle-class incomes certainly play a role, but the hyper-awareness generated by Instagram influencers is arguably the real fuel behind the industry’s booming profits.
FII
As a woman slowly approaching her “exciting thirties,” catchy roles ask, “Do you have fine lines, dark circles under your eyes, and uneven skin tone?” Let me stop scrolling. The genius Instagram algorithm picks up on that and bam, that’s all I see from that moment on. Social media doesn’t just know what we enjoy; it knows what we feel. Our likes, comments, searches, and insecurities become data points that convert emotions into profit. Every vulnerability becomes a marketing opportunity.
Social media platforms and beauty brands aren’t just catering to women’s needs; they produce them. Through influencers, algorithms and wellness marketing, femininity itself is increasingly associated with constant self-improvement.
This is how affective capitalism works. Emotions, desires and insecurities become raw materials. Platforms don’t just sell to us; They shape us into consumers who continue to need what they sell. We believe that we are in control, that we decide who we follow, what we like, and when we scroll. But the system silently shapes exactly these decisions. Even when I try to “train” my algorithm to show better content, the algorithm still decides what “better” means. Targeted ads that appear right after a conversation with a friend or a late-night search are not a coincidence. They remind you that my emotions, habits and impulses are data that can be predicted, packaged and monetized.
What makes matters worse is that this system does not affect all users equally. A former Meta employee and whistleblower, Sarah Wynn Williams revealed how Instagram actively reached out to teenage girls in their most vulnerable moments. Internal documents showed that deleting a teenage user’s selfie or photo, often a sign of dissatisfaction with her appearance, was interpreted by the platform as a signal of emotional vulnerability. Instagram reportedly used this data to advertise beauty and appearance. This transformed moments of self-doubt into monetizable opportunities that exacerbated uncertainty while generating profit.
If these targeted advertisements can influence adult women like me who have some degree of emotional and self-image stability, the impact on teenage girls is deeply concerning. For young users who are still developing their self-confidence, the constant scrutiny of algorithms can cause insecurity to become an everyday part of growing up.
Advertising culture
Affective capitalism would not be nearly as powerful without the machinery designed to respond to these emotions. Scientists call this machinery advertising culture, the system through which emotional data becomes everyday consumer desires.
Intermediaries such as brands, marketers, influencers, and even wellness “experts” play a critical role in this ecosystem. They don’t just sell products; They mobilize their understanding of our emotions to shape what we want in the first place. They map desires such as “confidence,” “youthfulness,” or “glamor” onto objects and routines and transform emotions into characteristics and uncertainties into market categories.
Over time, these mediators inscribe meaning into everything. A jade roller is no longer a simple tool; it becomes a promise of symmetry. A supplement is not just Omega-3; it becomes “energy,” “focus,” or “youth.” In doing so, they make our fears of a meeting, our late-night scrolling, or our cultural obsession with looking “put together” productive for global markets.
Source: FII
This ecosystem is further complicated by the proliferation of paid partnerships. Influencers no longer just share what they use; They make a living on trust. The line between genuine recommendation and sponsored persuasion is now so thin that it is almost impossible to know whether a product is actually effective or just part of a well-orchestrated marketing script. When every other role is labeled “collaboration,” “paid partnership,” or “PR package,” authenticity itself becomes commodified, and we as consumers have no reliable way of knowing what really works.
A fleeting concern about aging suddenly becomes a curated market of serums, tools, routines, and “must-haves,” all promising to solve a problem I didn’t know I had until someone named it. Somewhere in this loop, my nightly doubts about my skin or my fatigue no longer feel like personal concerns but like categories in a catalog, neatly packaged and endlessly capitalized.
Influencers no longer just share what they use; They make a living on trust. The line between genuine recommendation and sponsored persuasion is now so thin that it is almost impossible to know whether a product is actually effective or just part of a well-orchestrated marketing script.
This gender targeting is no coincidence. Beauty and wellness capitalism thrives on the idea that women must continually invest in themselves in order to remain acceptable, desirable, or even competent. From skincare routines to supplements, women are encouraged to spend more, buy more often and invest emotionally in products that promise control over aging, fatigue and imperfection. The costs here are not just financial. It’s also psychological. This is a softer version of the pink taxwhere women pay not only more money, but also more attention, more anxiety, and more emotional labor in the name of self-care.
At some point I realized that the anxiety didn’t come from my skin or my sleep cycle; It comes from a system that wants me to believe that I’m always just one purchase away from becoming the “best version” of myself. Instagram may not have brought out my insecurities, but it definitely organized and color-coded them so I could more easily address them. Now, before I put something in my shopping cart, I try to stop and ask myself if I really need it or if an influencer with perfect lighting convinced me that I need it.
Maybe my thirties aren’t about lifting my face or shrinking my pores, but about relieving the pressure to constantly improve myself. The most radical self-care I can practice is to close the app before it tells me that happiness comes in a 30ml bottle, is recommended by dermatologists and tested by influencers, and that somehow it’s still my fault if it doesn’t work.