The concept of the “main character” has been embedded in storytelling for centuries. Literature has long championed characters who stand apart, whose inner lives are filled with turmoil, romance, and, most of all, attention.
While watching James Bond sit at an endless poker table and witnessing Jo March navigate womanhood, the audience has gradually seen themselves not as just viewers but the protagonists themselves. The concept of the main character has evolved from a position of power over the public to a state of mind anyone can achieve.
Where literature and cinema once served as escapism, social media now allows people to craft their own self-mythologies. From Spotify playlists titled “songs that make you feel like you’re in a movie” to manifestation videos having us repeat “I don’t chase, I attract,” we can evoke the sense that the world does, in fact, revolve around us.
In a century so controlled by the media’s influence, where platforms are flooded with curated aesthetics, it doesn’t take much searching to recognize the behavior of someone with “main character syndrome.”
The term, popularized on TikTok and often thrown around sarcastically, is not exactly a syndrome as we would typically think of it. Rather, it’s an affliction where someone believes they are the protagonist of their life’s story.
Sure, main character syndrome can give us confidence, but hyper-awareness and self-centeredness come at the cost of distorting our reality. And on top of it all, this blatant egoism ultimately comes off as cringe-worthy.
Social media has opened a gateway for everyone to not only construct but also broadcast their own narratives. One simple search will teach you how to completely change the way you’re perceived through an oversaturated feed of “main character” outfits, aesthetics like “clean girl,” “mob wife,” and “dark academia,” and a list of Instagram captions.
It’s no longer about admiring a character for their role but rather about idolizing the character we want to become.
Take Serena van der Woodsen from Gossip Girl, who went from ultimate “it-girl” to the image of reckless privilege. Besides being the literal protagonist of the show, van der Woodsen’s effortless beauty and whirlwind romances made “being a Serena” a main character aesthetic many wanted to replicate. Van der Woodsen is a prime example that being the main character doesn’t always age well, as her indecisiveness and self-sabotage turned her into an insufferable lead.
The desire for that same attention and the constant adaptation of our sense of selves leads to the cultural phenomenon of “romanticizing reality,” creating mindsets where people believe they are the main character of their lives.
Romanticizing reality is about making every action, decision, and thought seem more beautiful and exciting than it really is. Recent trends encourage users to “romanticize their lives,” so that even the simplest moments—drinking a coffee, walking through a city alone, gazing out of a window—are documented with the implication that they hold profound meaning.
Every main character masters the art of romanticizing reality, and as viewers, we try to replicate it. The rise of social media has turned real life into an adaptation of this fictional concept, where each player is fighting for their moment in the spotlight.
I struggle to understand how we, as a society, are meant to bear the weight of everyone seeing themselves as the main character. The appeal is obvious: It turns the mundane into something cinematic. It turns every moment into a moment and makes us believe we control the narrative. But the more people subscribe to this mindset, the more we risk losing authenticity.
If everyone constantly puts on a performance, who is left to experience life as it truly is?
Main characters wouldn’t exist in the first place without their supporting casts—the people in our lives beyond our personal bubbles. The notion that a main character interacts solely to advance their own narrative doesn’t reflect how the real world operates.
In any story, the character who turns every situation into a personal saga will fail to notice the barista serving their coffee, the bus driver taking them to school, or the fellow student walking to class—all people who could see themselves as main characters too.
Not everything in life is black and white. We don’t have to be either the center of attention or completely invisible. Instead, we should embrace the moments of being both protagonist and observer. After all, Bond wouldn’t have found companionship without his Bond girl, March wouldn’t have stood up for herself without her three sisters, and even van der Woodsen would have been no one without the Gossip Girl blasts.
Being the main character isn’t inherently bad. There’s beauty in documenting life for memories’ sake rather than social validation. But when the need to romanticize overtakes reality, we risk losing what makes life genuinely meaningful.
Maybe as a society, it’s time we decide to embrace the side character—the people who live without the need for an audience. Maybe that’s where we find the real main character energy.
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