From Beatlemania
to Stan Culture:
The Age of Emotional Ownership
to Stan Culture:
The Age of Emotional Ownership
Fans are the fuel of the industry. Without them, no artist would ever become a legend.
But there’s a very thin moment when “I feel your music” turns into “I want to be you.” Or “with you.”
Inspiration is about growth. Fandom is about dissolution. And that exact point—when a person stops living their own life and starts living someone else’s—is terrifyingly subtle. Especially now, when you can double-tap faster than you can think why you’re doing it.
Worship isn’t new—it just used to take more effort
In the 19th century, girls fainted at Franz Liszt’s concerts, and in the 1960s, Beatles fans screamed themselves hoarse.
But those fans didn’t have access to their idols beyond a poster or a radio broadcast. We do. We see what our idols eat, how they sleep, where they go, who they sleep with—and the brain stops recognizing boundaries.
Psychologists call this parasocial relationships—the illusion of personal connection between a viewer and a public figure. The term first appeared in 1956 when researchers Donald Horton and Richard Wohl described how TV hosts were perceived as “friends.”
Back then, it seemed harmless. Today, when a celebrity says “I love you guys” on Instagram Stories, someone out there genuinely believes she means them.
That illusion brings people closer—but also erases the line. When you’re inspired by an artist, you might stop seeing where they end and you begin.
Fandom isn’t just emotional attachment. It’s identity substitution.
When someone can’t handle the pressure of inner emptiness, they fill it with someone else’s life.
A study from the University of Leeds found that fans who strongly identify with their favorite artist are more likely to experience anxiety and depression. Every success of the idol feels like borrowed glory; every downfall, personal grief.
Dr. Linda Papadopoulos, a London-based psychologist, says modern fandom feeds on a “deficit of selfhood”: people seek meaning outside themselves because they’re scared they won’t find any inside.
Inspiration, on the other hand, starts where someone else’s success pushes you toward your own.
Not “I want to be Billie Eilish,” but “I want to understand what in me resonated.”
The problem is, social-media algorithms aren’t invested in your independence.
They monetize obsession.
The longer you scroll, like, and comment, the more you’re worth—as a fan.
The system rewards addiction.
Fandom is fan bases waging online wars, canceling rival idols, and calling it “protection.”
Take the Swifties or the ARMY—the fans of Taylor Swift and BTS. They can hijack trends, launch a Twitter movement, or crash Spotify servers. Look a bit deeper, though, and it’s basically a new religion.
Hashtags instead of prayers. Streams instead of rituals. Idols instead of gods.
Meanwhile, real inspiration feels very different.
When Lady Gaga talks about trauma and vulnerability, she’s not asking to be worshiped. She’s cracking open a door you can walk through to deal with your own stuff.
When Bowie changed personas, he wasn’t asking for imitators. He was showing that being different is fine.
But culture stopped noticing that difference.
Fandom became a form of consumption, and inspiration a side effect—if you’re lucky.
So today, algorithms build identities faster than you can ask yourself,
“Is this even mine?”
Influencers sell lifestyles, musicians sell ideologies, brands sell belonging.
And in the end, people live not through their own experience, but through simulations of someone else’s success.
Psychologists are already tracking what they call a “crisis of self-experience”—the feeling that your life exists only in comparison to others. It drains energy and kills creativity.
When you’re a fan, you consume.
When you’re inspired, you create.
That’s the real dividing line—between audience and author, imitation and originality, the crowd and the individual.
If we stop seeing that difference, we’ll end up with a generation that lives to like—and no one left who lives to feel.
So, first—turn off the cult.
Admit your idol’s just a person—with flaws, weird habits, and bad days. Their life isn’t perfect; the lighting is.
Second—redefine inspiration.
Not “I want to be like them,” but “I want to find what’s mine.”
And third—if you catch yourself living more through other people’s updates than your own, maybe stop refreshing for a while.
You might rediscover where inspiration actually lives—in you.
Because fandom is addiction to someone else’s reality.
Inspiration is the right to build your own.
Back then, it seemed harmless. Today, when a celebrity says “I love you guys” on Instagram Stories, someone out there genuinely believes she means them.
That illusion brings people closer—but also erases the line. When you’re inspired by an artist, you might stop seeing where they end and you begin.
Fandom isn’t just emotional attachment. It’s identity substitution.
When someone can’t handle the pressure of inner emptiness, they fill it with someone else’s life.
A study from the University of Leeds found that fans who strongly identify with their favorite artist are more likely to experience anxiety and depression. Every success of the idol feels like borrowed glory; every downfall, personal grief.
Dr. Linda Papadopoulos, a London-based psychologist, says modern fandom feeds on a “deficit of selfhood”: people seek meaning outside themselves because they’re scared they won’t find any inside.
Inspiration, on the other hand, starts where someone else’s success pushes you toward your own.
Not “I want to be Billie Eilish,” but “I want to understand what in me resonated.”
The problem is, social-media algorithms aren’t invested in your independence.
They monetize obsession.
The longer you scroll, like, and comment, the more you’re worth—as a fan.
The system rewards addiction.
Fandom is fan bases waging online wars, canceling rival idols, and calling it “protection.”
Take the Swifties or the ARMY—the fans of Taylor Swift and BTS. They can hijack trends, launch a Twitter movement, or crash Spotify servers. Look a bit deeper, though, and it’s basically a new religion.
Hashtags instead of prayers. Streams instead of rituals. Idols instead of gods.
Meanwhile, real inspiration feels very different.
When Lady Gaga talks about trauma and vulnerability, she’s not asking to be worshiped. She’s cracking open a door you can walk through to deal with your own stuff.
When Bowie changed personas, he wasn’t asking for imitators. He was showing that being different is fine.
But culture stopped noticing that difference.
Fandom became a form of consumption, and inspiration a side effect—if you’re lucky.
So today, algorithms build identities faster than you can ask yourself,
“Is this even mine?”
Influencers sell lifestyles, musicians sell ideologies, brands sell belonging.
And in the end, people live not through their own experience, but through simulations of someone else’s success.
Psychologists are already tracking what they call a “crisis of self-experience”—the feeling that your life exists only in comparison to others. It drains energy and kills creativity.
When you’re a fan, you consume.
When you’re inspired, you create.
That’s the real dividing line—between audience and author, imitation and originality, the crowd and the individual.
If we stop seeing that difference, we’ll end up with a generation that lives to like—and no one left who lives to feel.
So, first—turn off the cult.
Admit your idol’s just a person—with flaws, weird habits, and bad days. Their life isn’t perfect; the lighting is.
Second—redefine inspiration.
Not “I want to be like them,” but “I want to find what’s mine.”
And third—if you catch yourself living more through other people’s updates than your own, maybe stop refreshing for a while.
You might rediscover where inspiration actually lives—in you.
Because fandom is addiction to someone else’s reality.
Inspiration is the right to build your own.
