This article first appeared as part one of the Redefining Subculture newsletter series from Dazed Studio. Sign up to read the next issue here.

HOW IT STARTED

What subcultures exist in 2023? It’s hard to say when the line between mainstream and anti-mainstream is almost invisible. The mass has incorporated the sub, the niche and the weird into a mishmash of cores and aesthetics that anyone can buy into. In the past few months alone we’ve seen Julia Fox entering her clowncore era, demons taking over pop culture, and Charlotte Tilbury pushing #mermaidcore. Whether these count as subcultures or not is up for debate, but what’s clear is that subcultural identity still holds an allure. Our desire for uniqueness gives a certain cultural caché to being an outsider. But as the majority lays claim to countercultural identities, striving to be different leaves us coming up short. We remain nostalgic for subcultures of the past because we are unable to replicate their collective identities, formed on shared ideas, interests and struggles, in the grips of hyperindividualism. Instead of sharing meaning or purpose, we share shopping baskets.

Subcultures are commodified to maintain the status quo. In his influential book Subculture: Meaning and Style, Dick Hebdige explained how capitalism and dominant ideologies do this to dismantle subcultural rebellion, outlining two tactics of doing so: firstly, by converting subcultural symbols (fashion, music, etc) into mass-produced objects, and secondly by dominant groups (eg the media or government) labelling and redefining ‘deviant’ behaviour to make it acceptable enough to be integrated into the mainstream (eg by making something ‘cool’).

Capitalism’s efficiency in commodifying subcultures as soon as they emerge leaves it with nothing left to target. But it struck lucky in finding a new group of outsiders to exploit. A group of neurodivergent people who tick enough boxes to stand in for real subcultures. Anti-mainstream or resistant behaviours? Tick. A shared struggle? Tick. A collective identity? Almost. Thanks to a new era of social media discourse, the ‘subculturalification’ of neurodivergence is underway, offering a new countercultural identity – one based on shared biology – to buy into.

@clairebowmanofficial How many do you struggle with? 🖤✨ #adhshe #adhdinwomen #adhdwomen #adhdsymptoms #adhdsymptomsinwomen #adhddiagnosis ♬ Emotional - Bang Nono

In 2020, neurodivergence became a mainstay of popular discourse. Unprecedented times triggered an explosion in demand for ADHD assessments and birthed a subculture that, like its predecessors, emerged from the unique socioeconomics of its time. The conditions couldn’t have been better: restricted access to overwhelmed healthcare systems, oppressive societal rules, and a desire to live life differently after lockdown. As one of the pandemic’s ADHD babies, the early days of neurodiversity’s subculturification naturally caught my attention. A new breed of creators described my entire personality, validating a nagging belief that there was something wrong with me. Since my diagnosis, #ADHD and #autism have reached over 60.3 billion views on TikTok, carving a corner of the internet for a community of officially and unofficially diagnosed creators: meme makers, therapists and psychologists laying down neurodivergent conditions, symptoms and experiences in digestible and relatable ways.

The problem is, digestible, relatable neurodivergent disorders are framed in relation to a capitalist model of a ‘normal’ productive citizen. When you consider the fact that these conditions exist on a spectrum of how severely they hinder your ability to comply with one-size-fits-all frameworks of work, education and leisure, it’s clear that they pose a threat to the status quo.

HOW IT’S GOING

To keep this new subculture in line, social media turned diagnosis into an identity. A creation of neurodivergent influencers basing their entire personas on a condition, which is often only subject of their content, rather than presenting themselves as whole, nuanced individuals.

The more diluted these identities become, the easier they are to co-opt and commodify. Keeping users engaged in the short-form visual world of TikTok and Instagram requires creators to flatten their identity. Context is removed and symptoms are generalised, or even fabricated, to the point where they apply to anyone: a tempting invite for the growing majority of people struggling to keep up with capitalism’s rising demands. At a point when even our hobbies have to be productive, why wouldn't neurotypical people believe neurodivergence could be the reason they’re failing to keep up? 

The mainstream is transforming neurodiversity into an aspiration we can all buy into. But the rise of what some call “TikTok’s sick-role subculture” seems to be doing more harm than good. A recent study in the journal of Comprehensive Psychiatry found that teenagers’ exposure to it during an important phase of personality development raises the likelihood that they’ll develop symptoms of the disorders they see online. Evidence that social media is “a vehicle of transmission for social contagion of self-diagnosed mental illness conditions” is mounting. SickTok-obsessed teens have already made news for presenting with Tourette-like tics, but the phenomenon is also reaching other conditions like dissociative identity disorder (#Tourettes and #dissociativeidentitydisorder currently have 9.5 billion and 1.7 billion TikTok views respectively). Perhaps, despite our desire to be seen as individuals, we’re all just trying to belong somewhere.

Negative self-image – one thing that many neurodivergent people share in common – is fuelled by a longstanding cultural narrative that portrays their conditions as problems to be fixed. Social media excels at perpetuating this image, appealing to our need for belonging by promising that we can fit in if we buy the right cure. Times have moved on, and to keep purses open neurodivergence has undergone a rebrand. Whilst the core message remains the same, a new stereotype of neuro-spicy darlings has become an emblem of originality and uniqueness. Symptoms are now ‘superpowers’ wrapped in a set of cutesy aesthetics aligning them with modern hippies and creative types.

A growing market is capitalising on the desirability of diagnosis as an indisputable medical claim to uniqueness. Big Pharma was the first to move in, gatekeeping vital healthcare for profit. Takeda, the company behind the ADHD drug Vyvanse has contributed to a global medication shortage after holding a 16-year patent preventing the manufacture of cheaper unbranded generics. Beyond medicine, therapy and productivity apps leverage neurodivergence to sell wellbeing (Brad Troemel’s recent ad roundup is particularly dystopian). Soundscapes are the newest cure to consume thanks to apps like Endel that claim to alleviate ADHD symptoms through their roster of neurodivergent creators. Even meds are getting their own merch to keep mental health in fashion.

WHERE WILL IT END UP?

Despite what corporate culture tells us, brain diversity in a global population of 8.1 billion is actually very normal. How weird would it be if we didn’t have varied ways of thinking? While there are definitely benefits to better visibility of neurodivergence, the labelling and commodifying of a group of outsiders (who, let’s face it, present a challenge to established ways of working) disempowers them by taking their eyes off their oppressors. When they become the cool kids, they were transformed into objects of desire instead of people with unmet needs in a system not fit to serve them. Maybe if we stopped confusing othering and idolisation with inclusivity and acceptance we could return to a definition of subcultures that resist oppression, reject the status quo and ultimately move society forward.