TikTok (formerly musical.ly) – the entertainment app where creators post short-form videos that range from fashion to sports to pop culture to education to lip-syncing. It’s an app that’s highly addictive. It’s an app that I’ve had since I was nine. Your interactions with videos – liking, commenting, sharing, and so on – and other users’ interactions, which it deems similar or dissimilar to you, determine the algorithm. In accord with the consumerist society we live in, TikTok’s driven by user experience: moreish mini dopamine hits every time you scroll, based on validation from strangers and the relatability of your ‘For You Page’ (the endless feed of videos that you’re met with on every instance you open the app), making the app arduous to close. Users’ information is perpetually fed into the infamous algorithm. Now, I can’t even begin to understand the ins and outs of the app’s inner workings. Still, being such a well-seasoned user and chronic over-analyser, I feel I can attest to the social phenomena the algorithm produces.

Unlike me, until recently, my flatmate had never had TikTok but downloaded it briefly when she was featured in her friends’ video and wanted to see herself immortalised in short-form content. After getting over my perplexity that she’d “never had TikTok”, my first question had to be: “What’s your For You Page like? I’ve had that app since I was nine; it probably knows me better than I know myself.”

What? It’s an app, it doesn’t know me; it doesn’t know the dream I had last night, or that I’ve got odd socks on, or that the voice inside my head quite often takes on the accent of a character in whatever sitcom I’m rewatching at the time (right now, it’s Tobias Funke from Arrested Development). Except, maybe it knows everything else. Few people in my life now knew me deeply when I was nine (I hear it, I was nine, how deeply can you really know someone at that age?), and yet I can’t not count the TikTok algorithm as one of these ‘people’. Don’t fret, I don’t view my For You Page (FYP) as sentient, but feeding its algorithm my deepest, darkest secrets, as well as things I have passed affections for throughout such fundamental character-building years, means the content I’m shown reflects my interests to a tee. We’re (me and the app) at a stage of instantaneous mutual understanding that it appears to know things about me before I even know them to be true myself, so who’s to say it didn’t fundamentally build my character?

Perhaps I feel so seen by my FYP because I’m more likely to align with something when it’s constantly shoved in my face online, or perhaps the ritual of expecting my feed to know me means I subconsciously readily agree with whatever I’m shown to ensure the behaviour of my FYP meets my expectations. Regardless of psychological theory, the effects that my FYP/BFF has had on me are tangible.

In the summer months of 2020, I, like many others of sound mind and heart, was made starkly aware of abhorrent social injustices occurring around the world. Videos about the brutal murder of Black U.S. civilian George Floyd, for instance, filled my feed, infiltrating my mind and moral compass. If it weren’t for the algorithm pushing such videos in my direction, I may never have become the angry, socially aware, righteous 14-year-old I was, and, in turn, the angry, politically educated, left-wing humanities and social science student I proudly am now.

I saw a TikTok recently from creator @ask_ashlyn, who spoke about how the internet has become the main accessible third space for many people, meaning spaces where individuals relax and build community outside their homes and workplaces are now primarily online. This was certainly true for me in 2020. Locked in my room amid COVID-19 restrictions, my TikTok activity reflected my loneliness. Retrospectively, I can see the algorithm pushed content that fostered community, like-mindedness, and escape, which became a way for me to combat my isolation. Next thing I knew, I was a Harry Styles superfan. While I’m not involved in the fandom nowadays, since I’ve had the privilege of finding fulfillment from elsewhere in my life, being part of a group that practically spoke its own esoteric language of acceptance gave mid-teen me a sense of kinship and belonging when I needed it most. My FYP was a space where I didn’t feel like I was alone. There’s been a very privileged rhetoric circulating lately that scoffs at online communities as not producing ‘real’ connections, to which I staunchly disagree. While going back to school and having very few of my peers relate to my newfound obsession was challenging, the messages of self-love and confidence I had internalised from that corner of TikTok better equipped me for the hell that was high school. It’s comforting to know there’s an easily accessible foundation of support out there, and all I need to do is doomscroll; the algorithm will soon catch on. Obviously, seeking support from real-life loved ones or professionals is more beneficial lest you become so chronically online you isolate yourself further – but, surely, some form of connection is better than no connection at all.

Being on any social media app at such a young age is bound to have long-lasting effects, but one so dedicated to receiving my approval has meant that my FYP literally grew up with me. But have I trained the algorithm to show me things I like, or has the algorithm trained me to like what it shows me? Either way, the app knows me, so what? As always, there are two sides: connecting with like-minded strangers is easy; the ability to learn about otherwise unknown cultures is at your fingertips; and the mutual understanding between user and algorithm allows for easy access to a good level of self-discovery. However, the esoteric communities on the app don’t always map well onto reality and can give a false sense of togetherness; you become separated from real life and real people due to the app’s addictive nature; with the current rise of AI it’s disconcerting to be known so well by a database; there’s a danger in easy self-discovery as people likely don’t know themselves as well as they perceive; and we become carbon copies of the people we see on the screen. While it’s gratifying to perfectly resonate with a video, it feels much nicer to hug your friends and tell them a secret you had when you were nine.