For the uninitiated (aka those with actual hobbies), GRWM stands for Get Ready With Me. Yes, that’s right. It’s a genre of content where influencers film themselves putting on clothes, applying makeup, and – because nothing is sacred anymore – sharing deeply personal stories that absolutely no one asked for.
What started as a TikTok beauty culture phenomenon quickly spiralled into a confessional booth for oversharers. We went from “Here’s how I achieve flawless foundation” to “GRWM while I unpack my childhood trauma, recount my break-up, and eat a banana on camera for some reason.” Make it make sense.
GRWM videos are now an internet staple, because why do things in private when you can monetise them for strangers? Welcome to the modern world, where privacy is dead, and everything is content.
Let’s be real: Get Ready With Me videos are the easiest gig in the world. No complex editing, no plot, no effort – just chat nonsense while applying eyeliner and raking in the brand deals. Want social media vanity distilled into its purest form? Look no further.
For creators, the appeal is obvious:
Effortless engagement – You literally just turn on a camera and exist.
Low production value – No lighting? No problem! Authenticity now = laziness then.
Trauma dumping for clout – Nothing hooks an audience like blending concealer while discussing generational curses.
Product placement goldmine – Why just get dressed when you can subtly shove a £70 moisturiser in your audience’s face?
These influencers have cracked the TikTok beauty culture code: sell relatability while subtly reminding viewers that they are poorer and uglier. Genius.
So why do people watch GRWM videos and fund these ego-centric creators? Are we genuinely fascinated by the act of someone putting on trousers? Or are we just too burnt out to function without human-shaped background noise?
A few possibilities:
The Parasocial Fix – We feel like we “know” these influencers, despite the fact they wouldn’t recognise us if we spontaneously combusted in front of them.
Aesthetic Aspirations – Watching someone else’s perfectly curated morning routine makes us feel productive… while we scroll in bed eating crisps.
Mindless Consumption – It’s just easy. No brain cells required. Like reality TV, but somehow even less eventful.
Congratulations, we’ve reached the point where people literally stare at their screens watching strangers button their blouses. What a time to be alive.
Creators live in a world where over-sharing equals engagement, and the line between "authenticity" and "emotional exhibitionism" is so blurred it might as well go to Specsavers. But what drives this obsessive need to broadcast every eyelash curl and existential crisis?
At its core, GRWM is an elaborate cry for validation. These creators aren’t just filming themselves getting ready – they’re desperately clutching at proof that they matter. If people are watching, they must be important, right? In the dystopian hellscape that is social media, visibility isn’t just an advantage – it’s survival.
Their entire brand is built on the illusion that their audience gives a shit. Every foundation swipe, every morning matcha, every insipid, “So, this is what’s been on my mind lately…” monologue is carefully packaged for consumption because stopping means disappearing. Their biggest fear? Irrelevance. If they’re not being watched, do they even exist?
And then, of course, there’s the cold, hard cash. Nothing breeds loyalty like an influencer baring their soul while blending contour. The more personal they get, the deeper their audience’s dependency grows. This isn’t just engagement – it’s emotional manipulation dressed up as vulnerability. They’re not just flogging Get Ready With Me videos – they’re selling the illusion of intimacy. Welcome to capitalism’s final form: monetised selfhood, where even your insecurities come with a sponsorship deal.
We, the watchers, are complicit. We devour these videos because they provide a low-effort sense of connection, the digital equivalent of a microwaved meal – filling, easy, and utterly devoid of substance. Unlike real human relationships, there’s no emotional labour involved. No reciprocation required. You sit, you watch, you absorb. It’s the passive consumption of ‘socialising’ without actually having to engage in anything remotely resembling real interaction.
And that’s exactly why it’s so appealing. GRWM videos slot perfectly into our overstimulated, attention-fragmented reality. They demand nothing but our eyeballs, offering the illusion of companionship without the hassle of participation. We pretend we have a relationship with someone who, in reality, wouldn’t piss on us if we were on fire. But the real kicker? We like it that way. It’s friendship without the effort, and in an era where even responding to a text feels like work, it’s no wonder we eat this shit up.
And let’s not forget the illusion of productivity. Our brains, ever the gullible little dopamine junkies, somehow mistake watching someone else apply toner as self-care by proxy. Spoiler: it isn’t. We’ve just burned 40 minutes staring at a stranger dabbing highlighter while delivering a TED Talk on “how wild last night was.”
But why do we need this illusion? Because real productivity is exhausting, and modern life is already demanding enough. We’ve been conditioned to feel guilty for doing nothing, so instead, we engage in fake productivity – watching others complete tasks that we could theoretically be doing ourselves. GRWM videos let us bask in the idea of routine, of self-care, of organisation, without actually lifting a finger.
It’s the ultimate placebo for self-improvement – where we trick ourselves into feeling accomplished while still marinating in our own inertia. And the best part? There’s always another video queued up, ready to let us continue lying to ourselves for just a little longer.
Look, GRWM videos are not the end of civilisation. But maybe, just maybe, we could all take a step back and ask ourselves: Do I really need to spend my free time watching someone else put on socks?
Because the more we watch, the more we fuel an industry where people feel the need to monetise every second of their existence. And at some point, we have to admit: maybe the real self-care is closing TikTok and going outside.
Touch some grass. Maybe even get ready without an audience. Madness, I know.