are we really anti-capitalist or just chronically online?

Our generation as a whole constantly talks about being anti-capitalist. We repost infographics, preach the idea of "support small," and romanticize quitting the 9 to 5 schedule. But most of us do this on iPhones, sipping overpriced coffee, with seven orders en route to our doorstep from Amazon. It's not hypocrisy; it's become a reflex and a rule. Gen-Z grew up hyper-aware of how broken the system is, but also completely warped into it. We critique capitalism, but we also monetize our trauma, aestheticize burnout, and dream of soft luxury. So the question isn't whether we're "really" capitalist. It's whether it's even possible to reject something you've never had the option to escape.

It's funny because the whole concept of "anti-capitalism" itself was monetized. Online, "anti-capitalism" became posters, tote bags, hoodies and pins that read "Eat the Rich," printed in clean Helvetica and sold at overpriced rates. We consume anti-consumption content like it’s an aesthetic category. And yeah, it might even be.

What no one really talks about is how healing, whether it's emotional, mental, or spiritual, has quietly become one of the most profitable corners of the internet. What used to be free; introspection, silence, friendship, and time, now comes with a subscription. This isn't to shame the tools; they're necessities. But it’s wild that even slowing down is something we feel we have to earn. Even the act of recovering from burnout is optimized.

We’ve built entire identities around our exhaustion. There are TikToks romanticizing your “sad girl walk,” playlists for “depressed but hot,” and routines that revolve around feeling broken but being productive anyway. Even our rest has to be on-brand, our self-help journals curated, our spirituality algorithm-approved. The line between coping and capitalizing keeps getting blurrier, and no one’s sure where it even started.

It’s not that we don’t want to opt out. It’s that opting out isn’t really an option anymore. Every time we try to unplug, we find another app that promises peace for a price. Every attempt to detach becomes a new niche to sell to. And maybe the most dystopian part is this: we’re self-aware enough to laugh about it, but too tired to actually do anything else.