Financial ruin, but make it content

How social media became a social safety net

I’ve been noticing a growing number of videos on my FYP of people asking for help.

It’s real people, down on their luck and often on the brink of tears, earnestly asking the algorithm gods for support. While the causes vary, the message and structure remain largely the same: “Please stay to the end of this video, like, comment, save and repost so I can… pay off my medical debt / buy my children dinner / feed these homeless cats / divorce my abusive ex-husband. Occasionally, there is a callout to “Cash App/Venmo link in bio,” but many times these creators are just asking for simple engagement so that they can make it into the TikTok creator fund. 

The comments sections are all filled with similar responses trying to trick the algorithm on behalf of the creator — like “commenting to boost,” or on one video I saw “Dubai chocolate, boots, Love Island, Taylor Swift!”

At first, it can feel gratifying to engage with these videos — to show support, no matter how small the action. But as I’ve come across more and more of these videos, a vague sense of discomfort has started to set in. It costs us nothing, really. Which is maybe the problem. We feel like we’re helping. But are we actually? Perhaps this is just another way for us to abdicate responsibility without really taking care of each other. 

There’s only so much we can do while we watch the world burn around us. It can feel like a desperate attempt to patch holes in a rapidly sinking boat. If our time and money are limited, is social media engagement the next best thing?

Amidst the context of what’s currently happening in the U.S. with the systematic dismantling of many social services and support systems, self-preservation takes on new meaning on TikTok. From bans on public funding for gender-affirming care, to the cancellation of scientific research grants and Medicaid cuts, it now feels like it’s up to us to find ways to support each other and supplement these flimsy social safety nets. And if we are to fall on hard times ourselves, it’s up to us to get online and start posting whether we want to or not. Because there isn’t really a better alternative. 

We have essentially become a paycheck-to-paycheck nation. A 2025 study found that 59% of Americans don't have enough savings to cover an unexpected $1,000 emergency expense. And that financial instability isn’t just limited to low income households — reports show that even wealthier households are spending almost the entirety of their paycheck on necessities.

Absent any personal or social safety nets, crowdfunding has become a popular option for financial challenges. While GoFundMe initially started as a crowdfunding site for underwriting “ideas and dreams,” it’s now more frequently used to pay for "essential expenses" like housing, food and medicine. If that isn’t a metaphor for the death of the American Dream, I don’t know what is. The number of these types of “essential” campaigns has quadrupled since 2023. “GoFundMe Is a Health-Care Utility Now” wrote the Atlantic back in 2024. 

It makes sense that crowdfunding has made its way onto platforms like TikTok, particularly in the way that it allows those in need to lean on their creativity and storytelling ability to garner attention — and ultimately, money. But something about it feels so much more dystopic. Unlike with GoFundMe, on TikTok your financial struggle becomes content. There is a “sing for your supper” kind of vibe that feels wrong. 

New-to-TikTok creator Wes (@whizzle93) got on the platform for one purpose and one purpose only – to pay off his family’s medical and credit card debt. He’s now on day 15 of his series “Posting every day until TikTok pays off all my debt and then I f*** off,” and since starting mere weeks ago has amassed a dedicated following of over 168K. While the comments section is largely supportive, many acknowledge the darkness of the situation.  “Bruh, this is a dystopian nightmare,” writes one commenter.

Unfortunately, as is often the case on social media, it’s hard to tell what’s genuine and what’s not — what is an emotionally manipulative scam or a ploy for attention, and what is someone earnestly asking for help. I recently reposted a video to support an elderly man knitting sweaters for shelter cats, only to find when I navigated to the account page that the same video had been recreated dozens of times, each with a different caption and beneficiary — abandoned puppies, NICU babies, etc.

A variety of Reddit snark and gossip threads are dedicated to a growing frustration around this new phenomenon of “pan-handling” on TikTok. Particularly when it’s coming from full-time influencers, who, when down on their luck, start reaching out to their followers for financial support. Whether it’s reality TV celebrities like Spencer Pratt asking for financial support after his family’s house burned down in the L.A. fires, or full-on scams from TikTokers like Madison Russo who solicited over $37,000 from online donors by faking pancreatic cancer — people are getting fed up. For every supportive “commenting to boost!” there are many more telling creators “you’re lazy, just get a job.” 

TikTok has had to update their community guidelines due to an influx of this type of content, as recently as this past May, restricting explicit “begging” during live streams.

The way around that for creators then becomes the contentification of their struggle. Not a direct request for help, but a carefully disguised plea. Against an onslaught of scammers and emotionally manipulative influencers, the performance becomes: How do I prove I’m worthy of help?

With diminishing social safety nets and dwindling resources of our own, the dystopia of it all is that it’s up to us to decide. In the end, it becomes a question of not just who deserves a follow, but who deserves our help.