muslim girl brainrot is rotting my brain

it's probably rotting yours too.

when writing this, i came across

Hajar Mohammad

who discussed similar ideas in recent writing, and wanted to give her a shoutout as her work is beautifully timely and reflective.

are we really just girls?

before becoming a hijabi, i had little interest in influencers like addison rae or charli d'amelio. but as i navigated the biggest transition of my life, i started seeking out muslim girls who publicly embraced modesty and faith on social media. my fyp soon became filled with the asad sisters and others who had built platforms centered on their identities as muslim women. over time, though, i noticed a troubling pattern—one of self-sabotage—where these influencers intentionally disempowered themselves, focusing their content almost exclusively on consumerism and marriage. i found myself falling into this pattern too.

this phenomenon, called "muslim girl brainrot," has become a widely recognized critique of muslim influencer culture. najma sharif alawi is credited with coining the term, tweeting: “i need muslim girl brainrot to end in the west and i need the girls to start reading some theory. every day can’t be matcha, vela scarf, and dubai vlogs.” since then, the term has evolved into both a critique of tiktok influencer culture and, ironically, a self-identifier for many muslim women.

our fyps are saturated with this content. scroll through the feeds of popular muslim influencers, and you’ll find endless reels of luxurious travel, matcha taste tests, playful husband vlogs (or lamenting the lack thereof), and makeup and fashion hauls. we know little about the women behind these videos—only the polished lives they present. their content is sanitized: soft laughs, spotless homes, and an overwhelming beigeness.

this curated aesthetic has extended beyond influencers to our communities. take vela scarves, for example. trust me, i love vela—they’re the only hijabs i wear. but an overconsumerism culture has blossomed around the brand. after every restock, the comments flood with complaints:

“hey so maybe just delete the clothing line? and focus on getting those leopard prints restocked??? boycott vela until the og leopard is restocked.”

“girl just bring back the leopard and maroon damn.”

“yap yap just restock habibty.”

while these comments may be humorous, they reflect a deeper issue: the pressure to consume the “right” brands to fit into this influencer-driven aesthetic. muslim girls are increasingly made to feel they need these products to belong - a culture of consumption which breeds unrealistic expectations and undermines the kindness we owe one another.

when we watch influencers, all we see is brands, makeup, and travel—luxuries that many of us can’t afford. these personas stand in stark contrast to the lives of our muslim brothers and sisters in falasteen, sudan, and other places around the globe where muslims face oppression. these harsh realities disrupt the carefully curated aesthetic of "muslim girl" content, which is likely why they’re rarely discussed.

even influencers’ critiques of this consumerism culture often fall short. one recent post reads: “the gift of contentment doesn’t come from seeking more, but instead from the capacity to feel fully content in life with less.” a profound reminder, right? the video is filmed in a large, well-furnished home, with the influencer clutching a chanel bag. her point stands, but the disparity between her reality and ours makes it hard to empathize. the relatability influencers project is superficial at best.

perhaps more troubling is the over-glamorization of marriage, which may discourage muslim girls from pursuing further education or careers. ironically, many of the most popular muslim influencers hold college degrees but rarely mention them, downplaying education’s value. those who are not yet married often make tiktoks about their degrees being for decoration, expecting their husband to support them 100% financially to ensure that they will not have to work. this idealization of marriage echoes narratives pushed by some muslim men, who reject the “50/50” contribution model, claiming they don’t want wives attending college or working.

while women should be able to choose whether or not working is the right choice for them, these conversations often feel misplaced when considering that globally, thousands of muslim girls are denied education—whether through direct restrictions like in afghanistan, genocide like in palestine and sudan, or displacement across the levant. by ignoring these realities, influencers reinforce narratives of the helpless muslim girl, refusing us our independence.

however, muslim influencers and everyday muslim girls online have at least one thing in common: relentless online pressure from both the muslim community and islamophobes. videos exposing influencers’ personal lives flood the fyp, and reddit groups are dedicated to 'snarking' on figures like the asad sisters. disturbingly, much of this hate comes from within the muslim community, targeting everything from influencers’ silence on current events to their bodies to religious observance. muslim men often contribute to this hostility as well, with comment sections filling with sexual harassment, unsolicited advice, and harsh criticism, making it even harder for muslim women to exist online.

this is not to excuse the actions of influencers, but to acknowledge that muslim influencers occupy a different space than their white peers. our identities are politicized, whether we acknowledge it or not. many of us have spent our lives grieving for lands and people we’ve never met, understanding that our ummah is deeply interconnected. we don't have the same privilege to focus solely on trends or matcha, as the urgency of our political realities often demands our attention. this is especially true over the last year as grief has become everpresent.

muslim girls have always been at the forefront of revolutions and movements. yet, our voices are often suppressed—by men in our communities and by society at large. as intellectuals and changemakers, we possess the capacity to deeply understand our struggles and push for meaningful action. yet, many of us have relinquished this potential, seeking comfort in the 'soft life' and striving to emulate influencers like alix earle, whose realities are far removed from our own. in doing so, we lose sight of our unique power to create lasting impact.

the more we embrace the truth that our voices and intellectualism matter, the closer we get to the “soft lives” we desire—without needing to reduce ourselves to digestible, hollow shells of who we have the potential to be. we aren’t just a girl, nor just a pretty face, nor just wives.