NEW DELHI: At 11:47 pm, Shivani closes Instagram and opens her notes app instead. Five minutes earlier, she had been watching a reel that began with a familiar hook: “If you’re in your late 20s and noticing dull skin, under-eye hollows, and fine lines, this is for you.” The influencer’s face was luminous, wrinkle-free, softly lit. The solution, neatly lined up on her vanity, involved a retinol serum, a peptide cream, an LED mask, and three supplements “every woman should be taking.”
By midnight, Shivani wasn’t thinking about her long workday or the lack of sleep that comes with it. She was wondering whether her face had always been this asymmetrical—or whether Instagram had simply taught her to notice.
These moments may seem trivial, even indulgent. But they are deeply political. In today’s digital economy, women’s insecurities are not just feelings; they are data points, market segments, and revenue streams. Instagram does not merely reflect beauty anxiety—it organizes, amplifies, and sells it.
WHEN INSECURITY BECOMES INFRASTRUCTURE
India’s skincare market is currently valued at around $3 billion, while the global beauty industry stands at $446 billion as of 2023, with steady annual growth projections. While rising incomes and urban lifestyles are often cited as reasons, digital platforms—particularly Instagram—play a crucial, under-acknowledged role.
Consider how the algorithm works in practice. A woman pauses on a reel asking, “Do you have fine lines or pigmentation?” She watches till the end. She maybe sends it to a friend with a laughing emoji. Within hours, her feed fills up with similar content—anti-ageing routines, dermatologist-led reels, “before-and-after” transformations, and discount codes promising visible results in 14 days.
Instagram does not just track what users like, it tracks hesitation, repetition, and vulnerability. Emotions become inputs.
This is what scholars call affective capitalism—an economic system where feelings like anxiety, desire, and self-doubt are monetised. Platforms don’t simply sell products, they shape the emotional conditions that make consumption feel necessary.
THE 30-SECOND REEL THAT SELLS A PROBLEM
One popular format dominating beauty Instagram begins with a checklist: “Signs you’re ageing faster than you should.” The reel moves quickly—dark circles, smile lines, textured skin—before offering a routine or product that promises reversal.
The trick isn’t just the solution; it’s the diagnosis. Many viewers had not perceived these features as “problems” until the reel named them. A fleeting insecurity becomes a condition. A condition becomes a market.
By the time the product link appears, the sale feels almost logical.
PROMOTIONAL CULTURE AT WORK
Affective capitalism relies on promotional culture—the ecosystem of influencers, brands, wellness experts, and marketers who translate emotional data into consumer desire.
Influencers play a particularly powerful role here. They do not simply advertise; they perform intimacy. Their content is framed as advice from a friend rather than a sales pitch. Morning routines are filmed in soft sunlight. Skincare is presented as self-respect. Supplements promise not just health, but control—over fatigue, ageing, and unpredictability.
A jade roller is no longer a stone tool; it becomes symmetry. Omega-3 capsules become “mental clarity.” Retinol becomes responsibility.
When nearly every reel carries a “paid partnership” tag, authenticity itself becomes a product. Viewers are left navigating a blurred line between genuine experience and scripted persuasion, often without the tools to tell the difference.
WHEN PLATFORMS TARGET VULNERABILITY
The ethical stakes become sharper when we look at younger users. Former Meta whistleblower Sarah Wynn-Williams revealed that Instagram’s internal research identified moments of emotional vulnerability—such as when teenage girls deleted selfies or photos—as signals for targeted advertising.
According to internal documents, these moments were reportedly used to push beauty and appearance-related ads. In effect, insecurity wasn’t just noticed, it was acted upon.
If emotionally stable adult women find themselves second-guessing their faces, routines, and worth, the impact on teenage girls—still forming their identities—is far more troubling. Insecurity becomes habitual. Surveillance becomes normal.
A GENDERED ECONOMY OF SELF-FIXING
This system does not affect everyone equally. Beauty and wellness capitalism is deeply gendered. Women are disproportionately encouraged to invest time, money, and emotional labour into self-improvement—not as a choice, but as an obligation.
From elaborate skin care routines to supplements for energy, hormones, sleep, and mood, the message is consistent: if you are tired, ageing, or overwhelmed, you are not doing enough.
This is a softer, more insidious version of the pink tax. Women don’t just pay more money; they pay more attention, more anxiety, and more mental bandwidth—all under the banner of self-care.
STEPPING BACK
At some point, Shivani realises that her anxiety isn’t coming from her skin or sleep cycle. It’s coming from a system that thrives on making her feel perpetually unfinished.
Instagram may not have invented beauty insecurity, but it has certainly optimised it—neatly colour-coded, categorised, and monetised. The platform offers solutions faster than reflection, products faster than acceptance.
Now, before adding anything to her cart, she pauses. Is this a genuine need—or has an influencer, perfect lighting included, convinced her that it is?
Maybe entering one’s thirties isn’t about lifting the face or tightening pores. Maybe it’s about lifting the pressure to constantly fix oneself. In a culture that insists happiness comes in a 30 ml bottle—dermatologist-approved, influencer-tested, and some-how still your fault if it doesn’t work—the most radical act of self-care might simply be closing the app.