What I learned from going viral on TikTok

As someone over the age of eighteen, I downloaded TikTok only once the rest of humanity had caved to the app: March 2020, in the first lockdown. TikTok is an app popular amongst teenagers where users post videos of up to 3 minutes. I’ve had it for over a year now, and I’ve racked up 800,000 likes. I’ve seen my videos pop up on Instagram and YouTube compilations, but I am no means ‘a big account’. On the contrary, channels of my size are quite common.

Downloading the app was of course, a joke. Unlike Instagram or Facebook, which centres appearance, and has some social significance, I and many of my friends viewed TikTok as a platform with no real consequence. You could post without looking your best, and if the video only got 10 views, that was fine. Being anonymous on TikTok is no problem, as becoming popular- and consistently watched- is difficult.

But: to the point of this blog. My viral videos. My first came when lockdown hit, and I spent a lot of time with my Granny. In her kitchen one non-descript day, I was filming a video in a ‘Put a finger down’ format, which was a popular style at the time. The trend altered the drinking game, and you listed an elaborate story, which was niche and shocking, and then put a finger down at the end, revealing that you did it. I began speaking about my quest to drink a three-second pint, when my Gran walked into the kitchen, and interrupted me, looking for soup.

Normally I spent a lot of time editing videos, but in this instance, I knew I had something funny. I wrote captions and a header, opting to say my story was about sex, rather than drinking (for the shock factor) and I posted it immediately. When I came back to my phone an hour later, it had 50,000 views.

Going viral is a huge dopamine hit. And that’s because of the way social media works. Each like is a reward for your brain; each comment is another chemical dose. I began refreshing the page and the likes would jump each time. It was exhilarating. Texts from my friend’s rushed in: “You were on my FYP!!” “Your Granny is so funny” “Omg my friends just sent me your video!”.

15 minutes of fame feels spectacular.

I showed my gran the video (hiding the ‘shagging’ part) and she was so chuffed, as many people had started commenting, talking to her. They called her sweet, said she reminded them of their granny, and most importantly, they asked what soup she was after. “Heinz Chicken and Mushroom” she informed me, with a wiggle of her finger “write back to them.” Granny was happy, and so was I. My ego was through the roof as the video climbed to 900,000 views. I was hooked.

After this, I had a follow up career, with my videos regularly getting around 30,000-100,000 views. However, as the summer ended, I ran into some issues. Like an author writing a sequel, I was struggling under the weight of my previous success. Not all my videos were hits, and I began posting, not for my own creativity or fun, but to keep up my streak. I would delete TikTok’s that didn’t do well, or re-post them, and I was embarrassed by low view counts. I had gone from loving TikTok and its anonymity, to craving validation from it, in the same way I critiqued others for their use of Instagram.

Oh, and I had my first bit of hate.

I made a video about bumping into male acquaintances on Tinder, and how a ‘friendly match’ can be misconstrued as romantic intent. It got 30,000 views. Comments flooded in from girls, laughing along at the video, but one stood out.

“No ones tryna graft u luv you look like james corden.”

. . . . . .

I mean, fuck me it’s kind of funny.

But here I am, 21 years old, facing an anonymous comment on the internet, telling me I look like British comedian/actor James Corden, in my first piece of hate. I felt weird about it. Simultaneously wishing they’d chosen someone more accurate, and also scared I did resemble him, I joked about it.

I didn’t know what to do. Do I reply something witty, proving to anyone that sees it that I don’t care? Do I ignore it? Do I delete it?

This moment of tension signalled the decline of my love for TikTok, as I was overwhelmed with my choices. I laughed about the exchange with my friends and family, but their advice resounded: If I didn’t want hate, I shouldn’t make videos. Just be in the audience of the world. A little stung, I thought that putting content on the internet that involved my attractiveness was too risky. So I retreated, making inoffensive videos sparingly over the next seven months.

My next hit came with a video about marrying rich that got 2 million views. Now a year older and wiser, I then began posting more regularly, now that I had pushed off some self-imposed pressure.

This takes us to September 2021 and onto my latest video- the one that inspired me to write this blog. While on holiday with my boyfriend, we filmed something without much thought in our hotel bar over some drinks. My boyfriend joked that if he made me viral, he wanted to split the profits. I laughed, “Sure.” When I woke up the next morning to a rush of notifications, I wished I hadn’t made that promise.

The video’s premise is that when you reflect on the age difference between you and your partner in school terms, it just feels weird. It’s also just a joke that two years isn’t much at all. As the views rose, the comment section soon split into three: those commenting their own age gaps, those talking about grooming (I know), and those talking about how handsome my boyfriend is.

A bit of a weird situation, to be honest.

My boyfriend is an attractive man. But I now have a comment section 800 strong- including various examples lacking etiquette- reminding me just how good looking he is.

Some of the comments were funny. “Is your boyfriend single?” has over 1000 likes.

By far the most creative was “Do ya’ll need a dog? I can bark.”

Some of these girls stepped on my toes- “Say hi to him from me ;)” “Pass him this way then”.

Some were just delusional: “Step aside bestie.”

Some though, were nasty, and these anonymous trolls really stuck their knives in. That’s how it always goes, you know. They’re always anonymous.

My stomach dropped when I read the first truly bad one, the day after the video was posted:

“Wait till he realises he can do better.”

It seemed to come from a guy’s account, and I wondered what made him comment that. Was he jealous of my boyfriend? Did he want to covet the attention he was getting? He didn’t know either of us. What the hell.

More comments flooded in. “No way you pulled him LOL” was said in varying ways.

By the time we got to: “Holy hell you’re pulling hard, he’s doing charity work,” I was well and truly upset.

I began to compulsively check my notifications for the next few days, anxiously scanning for anything hurtful. Like a horse with blinders on, I ignored everyone sharing their relationship stories, or anyone saying my boyfriend was good-looking. I only checked for things which would upset me- creating a cycle where I had to moderate everything said.

Each of these comments made my stomach drop. I screenshotted them, checked their profile for any identifiable information (they were all anon), blocked and deleted them. I didn’t want to make a reply video, or even talk back to them. I was terrified such an action would encourage more hate and that a cheeky reply would be like a red flag to a bull, with more people piling on and agreeing.

It all unsettled me. I’m in love with my boyfriend, and of course I think he’s gorgeous. But what I didn’t understand was the progression of nastiness towards me. I began to undermine myself. If these strangers on the internet saw a difference between me and my boyfriend, maybe it was a difference my friends were too polite to point out?

I had to delete the app to break my cycle, and I only redownloaded it when I made a simple realisation:

I’ve never left a nasty comment on a TikTok. Never. I’m no saint, but I know that on the internet, I’m the one who comments ‘Congrats babe!!!’ to girls worldwide. I reply to hate on stranger’s videos, challenging it. I have always supported vulnerable people, and this is due to my mental health history, but also my family’s experience with bullying. I know that I am kind. When I realised, by extension, that anyone who feels the urge to comment nastiness must be opposite to me, a weight was lifted off me. These people were apathetic. Ignorant. Inexpressive. Jealous and insecure. When I realised that, I felt better.

So. A year down the line, and with three videos with over a million views later, TikTok has taught me a lot.

I never thought I’d be proud of my channel, but I am, and being able to express myself online is a privilege I am grateful for. It’s shown me that I can think outside the box, and I can build a community anywhere. This online platform allows me to connect with people offline, and it’s a space where I can make friends. I’m considering making a YouTube channel and reading my creative writing online- trying to gain a following for it.

I’ve learned that nastiness is prevalent on social media. I’ve never put myself ‘out-there’ on Instagram or Facebook. TikTok was where I dipped my toe in, and where I learned about the crab-in-bucket mentality that encourages trolling and hate. The best way to deal with trolls is to ignore them. They want engagement and validation. If they can’t see that their stab in the dark hit a target, they’ll lose motivation. There’s a wider conversation to be had about online trolls- but I think with mental health and illness awareness rising, this is coming.

Ultimately, for as much nastiness as there is on the app, there is also kindness. I’ve learned that you can’t change a commentors mind in 100 characters. You can’t make them realise what their nastiness will do. But what you can do is support the creator. You can comment positivity. That is where the change is, and where you can create good karma.

Thank you to the people that called my video lovely and wished me and my boyfriend the best as a couple. I don’t know you, and I will never meet you- but the kindess of strangers is not to be underestimated. Thank you.