Parasocial, But Make It Political

It’s Not Just a Fandom Thing Anymore

There was a time when parasocial relationships were reserved for teen girls and late-night TV hosts. A fandom phenomenon. A punchline. Now? I’m not sure what isn’t parasocial anymore.

Deauxmoi recently posted about the spectrum of what it means to be a Swiftie — not to shame, but to separate. To remind us that not all Swifties are the same. That the average fan singing in her car shouldn’t be lumped in with the ones who can’t tell the difference between the 3D woman on stage and the 2D version that lives in their pocket.

It wasn’t a callout. It was a calibration. A reminder that admiration isn’t always obsession — but sometimes, it crosses into something harder to name. Because we don’t just admire anymore — we attach, we manage, we expect. Even our tenderness comes with terms.

And it got me thinking — haven’t we all slipped into the same pattern?

Maybe not around a pop star, but something specific to your corner of the Internet — whatever gets you riled up. Politics. Wellness influencers. A stranger’s take on Love Island. The podcaster who used to make sense. Within our own filters of what we deem “normal,” haven’t we all started living in the comments section? Hate-watched a topic just to argue with it in our heads?

Because in 2025, it’s not just celebrity culture. It’s everything.

The boundaries between audience and participant, creator and consumer, stranger and soulmate — they’re all leaking. We used to open Instagram and see photos from people we’d met in real life. Now we open Instagram and see people we’ve never met talk about people we’ll never meet — and still feel like we know them. Their grief. Their glow-ups. Their skincare routines. Their child’s name. Their heartbreak playlist. Their dog’s name. Their dog’s personality.

What started as a few parasocial oddities has become the dominant mode of engagement. The connective tissue of culture, forever expanding on itself. Synthetic, yes. But still sticky.

Pam & Liam Deserve to Be Happy (from where I’m sitting)

Speaking of which, let’s talk about Pam Anderson and Liam Neeson.

According to Deauxmoi (again — the Instagram oracle), the two may be dating. I squealed a little bit. Not ironically. Not performatively. Just: Yes. Them. Please.

Pam, the bleeding heart with a backbone of steel. A woman who wears her scars like jewelry, tells the truth even when it costs her something, and doesn’t ask for forgiveness for having loved deeply.

And Liam, the quietly grieving action hero who lost his wife in a tragic accident and kept showing up to work anyway, holding his grief in the same hands that held a script. Public pain with no good place to go.

As far as I can tell from this parasocial distance —

They deserve each other.

They deserve peace.

They deserve joy that isn’t wrapped in scrutiny.

But here’s the thing: I don’t know them.

And yet… I care.

And yet… I want them to be okay.

When Does Admiration Become Entitlement?

Here’s the uncomfortable part: if I saw them at a café, what would I do?

Would I say thank you? Would I share from my heart, in the same spirit Pam has shared with hers? Would I ask for a picture? Would I cry?

Where does admiration end and access begin? Who gets to decide?

We talk a lot about consent in romantic or sexual contexts, and thank God we do. But what about emotional consent? What about admiration? What about these public-facing humans who become vessels for our projections — and are expected to receive our need without boundary?

It’s easy to point fingers at the “crazy fans.” But tell me — what’s really the difference between a Swiftie fighting online over Taylor’s boyfriend, and a grown adult who gets emotionally wrecked when a stranger they admire changes political parties? Parasocial is parasocial. The shape is different. The ache is the same.

And maybe the real invitation is to examine how we show up in all relationships — not just the famous ones.

Parasocial Is Just a Mirror We’re Not Ready For

Here’s my theory: the parasocial relationship isn’t inherently bad. It’s just unbalanced. It’s a mirror without depth. A one-way intimacy. And the scary part isn’t how much we see in them — it’s how much we don’t see in ourselves.

Actors often talk about how the emotional weight of a role doesn’t leave when the director calls “cut.” The lines blur. Sometimes the pain they’re channeling is their own. Sometimes they can’t separate the character’s sadness from their own childhood memory.

Isn’t that an internal parasocial relationship? We watch them do it on screen. And then we do it to ourselves. We project versions of ourselves into imaginary futures, arguments we’ll never have, audiences who’ll never clap. We live in emotional fan fiction. And then we judge ourselves for caring too much. No wonder we’re lonely.

And yet… maybe it’s not the caring that’s the problem.

Maybe it’s the absence of care for the caring.

We’ve been taught to mock the part of ourselves that projects, attaches, idealizes. But maybe that part isn’t broken. Maybe it just needs better boundaries. Maybe it needs permission. Ritual. Language. A code.

The Diva and the Discomfort of Admiration

When I was younger, I loved Mariah Carey. My very first album was Butterfly, I remember flipping through the Rainbow CD pamphlet over, and over and over again, memorizing what song came next. I adored her. And then… I didn’t.

She was “too much.” Too demanding. Too sparkly. Too loud. An off-kilter persona so far from my lived reality, she started to feel… cringey.

I rolled my eyes at the diva behavior.

But here’s what I didn’t realize until now:

That eye roll was parasocial, too.

The Diva wasn’t my friend — but she shaped me. She taught me what power looked like in a woman’s body. What it meant to be bold and adored. What it cost to stay that way.

And when she demanded too much — not of me, but of the world — I flinched. Because parasocial relationships aren’t just about connection. They’re about control. We don’t just want access to our icons. We want them to act how we’d prefer. And when they don’t? We punish them.

Lady Gaga has seen this too — celebrated for her talent, then mocked for her vulnerability. The very flair we once loved became the thing we ridiculed. Because we expect women in the spotlight to be endlessly gracious, endlessly available, endlessly receptive to our projections.

The Diva didn’t die. We just killed the part of ourselves that could admire her without resenting her power. And maybe that’s the real heartbreak. That in trying to make public women more palatable, we trained ourselves out of admiration — and into management.

Whether you’re a Swiftie or a die-hard card carrying Republican, we all have a Diva inside us — the part that’s loud, assertive, emotionally intelligent, spiritually extravagant, and inconveniently real. When we flatten or resent the women who model that energy back to us, we’re not just betraying them — we’re betraying the versions of ourselves we’re still afraid to be.

A Code of Conduct for Admiration

What if we didn’t mock the parts of ourselves that need to believe in someone — but learned how to believe with boundaries? Not something transactional or entitled — but something sacred. Chosen. Held with care.

What if instead of asking, “What would I do if I met them?” we asked, “How do I carry this feeling with dignity?”

Because parasocial relationships aren’t going away. They’re not a glitch in our programming — they are the programming. A physiological response. A survival instinct. A mirror. The brain doesn’t always know how to distinguish fiction from memory, symbol from self. Actors struggle with this all the time — staying emotionally embedded in a character even after the scene has wrapped, because the body believes the moment was real. And if they can get tangled in the performance…what hope do we have, watching from the outside?

We are wired to attach. To imagine. To feel. But that doesn’t mean we’re helpless. It means we need better rituals.

We need room to admire people — public or private — without projecting our unlived lives onto them. Room to witness power — like the Diva — without resenting it for not asking permission. Room to feel awe without demanding proof. To be moved without needing to be seen in return. Parasocial relationships can be distorted, yes. But they can also be devotional. A way to witness courage, resilience, weirdness, extravagance — and say, thank you.

Not: “Can I have some?”

But: “Wow. I see you. And I needed to.”

Because maybe the deepest parasocial relationship we’ll ever have is with our own becoming — the version of ourselves we’re projecting toward but haven’t quite met yet.

So no, it’s not about canceling the parasocial.

It’s about redeeming it.

Making it sacred.

A Soft Closing

Raise your hand if you’ve ever projected a little too hard.

If you’ve imagined a future that didn’t happen.

If you’ve cried for someone you’ll never meet.

If you’ve flinched at your own tenderness.

Me too.

Let’s stop shaming the impulse.

Let’s just give it better language, better care, and better boundaries.

Let’s remember: admiration is a gift, not a transaction.

And we’re allowed to feel — even when it’s weird.

Especially when it’s weird.

Feel deeply.

Admire wisely.

Love from a safe distance —

and still mean it.