Breaking up with my stan girl era
My journey as a stan began long before I knew what that term meant.
It all started when One Direction hit the scene: I was barely a teenager, but their music and personalities resonated with me in a way I had never experienced. When they went on hiatus, I was devastated. It felt like a chapter of my life was closing, and I wasn’t sure what could possibly fill the void.
I did not fall out of love or outgrow K-pop. I simply realized the nasty culture that pervades it.
But when one door closes, another one opens. For me, that door was K-pop.
I had been exposed to some mainstream groups, but my K-pop stan journey officially kicked off in 2019. As I developed a parasocial relationship with my favorite idol, I became conscious of how it could dangerously turn into an unhealthy obsession. I promised myself that I would never behave like a saesang—“fans” who invade their idol’s private life, often participating in dangerous and illegal behavior just to get close. My motto as a stan: stay closer to the stage and farther from their personal lives.
I couldn’t afford albums or merch, but after landing my first job, I saved up for my first concert. It was a VIP front-row seat, the result of my camping out. Camping out for concerts is not so much a rational choice as an exercise in pure devotion. You give up the convenience of home and the security of friends and family to endure a sleepless night out on the pavement with strangers who have also forsaken all comforts. In the process, you meet new friends, get a few mosquito bites, and at the end of the day, go home with a once-in-a-lifetime experience. The planning, pre-concert jitters, and the camaraderie with fellow fans make it unforgettable. Some of the friends I made back then are still in my life, though now our conversations have shifted to where adulthood might lead us.
However, the hassles of securing a ticket or clashing with saesangs aren’t the reason I’m quitting the stan world. I did not fall out of love or outgrow K-pop. I simply realized the nasty culture that pervades it.
K-pop isn’t always sunshine and rainbows, not when you see idols barely in their teens subjected to grueling training and extreme pressures, often leading to severe mental and physical health issues. You realize the entertainment industry is rife with ethical concerns, from the exploitation of minors to rigid beauty standards, systemic abuse, and rampant bullying.
One minute you’re laughing as you watch a reality show with your favorite group, and the next you’re frowning at the colorism and fat-shaming dismissed as jokes. This bullying is not a flaw but a feature of a culture that is profit-oriented, hyper-competitive, and mired in the Western hegemony of beauty and success. It is a reflection of much deeper societal problems and ingrained social biases that serve and shape the industry’s rigid ideals. The entertainment giants—exploitative capitalists and compradors who prioritize profit over people—craft a narrative of perfect individuals so that the behind-the-scenes exploitation is swept under the rug through the means of media manipulation, control of idol interactions, and focus on the fandom’s attention on glamour and success. Meanwhile, you would hear stories about creatives behind the scenes who are underpaid, with most profits funneled to large corporations that buy out smaller companies to form monopolies, which probably also leads to the dwindling quality and quantity of releases.
It wasn’t just the exploitation and abuse that troubled me. I started to see how the industry's increasing conformity to Western standards was eroding the unique identity that once defined K-pop. Realizing that the idols I admired were part of a system that commodifies them and fuels abusive lifestyles—and that many were no different from the very figures of exploitation I despise—made it increasingly difficult for me to separate the art from the artist. The treatment of women in the industry only deepened my disillusionment. Women who dare to speak up are often blacklisted, silenced and threatened, perpetuating a toxic patriarchal culture that feels at odds with the global image K-pop tries to present.
This disillusionment led me to step back and move on to other interests and proclaim myself as a retired fangirl. Surprisingly, it was not a difficult choice. My favorite idols are getting older and going on with their own lives away from the spotlight. Idols barely in their adulthood are debuting and making explicit music and dancing to choreography uncharacteristic for their age. The kind of music I have come to love is now washed away and replaced with generic bops oriented to simply go viral and gain Western validation.
Additionally, companies are capitalizing on fans’ loyalty, churning out repetitive and expensive merch that only furthers overconsumption— something I no longer want to subscribe to or be a part of, not simply because I have bills to pay now, but because this cycle of relentless consumption feeds into larger systems of capitalism, where corporations prioritize profits at the expense of both people and the planet.
I know that these things are not exclusive to K-pop and that we are still allowed to enjoy things even if they’re flawed, but there is a limit to what I can morally take. To be honest, I do miss the stan life. I miss my favorite idols and the bursts of entertainment, joy, and comfort they give; the friends I get to meet; and the experiences I get to live. Though I may someday return to this part of my life, for now, I choose to be a quiet, more discerning supporter, still a casual listener, but with a focus on improving myself and building communities that value people for who they are, not just for what they can produce.
If there’s one lasting lesson from this K-pop stan era, it’s that there’s nothing better than good people making good music—and finding others who understand what that’s worth.
