So this may be the way TikTok ends: not with a bang, but with a whimper.
Over the past few weeks, as the Jan. 19 deadline loomed for the forced sale of TikTok by ByteDance, its Chinese parent company, I’ve been struck by how few Americans seem concerned about the prospect that one of the nation’s most popular social media apps will simply disappear.
Sure, there are the people calling themselves “TikTok refugees” and joining Xiaohongshu, a Chinese social media app, as a half-joking protest of the U.S. government’s decision to ban TikTok on national security grounds. (The joke part is: OK, Congress, you want to stop us from using a sketchy Chinese social media app? We’ll download an even sketchier Chinese social media app and use that instead.)
There are the TikTok creators who fear losing their audiences and have been frantically trying to persuade their fans to follow them on Instagram and YouTube, and the e-commerce brands and drop-shippers that are going to have to find other places to sell their stuff.
And there is TikTok itself, which has been fighting to save itself in court, along with a handful of lawmakers, free-speech activists and industry groups that have argued that banning the app would do more harm than good. (On Friday, the Supreme Court unanimously upheld the law banning TikTok if it retained Chinese ownership.)
But over the next few days, as the TikTok eulogies pour in, notice what you’re not seeing. There have been no #SaveTikTok rallies to speak of. Hordes of angry Zoomers with lip fillers and broccoli haircuts aren’t marching in the streets demanding justice for their favorite short-form video app. Even among the most die-hard TikTok addicts I know, the dominant mood these days is gallows humor, not outrage or sadness. (This week, a popular meme on TikTok has been users jokingly saying goodbye to their Chinese spies.)
Is it really possible that TikTok, an app with roughly 170 million U.S. users — roughly half of Americans — could vanish with this little fanfare? And if it is, what explains why an app that transformed American culture so completely will have so few mourners?
In an alternate universe, it’s hard to imagine Congress passing a law to ban, say, Amazon Prime — another service used by about half of Americans — without encountering much more public resistance. (Even going after Netflix, which has an estimated 85 million U.S. subscribers, would probably inspire riots.)
It’s possible that Americans have been convinced that banning TikTok is the right thing to do — that despite the many vague and dubious justifications offered by members of Congress for banning the app, we’ve calmly and rationally examined ByteDance’s relationship to the Chinese government and concluded that having a political adversary exert control over a dominant media platform inside our borders is an unacceptable risk.
But I doubt that’s what is happening here. In fact, according to surveys conducted by the Pew Research Center, support for a TikTok ban has been falling steadily among Americans since it was first proposed. (As of last summer, only 32 percent of Americans favored a ban, down from 50 percent in March 2023.)
So what gives?
One possibility is that people simply don’t believe that TikTok will actually go away. It has been more than four years since the Trump administration first tried to ban TikTok, and the ensuing roller-coaster ride made people skeptical that a ban would ever happen. First, it looked like a forced sale was imminent, then it wasn’t, then Congress passed a bill and President Biden signed it into law, then President-elect Donald Trump changed his mind and decided he didn’t want to ban TikTok after all.
There may be more drama to come. The jockeying in Washington over TikTok’s fate is continuing, and Mr. Trump could decide to save the app once he takes office on Monday. (Shou Chew, TikTok’s chief executive, is expected to attend Mr. Trump’s inauguration, which some are interpreting as a sign of a coming reprieve.)
I’ve argued that TikTok’s biggest wounds have been self-inflicted — snooping on journalists, restricting transparency, obscuring its ties to China — and that it developed a trust deficit with U.S. lawmakers that would be hard to overcome. But I don’t think that’s why most American TikTok users aren’t protesting a ban, either.
My guess is that TikTok’s design plays a big role here. The app is centered on a “For You” feed that prioritizes videos created by strangers, rather than clips posted by friends. Unlike Facebook or Instagram, where it’s still possible to interact with people you actually know, TikTok created a passive entertainment experience that, for many users, is completely disconnected from their offline lives.
I’ve had a TikTok account since 2018, and I have spent hundreds of hours, possibly thousands, using it over the years. I learned about Lil Nas X on TikTok, rooted for the Ocean Spray skateboard guy, watched Keith Lee review countless meals in his car. I’ve even posted TikTok videos and bought some stuff from TikTok stores. As far as the company and its advertisers are concerned, I am a model user.
But I’ve never once added a friend on TikTok, sent a direct message or thought of myself as a “TikToker.” And I don’t think I’m alone. For most people I know, TikTok isn’t a place to connect with other people. It’s a place to waste time, to numb out, to unplug from reality and float in the feed. That passive, dissociative quality, while great for engagement, has also made TikTok feel more replaceable than other, more social networks. If it goes away, we’ll just get our fix somewhere else.
I’m also persuaded by the explanation given in The Atlantic by Hana Kiros, who says TikTok is a victim of its own success. TikTok’s popularity, she argues, has led lots of other social networks to copy its features. Now, users who want to drop into an infinite wormhole of short, entertaining vertical videos can go to Instagram, YouTube, Snapchat or X, all of which have introduced TikTok-style feeds in recent years. And in a world where every app works like TikTok, maybe TikTok itself feels less necessary.
I’ll add one more optimistic possibility: Maybe we’re ready for a change.
What spending time on TikTok represents — to me, at least — is a kind of cognitive surrender, a willingness to stop actively directing my thoughts and feelings and to let ByteDance’s algorithm entertain me for a while. It can be a pleasant experience, and occasionally euphoric. (Every few days, my wife catches me laughing at my phone and asks, “What’s so funny?” The answer, always, is TikTok.)
But over the years, as I’ve spent more time on TikTok, I’ve also noticed how it’s starting to rewire my brain — blurring my focus, shortening my attention span, making me less interested in media that isn’t laser-targeted to my precise array of dopamine receptors. Others have reported that TikTok has become a harmful addiction for them — an app they desperately want the government to ban because they can’t quit it on their own.
It’s probably wishful thinking to believe that if the ban takes effect, millions of screen-addicted TikTok users will start reading “Ulysses” and taking long walks in their spare time. But maybe it’s reasonable to see the shrugs surrounding TikTok’s disappearance and wonder if, after years of giving that app our attention, we’re ready to invest it somewhere else.
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