TikTok isn’t just for viral dances and questionable cooking hacks; it’s now the go-to guru for your love life. With over a billion monthly users and a For You Page (#FYP) brimming with relationship trends, it’s where people turn to for advice on everything from their sexuality to launching a relationship like it is a PR campaign.
Welcome to the digital age, where TikTok doubles as Cupid … and sometimes, Dr Phil.
Like anything else, TikTok isn’t inherently good or bad when it comes to relationship advice – it’s a digital stage where people navigate, explore and even contest relationships, intimacy and sexuality. However, it’s also a complex and often contradictory space where the boundary between authentic experiences and curated performance becomes blurred.
My research on dating apps and intimacy, conducted in 2020, revealed how profoundly online spaces influence people navigating their romantic lives. Participants spoke about adopting trends like “soft launching” relationships (posting vague hints of a new partner) or “hard launching” them (a full-blown reveal) directly from platforms like Instagram and TikTok.
What emerged was a startling realisation: people increasingly see relationships as stories in which they must be the protagonist. This phenomenon, sometimes referred to as having “main character energy”, invites individuals to centre their romantic lives in a way that’s public, performative and shaped by the need for external validation. TikTok plays into this trend perfectly, offering bite-size content that encourages users to frame their love lives as compelling narratives for an audience.
This can be empowering, offering people tools to navigate intimacy, reflect on their experiences, and connect with others. However, it can also become a trap.
When we start comparing our unscripted, messy, and very real relationships to the highly edited, sensationalised versions we see online, the gap between expectation and reality widens.
TikTok, the short-form video platform originally launched as “Douyin” in China before its global expansion in 2018, has seen mass controversy and bans in many countries, including, most recently, the US (albeit for a short period of time). It offers everything from silly skits and dance challenges to deep dives into news, as well as more niche genres like relationship advice.
Trends like #DatingStoryTime and #BeigeFlags are just the tip of the iceberg, offering humour and insight that draw millions of viewers into the relationship narrative world.
At its core, TikTok thrives on relatability and entertainment. Whether through cringe-worthy first-date stories or exaggerated red-flag analysis, TikTok presents relationships as a form of personal and cultural storytelling. The structure often mirrors what literary scholars call the “romantic master plot”: a white, Westernised narrative framework popularised by romcoms in which love is the ultimate goal, providing life’s meaning and shape.
Humour plays a significant role in these narratives. What I call the “jolly absurdism” or “merry nihilism” of TikTok trends allows users to laugh at the quirks and failures of modern romance.
Yet this humour masks deeper issues. It perpetuates unrealistic expectations and invites us to compare our love lives with highly curated and often fictionalised digital personas.
A growing genre on TikTok involves relationship influencers who claim to provide the blueprint for love and intimacy. These influencers often present saccharine “couple goals” content.
On the surface, this might seem harmless. But it’s anything but.
Because TikTok is a social media platform rather than a polished TV show or movie, its content feels more authentic. Users assume they’re getting glimpses into “real lives”, not realising how scripted and curated much of the content is. This sets impossibly high standards for relationships, making people wonder, “What’s wrong with me?” or “Why doesn’t my relationship look like that?”
Alongside the relationship influencers are the dating gurus – a new breed of influencers who’ve swapped self-help books for bite-size videos packed with sensationalist advice. Their content often leans heavily on clickbait tactics, promising viewers surefire ways to “make them obsessed with you” or “manipulate someone into falling in love”.
It’s the kind of toxic game-playing we thought we’d ditched along with shoulder pads in the 1980s. But these so-called experts thrive on controversy, crafting advice that’s equal parts absurd and unhealthy. Whether it’s “playing hard to get” on steroids or emotional tactics dressed up as empowerment, their approach often feels like a giant step backward for modern dating dynamics.
And while TikTok can be a space to explore identity – its algorithm famously tailors content so well that many users joked it could predict their sexuality (you might remember the trend TikTok knew I was gay before I did) – it can also be dangerously reductive.
TikTok’s dual nature is where its real complexity lies. On one hand, it provides an unprecedented space for people to negotiate and navigate cultural norms around love, intimacy and identity. It amplifies voices, showcases diversity, and offers humour and relatability that can help normalise experiences once considered taboo.
On the other hand, TikTok’s structure – its reliance on sensationalist trends and viral content – means it’s also a powerful force in reinforcing norms and setting unrealistic expectations. People become hostages to these norms, comparing their love lives with the glossy, choreographed snippets they see online.
The narratives that dominate TikTok, especially around romance, often adhere to traditional norms that fail to account for the diversity and complexity of modern relationships.
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Dr Lisa Portolan is an academic. Her PhD on dating apps and intimacy, with Western Sydney University’s Institute for Culture and Society, was published in 2024. Her latest book is 10 Ways to Find Love … and How to Keep It