The Cringe Chronicles: Why Content Creators Dread Their Own Videos

I’ll be the first to admit that nothing drains my sense of masculinity faster than making a TikTok. The sheer act of pulling out my phone, staring into the camera, and recording myself feels like a masterclass in self-inflicted cringe. I hate it—truly, deeply hate it. That’s why, whenever I hear someone playing one of my videos, my immediate reaction is to tell them to turn it off, often with more urgency than necessary.

But here’s the thing: I’ve come to realize that I’m not alone in this feeling. In fact, it seems to be a universal sentiment among my colleagues. From Hannah Montoya, who boasts an impressive 4 million followers, to Danny Conrad, everyone in this office seems to loathe hearing or seeing their own content. The sole exception? None other than the self-proclaimed narcissistic king, Tommy Smokes.

Tommy is a fascinating anomaly. While the rest of us flinch at our reflections and cringe at the sound of our own voices, he remains completely unfazed. Actually, I’d go so far as to say he enjoys it—watching himself, hearing himself, soaking in every word. Is it because he’s brimming with youthful confidence, or is there something deeper, like wanting to have sex with himself? I can’t say for sure, but it’s impressive in its own peculiar way.

For the rest of us mere mortals, the discomfort is palpable. Zah, for example, literally bolted from the room when I played one of his “Get Ready With Me” TikToks. And I get it. I’ve felt the same way countless times. But why is that? Why do we, the people who create this content, react as if someone just exposed our darkest secret the moment we hear or see our own work?

Is it because we think the content is terrible? Do we feel like imposters in a world that thrives on polished, curated personas? Or is it just the cringe factor of seeing ourselves through the lens of an audience, hyper-aware of every flaw and awkward gesture? These are questions I’m still grappling with.

For me, the answer is simple. Talking on a podcast feels natural, even fun—it’s conversational, unscripted, and raw. But making TikToks? That feels like the ultimate exercise in self-awareness, the kind that can make even the most confident person feel like a dweeb. It’s cringe-inducing, emasculating, and, frankly, a little embarrassing. But here’s the catch: it’s also part of the job.

So, like it or not, it’s time for me to suck it up, embrace the awkwardness, and fully lean into my role as a “cringe god.” Because at the end of the day, if this is what it takes to succeed in the content game, then so be it.