The first time I encountered the Kardashians, I was 10 years old, on a family vacation in El Salvador. A giant billboard caught my eye — Kim Kardashian’s face, larger than life, with bold text underneath: “Kim Kardashian se divorcia después de 72 días” (“Kim Kardashian divorced after 72 days”). At the time, I had no idea who she was, but the image stuck with me.
A few months later, back home, I was flipping through channels — just an innocent middle schooler looking to fry my brain — when I landed on the E! Network. There she was again: the woman from the billboard, this time with two women, who I quickly deciphered as her sisters, all yelling at each other. I was instantly mesmerized.
Ten years later, I found myself emotionally invested in people who had no idea I existed.
Like most decade-long relationships, my relationship with the Kardashians has evolved. As a child, I secretly binged the show whenever my parents weren’t home, fully aware that my fascination would be met with disapproval. Even then, I understood that the Kardashians were controversial; I knew they were not the kind of public figures my parents would like me to engage with. Furthermore, I knew that watching reality TV was societally looked down upon. I was aware that engaging in such a low-brow activity would be met with disappointment. But that only made them more intriguing.
Aside from certain fashion choices, I wasn’t watching Keeping Up with the Kardashians for inspiration: I was watching for the drama, the absurdity, the larger-than-life spectacle of it all. Over time, my relationship with them shifted from guilty pleasure to slight obsession, from mindless entertainment to critical analysis. Eventually, I found myself caring less than I ever had before. Before I got to that point, however, I went through every stage of the parasocial rollercoaster.
A parasocial interaction refers to how audiences engage and form connections with celebrities, often perceiving this one-sided relationship as mutual. These interactions are illusionary; media audiences may feel they are building a real connection with personas — such as talk show hosts, celebrities, fictional characters, and social media influencers — while, in reality, the celebrity remains completely unaware of their existence. In a sense, the Kardashians became this “friend” I followed for years. The parasocial dynamic allows audiences to project their own narratives onto celebrities, shaping their perceptions based on personal beliefs, values, and cultural context. For some, the Kardashians represent a refreshing take on the “American Dream”: a matriarchal, multiracial, “modern” family that has achieved remarkable success. For others, they symbolize late-capitalist greed, influencer shallowness, and cultural appropriation. To me, they became a lens through which I analyzed feminism, capitalism, and even race. Undeniably, they became part of my cultural narrative.
At age ten, the Kardashian world was a lot simpler; their lives appeared to be a fantasy of wealth, fame and drama. But as I got older, I began to realize that beneath the glamour and perfectly curated drama, there was a darker undercurrent to their story. In retrospect, the early seasons weren’t all lavish vacations and lighthearted sister fights. Beneath the designer handbags and catchphrases were some surprisingly dark storylines. There was the leaked sex tape that started it all. Kourtney’s struggles with an eating disorder. Her unexpected pregnancy. Khloe’s DUI. An extortion attempt that led to FBI involvement — an incident immortalized in the now-iconic meme of Kris Jenner solemnly declaring, “This is a case for the FBI.” Not to mention Scott Disick’s spiralling substance abuse. And that’s just off the top of my head. The thing is, I was invested. In the early stages of our parasocial bond, I felt myself rooting for them.
As I transitioned into my brooding teenage years, “keeping up” with the Kardashians became more socially acceptable. Kim and Kanye’s relationship catapulted the family into a new era of stardom, and suddenly, I wasn’t the only one watching. No longer hiding from them, my parents — though disapproving — would occasionally tune in, and for the first time, I had friends my age who also kept up.
Kylie Jenner, just a few years older than me, became an undeniable aesthetic influence on my generation. By 2015, her enhanced lips became a spectacle, fueling media buzz and public curiosity. That year, an episode of Keeping Up with the Kardashians aired in which she finally admitted to getting lip fillers, confirming long-standing speculation. Before this revelation, she had insisted that her plumper lips were simply the result of overlining with lip liner. This only intensified public fascination, sparking the “Kylie Jenner Lip Challenge,” a viral trend where people suctioned their lips into small glasses to create temporary swelling (despite no evidence that Jenner herself had ever used this method). I remember walking into class and seeing girls with bruised lips, victims of the infamous challenge.
It seemed like everywhere I looked, I could see Kylie’s influence: Snapchat filters that mimicked her appearance, blue hair becoming the “look of the moment,” and a collective obsession with overlining your lips. Even beyond Kylie, the family’s overall impact became undeniable. They were no longer just reflecting trends in fashion, wellness, and plastic surgery — they were creating them.
With the rise of influencer culture and the shifting dynamics of social media in the early-to-mid 2010s, there was now more than one way to keep up with the Kardashians. The show was no longer the only access point. Fans could now watch the drama unfold in real time through Twitter feuds and Instagram stories before waiting for the show’s polished recap. This shift meant that fans were no longer passive viewers but active participants in the Kardashian narrative. The boundaries between celebrity and audience blurred as social media fostered a sense of direct access, making interactions feel personal, even when they weren’t. At one point, there were Karjenner apps, one for each sister. Their constant stream of content gave my friends and me plenty to talk about. It was the perfect gossip ecosystem: juicy, dramatic, and — the best part of a parasocial relationship — no one was actually getting hurt.
Kardashian-isms infiltrated our vocabulary, “bible,” “iconic,” and “tragic” seamlessly becoming part of my lexicon. Their business ventures, scandals, and feuds somehow felt relevant to my actual life. Who remembers their boutique, Dash? Kim’s coffee table book of selfies, Selfish? The Life of Pablo era? Kimoji?
As I got older, the Kardashians stopped being just entertainment. I was analyzing them like they were a thesis topic. Superficial, seemingly talentless, and famous simply for being famous, they somehow remained oddly relatable. Their sibling feuds, messy divorces, and pregnancies played out before us in vivid detail, blurring the line between spectacle and authenticity. What was real and what was performance? I was never quite sure. They were no longer just celebrities; they had become a cultural phenomenon.
In an era where everyday life is staged for public consumption, this hyper-visible family reflects the world we inhabit. They move between reality and curation, between experience and image — holding up a mirror to how we, too, exist in both digital and physical realms.
As their fame and wealth grew, so did the exaggeration of their image: gaudier aesthetics, hyper-curated personas, increasingly contrived plotlines. The Kardashians I once kept up with were gone, replaced by caricatures of their former selves. To some extent, I justified my continued obsession as critical engagement. I told myself I was watching Keeping Up to keep up with the discourse, not just for entertainment. At least, that’s what I liked to believe.
However, as time passed, it became harder to maintain the konnection I once felt with the Kardashians. I mean, what do I have in common with billionaires? At first, I tried to bridge that gap by intellectualizing them — if I couldn’t relate to them, I could at least analyze them. But over time, that excuse started to crumble. Analyzing the Kardashians stopped being fun. As I began to grow up, so did the stakes. What was once a harmless spectacle — frivolous drama, over-the-top antics, and family feuds played out for entertainment — was now something more insidious. Their controversies were no longer just tabloid fodder; they had real-world implications. Whether it was their role in perpetuating unattainable beauty standards or their casual appropriation of Black culture, it became harder to laugh it off. And yet, the faker they became — the more hyper-curated, Face-Tuned, and self-aware — the harder they were to ignore. It was no longer about keeping up with the Kardashians, but keeping up with the consequences of their influence. The line between entertainment and influence had blurred, their impact feeling impossible to dismiss.
Inevitably, I burnt out. The Kardashians don’t know I exist and they never will. The spectacle began to fade. They transitioned from captivating figures to purveyors of a toxic, hyper-commercialized lifestyle, one I no longer found relatable or intriguing. What once was intellectually stimulating and fun now had depressive undertones. Beauty standards, appropriation, and the commodification of culture became central to their narrative, revealing the harmful, manipulative side of their empire. I once enjoyed dissecting their every business move. I used the incessant media surrounding the family to draw conclusions about society, the entertainment industry, and the cult of celebrity. I could write think pieces about their effect on the media landscape. Now? I can’t even keep track. (Kylie has a vodka brand now?)
This realization hit me recently when my friend and I tuned in to the Season Six premiere of The Kardashians, the Hulu redux of their flagship reality show, backed by a reported nine-figure deal. At this point, I had not kept up with the show for a year. In the episode, we watched Khloé reunite with her ex-husband, Lamar Odom. A few years ago, I would have been emotionally invested, hanging onto every awkward interaction. This time, I felt nothing but mild indifference.
What was once a fizzy, fun, and occasionally sombering glimpse inside the lives of America’s most notable socialites has become a glossy, heavily curated ad reel overflowing with product placement, calculated brand promotions, and strategic stinginess about what’s actually revealed to the public. Any real drama feels like an afterthought, carefully repackaged and monetized for maximum engagement. The Kardashian phenomenon was once a mirror of my adolescent fascination with fame and celebrity, but now, I see them as an exaggerated reflection of a world I no longer wish to participate in.
Ten years later, the memory of that Kim Kardashian billboard still lingers, but the billboard itself is long gone, faded, replaced, or simply forgotten like so many headlines that came after it. And as I sat there watching the new season, only half-paying attention, it hit me: my life has changed more than theirs ever will. They will always be rich, famous, and problematic. The only difference now is that I finally don’t care.