In a faraway land called North Campus, a freshman is filming a series of TikToks in their Mary Donlon Hall dorm room, hoping to ride the For You Page all the way to virality. Elsewhere, another member of the Class of 2030 is looking around Cornell’s gorge-ous campus and thinking, “Wow, I should turn this into a brand deal.” They wouldn’t be the first to try, and they certainly won’t be the last.
The Influencer is a new character archetype popping up on college campuses. The cultural phenomenon of Bama Rush — powered not merely by prospective sorority girls, but east coasters who consume those luxury Outfit Of The Day’s like reality television — brings a new diamond to internet stardom every season.
While Cornell has an understandably less aesthetic rush (hint: it's all Super Puffs and snow boots), the Ivy League remains a fascinating biome for achieving quick-to-rise influencer status. Sure, a top university can be a shiny lure for attracting potential employers, but attending a ‘dream school’ has proven to be an equally valuable form of social currency — one that often translates to clicks, likes and comments on the internet.
Yet, why exactly does the mundanity of going to class, the dining hall, class again, then back to your dorm, become a glorified experience when chopped into a 45-second ‘Day In My Life at Cornell’ video? What draws fellow students to start tuning in, when the routine of their favorite niche internet micro celebrity is nearly identical to their own?
Perhaps, we simply enjoy romanticising our college lives through another person’s lens. Or, reposting Tiktoks complaining about the Slope increases the connection we feel to our own campus, a sentiment many Cornellians lack. College influencers aren’t always selling us a physical product (although, Jordy at Corny has sold a line of mockneck sweatshirts), but a highly curated aesthetic, lifestyle or emotion.
In my view, there is nothing inherently harmful about influencers posting aspirational content — until they start trying to sell you a course. Attending an Ivy League school has suddenly become a credential to market yourself as a college admissions expert: “Follow me, and I’ll tell you exactly how I got accepted to my highly competitive university.” Earlier this year, the Harvard Crimson admitted they have an “Admissions Influencer” problem; Cornell could easily be next. This type of creator isn't offering much more than a bit of generalized Common App advice (don’t use AI, kids), yet that hasn’t prevented anxious high schoolers from devouring their content like termites. A handful of these influencers may actually be passionate about demystifying the admissions process — and I’m seriously doubtful — but circulating non-expert advice for teens feels reckless, no matter how well intended.
Clearly, the cultural hate being hurled at influencers is not completely unfounded. I suspect it is only a matter of time until locals begin petitioning for a “NO INFLUENCER” sign to be hung in CTB like that one brave shop on Nantucket. And yet, arguably despite my better judgement, I'm not quite ready to write them off for good.
As students, we are all just trying to carve a path towards a job we love. Aside from the obvious perks of ‘influencing’ — fame, followers, features in your college newspaper — it is worth considering that an online platform can function as a legitimate launchpad for a career. In industries like marketing, film, fashion or entertainment, having a portfolio of brand partnerships or creative projects attached to your resume can give post-grads an edge in this truly abysmal job market. Bringing this leverage to the negotiating table could help attract higher paying roles, raise starting salaries or create alternative streams of income. This is especially beneficial to young women, who have come to dominate the influencer space while still making roughly 93% of their male counterparts in entry level roles.
A perfect case-in-point is Katie Feeney, a Penn State alum who began her career in sports media by posting viral gameday and lifestyle content from Happy Valley. As only a sophomore, she was hired as the Washington Commander's first-ever Social Media Correspondent. This position led to her first post-grad job as ESPN’s Sports and Lifestyle Creator — another role created specifically for her. Influencing didn’t just break down doors for Feeney to enter a high-barrier industry; it created a new one altogether.
I know what you are all thinking: the last thing we need is to promote more influencers, and certainly not at Cornell. To be frank, this campus has no shortage of students aspiring to join overcrowded professions — investment banking and consulting are our bread and butter, after all. You may roll your eyes every time you scroll past yet another A.D. White Library study vlog, whereas others may find genuine community by connecting with peers online. No matter which camp you fall into, I think it is safe to say that Cornell can survive a few more influencers — so long as emphasis remains on “a few.”
Katelyn Halverson is a member of the Class of 2028 in the School of Industrial and Labor Relations. She is the Lifestyle editor on the 144th Editorial Board and can be reached at khalverson@cornellsun.com.
