"My name is download video sex seiro kajima javGabriella and I spent the first four years of my life in a meth house," says Gabriella as a matter-of-fact, before emptying a bag of Sour Patch candy into a bowl in a TikTok that now has over 9.7M views. The video then cuts between Gabriella and her friend, as they continue offering bouts of open-ended casual confessions laced with varying intensity, while adding layers of Reese Cups, Nerds Gummy Clusters, and other candies to the same bowl. 

This is the deceptively simple recipe of a trauma candy salad that involves only two ingredients: equal parts sweet treats and traumatic life experiences. Mix well until combined and serve it piping hot to...the entire internet.

Young people are disclosing their most distressing emotional scars by way of the latest challenge to sweep TikTok. But what makes the trauma candy salad trend different from other GRWM (Get Ready With Me) or sit-down storytime formats is the deliberate lack of context or explanation accompanying said statements. Harrowing personal experiences are compressed in one-minute clips, discussing everything from sexual abuse, eating disorders, divorce, and bad breakups to bullying, health issues, loss, and parental abandonment. Think your emotional baggage is too big to publicize? If confessions like "My name is Kylie and my biological parents left me on a hospital doorstep and abandoned me" and "I’m Anika and my ex choked me while I was sleeping" are anything to go by, nothing is off-limits here.

A dystopian spin-off of the candy salad food trend that marched into TikTok’s hall of fame earlier this year, the trauma candy salad is a dark humour-coded manifestation of the younger generation’s mental health struggles. Each revelation and its nonchalant disclosure is meant to make you uncomfortable and dumbstruck; a far cry from other prettily packaged trends like quiet quitting, sad girl walks, or therapy-speak.

One in three Gen Z young adults have posted about their mental health on their social media profiles, as per a 2022 survey. But could it be the contents of these posts are changing gear from subtle to piercingly straightforward? The trauma candy salad could reflect the younger generation’s pushback against trigger warnings that have long accompanied digital mental health discourse, according to Eloise Skinner, a London-based psychotherapist and author. “A platform like TikTok encourages the integration of lightness and humour through challenges like this, even when it comes to sharing sensitive personal trauma. This seems like a rejection of the conventional therapeutic ideals, trigger warnings, and self-care notions that were perhaps first created by millennials in the social media space,” she says.  

Oversharing or trauma dumping can be a coping response to distressing events. Trauma can be a lonely experience, so it makes sense that some creators may — consciously or unconsciously — share their experiences in a bid to feel less isolated. The problem lies in the fact that once something is shared online, we cannot control the reactions or comments of strangers on the internet. But not everyone participating in this trend thinks that far ahead; it’s just notthat deep.

"I came across trauma candy salad TikToks not that long ago and found it funny that people were making light of their trauma," explains 25-year old Scotland-based Emma Cassidy. "My best friend and I have been through some situations too so we knew we had to make one. Some people may find these triggering but I think it's all about the 'if you don’t laugh, you'll cry' mindset." 

"We saw someone else do it and knew we had enough trauma to participate,” adds Megan, 23, who filmed a video with her friend while on a camping trip in Washington State. This bonding and community-creating aspect of this challenge is not just fueled by people who’ve gone through similar life experiences and find it relatable, but also by those counting their blessings. "This trend makes me realise that nothing in my life has truly been traumatic and I need to be just grateful," reads one comment.

Abby Bailey, a 23-year old living in Georgia, has no qualms about admitting that she publicized her trauma because she thought it would pick up traffic. On her TikTok, the 23-year-old bluntly shares that for years she mistook another man as her father and that her biological father has now passed away. “I figured that if there was one thing I could get views on, it would be my backstory or trauma. Not saying that everything I said wasn’t true because it is. I don't have any reservations about sharing my story online, I am an open book. People can judge me all that they want, but I have grown and become the person that I am today because of the things that have happened to me,” she says.

When asked if she’s ever thought of speaking about this with a qualified mental health expert, Bailey says, “I have not shared this with a professional because I don’t think it will be helpful; there’s just so much from my past and I feel as if I would be a burden. I have learned to cope with what has happened in my life and for now I am in a good place. Maybe one day I will talk to someone."

As I've found myself constantly engaging with these videos, first for the purposes of writing this story but later of my own volition, TikTok’s algorithm has steadily fed my consumption urges with an increasing stream of people’s traumatic stories rebranded as entertainment. As I come across newer versions of the trauma candy salad challenge, I’m becoming less taken aback by the disturbing incidents shared, even though the intensity and seriousness of what is shared remains high. I start comparing the stories I’ve heard, unconsciously ranking them by shock factor and I know I’m not the only one experiencing this desensitisation to people’s trauma. 

As is the case with all trends, they take on a life of their own, shapeshifting to suit different purposes. The trauma candy salad recipe has also been adapted, giving way to new niches: think healthcare worker edition, couples edition and teacher edition. Instead of filming it with a group of friends, there are also those who chose to go solo. Some have replaced the candy with tablets or medicine they say they take to combat various health issues and illnesses.

Albeit unconsciously, is there a cathartic release or high to be experienced in announcing your most painful memories to strangers online? "Having grown up immersed in the culture of constant social media sharing, the internet feels like the main stage to put their inner turmoil on full display because there's an intense craving to finally have their emotional pain truly seen and validated on a big scale. But ripping your band-aid off in front of the world, without a type of containing personal support system, can simply leave you stuck in an agonizing cycle," says clinical psychotherapist Dr. Daniel Glazer, expressing the need for better and more constructive channels to elevate these conversations. Instead of dumping life's deeply disturbing events into the psyche's trash folder to fester, trends like the trauma candy salad use humour as a crutch, as a processing method.

In some strange way, after all the conversations I’ve had and watching one too many trauma dumps, I do, in some sense, understand how it equips Gen Z and alphas to look back and smile, even for a moment, through their most painful memories. The approach may not be everyone's cup of tea, but clearly it’s someone’s bowl of candy. Do we let the trauma define us or do we define our trauma?