United in debt: America has become a nation of fake rich people

The U.S. now functions as two distinct, fully realized nations occupying the same geographic coordinates. One exists in concrete and brick, where citizens drive 20-year-old sedans and buy generic eggs. The other exists within a six square-inch, forever-vibrating rectangle, where every third twenty-something is a lifestyle curator living a life built on reckless financial decisions.

A recent report by Empower , a major financial services company based in Colorado, found that 24 percent of Gen Zers experience intense pressure to display material wealth on social media, even as 41 percent of all Americans don’t consider themselves financially well-off. The math is simple, brutal and undeniable. Millions of broke people spend borrowed money to convince other broke people they live like oil barons.

Walk into a cafe in any major city on a Tuesday morning. The line stretches out the front door with men and women waiting to pay $7 for an oat milk latte. The transaction takes three seconds via a plastic card. The coffee is gone in ten minutes. The debt remains on the balance sheet for 30 days at a 28 percent annual percentage rate.

The person holding the cup takes four photos of the foam art before taking a single sip, uploading the image to an audience of 700 acquaintances doing the exact same thing three blocks away. It’s entirely absurd and slightly insane, but this is modern-day America, where a sandwich that costs more than most can reasonably afford becomes a status symbol for a sick, performative culture.

The physical economy relies on the illusion of endless prosperity. A $400 T-shirt made of standard cotton moves off the rack because it contains a small but highly visible logo. The owner wears it to a sit-down dinner, paid for with a buy-now-pay-later app that splits a $120 pasta bill into four easy installments due every two weeks.

This dynamic transcends traditional political divisions completely. The left-leaning urbanite rents a $5,000-a-month luxury apartment with faux-hardwood floors and floor-to-ceiling windows, ignoring the fact that the building was constructed with thin drywall and plastic plumbing.

A guy on the right buys an $80,000 four-wheel-drive pickup truck with a diesel engine, drives it exclusively to a suburban business district, and wonders why he bought it in the first place. Both sides stare at each other with mutual disdain, completely oblivious to the reality that they are bound by the exact same addiction to financial self-harm.

The online ecosystem adapts instantly to these internal contradictions. When the burden of fake wealth becomes too heavy to maintain, the internet invents a new aesthetic trend to monetize the fatigue.

Enter “ de-influencing ,” a movement in which content creators post videos telling followers which $80 moisturizer or $50 water tumbler they should not buy. The creators then link to alternative products in their profile bio, earning a 5 percent commission on every budget-friendly replacement sold. The consumer buys three cheaper items to celebrate saving money versus the expensive one.

Vacation planning follows the exact same logical trajectory. Social media feeds in June and July feature an unending stream of Mediterranean coastlines, infinity pools, and airport lounge access passes. In reality, a significant portion of these trips exist purely as high-interest liabilities on a credit card statement. A seven-day excursion to Europe becomes a three-year financial commitment. Travelers spend six hours posing on a rocky beach to capture three photos with optimal lighting, then spend the rest of the afternoon in the hotel room arguing with their partners about the cost of room service.

The digital self lives in a perpetual golden age of high design, fine dining, endless leisure, and oceans of delusion. The physical self eats sodium-rich packaged ramen over a sink in a studio apartment, wiping away their tears while receiving text alerts about a low bank balance. We have successfully split human consciousness into two separate entities: the brand manager who posts from the beach, and the laborer who works overtime to pay off the plane ticket and purchase more ramen.

The entire enterprise functions because everybody understands the rules of the game and nobody wants to be the first person to stop playing. Admitting that you can’t afford to shop at 7-Eleven, let alone a daily $7 beverage or a weekend getaway, feels like a personal failure in a society that measures human value by visual consumption. So the country keeps marching forward, one installment plan at a time. United in debt, divided by algorithms, and perfectly styled for the camera.

John Mac Ghlionn is a writer and researcher who explores culture, society and the impact of technology on daily life.