Main Character Syndrome is, for the most part, a harmless indulgence. It is the daydream of being a protagonist without having to commit to an upload schedule. I get to imagine that the barista calling my name is a pivotal scene in my coming-of-age story, rather than a routine moment where someone hands me overpriced caffeine. I can pretend that the walk to class is a montage, that the soundtrack is something orchestral but modern, and that the stranger who smiled at me is either a love interest, a passing cameo, or if I’m in a particularly dramatic mood, the antagonist establishing his presence. It is romantic, ridiculous, and more affordable than therapy.
But every now and then, reality intrudes. Nothing disrupts the illusion of cinematic elegance quite like deadlines, schedules, bills, and notifications arriving with the frequency of someone shaking me by the shoulders. Trying to maintain the aura of a headstrong heroine while replying to discussion posts at 11:57 PM is humbling in a way that defies language. There is no soft lighting, no sweeping crane shot, just the gentle glow of a laptop reminding me that even protagonists must submit their assignments before midnight. Character growth, unfortunately, still requires Google Docs.
And yet, the charm of it remains. Because the point of Main Character Syndrome—the version that doesn’t result in delusions of grandeur or a carefully curated Notes App apology—is not believing you are better than everyone else. It’s believing that ordinary life deserves a little enchantment. A sense of play. Something to lift the weight of relentless productivity culture, where every hobby must become a hustle and every moment must be optimized. Whimsy becomes a form of rebellion.
There is something wonderfully grounding about scheduling an impromptu solo coffee date—not because it will look cute on Instagram, but because the ritual of sitting at a small table with a warm drink makes the world feel gentler. It turns a break into a scene worth remembering. It reminds you that you’re allowed to enjoy yourself without earning it first. And, should someone glance across the café and mistake you for a writer at work on a novel—well, that’s just an artistic bonus.
Crafting and upcycling carry the same glow. Turning a thrift-store ceramic frog into a glittering desk companion or giving a tired old skirt a new hem does not need to generate engagement, attention, or a sponsorship with a lifestyle brand. It can simply be fun—for the sake of fun. Making things with your hands has a way of making life feel real in a world that often insists everything exists only when it’s uploaded. And there is a childlike wonder in taking something ordinary and coaxing it into something special. It proves that transformation does not always need to be metaphorical; sometimes it just involves Mod Podge and an unreasonable amount of enthusiasm.
Maybe the reason this sort of whimsy feels refreshing is because we are so often discouraged from indulging in it. We are encouraged to be serious, efficient, polished. We are expected to act like professionals from the moment we wake up, when deep down most of us would rather live like the heroine in a Studio Ghibli film—someone who pauses to make a serene breakfast, washes her hands by a sunny window, and believes that everyday errands deserve their own score. Life becomes kinder when we let small things feel significant. When we give ourselves permission to romanticize the mundane without needing an audience to validate it.
And if that means I sometimes walk down the street pretending I’m in a scene transition complete with invisible violins, that’s not delusion—that’s personality.
There is also something communal about the idea. Maybe most of us are quietly living this way, convinced that our daily responsibilities are part of a larger arc, that our midterms, rent payments, heartbreaks, and triumphs are leading somewhere meaningful. That even if the camera never pans dramatically, the story is still progressing. We are not competing for screen time; we’re simply sharing a very large cinematic universe.
So no, I am not an influencer. I am just someone who refuses to see life as background noise. I am the girl who treats choosing a pair of socks as a costuming decision and folding laundry as a montage. I pursue joy without quotas, and hobbies without business plans. If this is delusion, it is at least creatively executed—and it makes the days feel richer, stranger, more alive.
In a world determined to measure everything, whimsy remains gloriously unquantifiable. And I’m choosing to keep it.
Kithéa 