My immediate thought upon being accepted into Harvard—just after “ohmygoodnessIcannotbelieveit”—was that I needed the hoodie.
You know what I’m talking about. That classic crimson sweatshirt with the arched block letters? Subtle only in that it is equally fashionable for Harvard students and those with no affiliation? Perfectly readable in an Instagram frame?
My image of Harvard life, in those days, was formed via Harvard students on social media guiding me through the admissions process. On platforms like YouTube, Instagram, and TikTok, Harvard influencers read their admissions files, share Common App essay tips, and document life on campus as inspiration to adoring high school fans. I had spent months obsessively looking at these students’ selfies and “get ready with me” content—short-form videos in which influencers talk about their lives while prepping for the day. And every time an influencer got ready for the day, it seemed, they donned University merch. With these students as my inspiration, I was ready to don the Harvard hoodie, too.
A few months later, on my first trip home from Harvard during my freshman year, I found myself burning layover time in the Dallas airport while wearing my beloved sweatshirt. I’d added some other merch to my collection, too. Stickers from various campus clubs and organizations—all prominently bearing the iconic “H”—adorned my laptop. Stationed at a conspicuous table in a dining hub between terminals, I was hyper-aware of how the “H-bomb” shaped others’ perception of me. Did the people walking past me notice the hoodie? Did they think I was a student or a poser? Was I typing fast enough to demonstrate an intellect deserving of the name plastered on my chest?
When someone approached me asking what I studied, I felt a combination of pride and horror at Harvard’s outsized mythos.
It’s a challenging thing to attach yourself to Harvard. People spend years aspiring to get here—in real life and in popular media like Candy Jar and Gilmore Girls—establishing Harvard’s reputation as one of both prestige and endless hustle. Dropping the “H-bomb,” as Harvard students and administrators told The Wall Street Journal in 2023, can derail a conversation.
But on social media, where garnering attention is the whole point, student influencers transform the “H-bomb” into followers, sponsorships, and paying college admissions advisees. They document daily life: in videos, you see them waking up at 6 a.m. sharp in a perfectly tidy room, then putting the final touches on a problem set that isn’t due until next Tuesday. Between classes, they type out essays at remarkable speeds, assemble perfectly balanced protein bowls in Annenberg, juggle calls with nonprofit officials seeking their expertise, and cure cancer in the lab before bedtime. Along the way, they address their primarily high school audience, suggesting “realistic” homework strategies and recommending study tools through sponsored advertisements.
Regardless of whether these videos are intentionally inaccurate or just overly idealistic, they manufacture a standard for a Harvard student’s lifestyle that I don’t see reflected in my own Harvard grind. Still, a generation of high schoolers, having grown up under Harvard’s omnipresence in the digital zeitgeist, flocks to these videos like moths. In the throes of the college admissions process, these teenagers copy influencers’ application essays and beg them for an “inside look” into life at the College. Eager for any leg up for their kid, parents offer payment to these creators for individualized admissions advice.
Inside Harvard, the perception of these influencers—who number in the dozens—is far less adoring. Though their content is oriented towards high schoolers, it appears frequently on current students’ feeds due to their Harvard association (and mutual online friendships). And it draws a fair amount of campus gossip. Among peers, it is considered grifty to shell out admissions advice when your only expertise is your own acceptance. Students often joke that all it takes is putting on a Harvard hoodie and pressing “record,” and they could go viral.
The disdain for influencers is so pervasive that not creating social media content about college admissions is a point of pride. (I’ve heard friends sarcastically describe becoming a Harvard influencer as their “backup” to summer internships or contemplate selling admissions advice over Instagram to pay for their coffee addiction.) A few months into my first year, I joined a trend of students subtly using only an “H” in their Instagram bios instead of writing out “Harvard”—I suppose to signal superiority over those whose follower counts are boosted by their University affiliation.
Students often joke that all it takes is putting on a Harvard hoodie and pressing “record,” and they could go viral.
It was a strong swing from my high school self, who was inspired enough by Harvard influencers to hope a hoodie would grant me superpowered productivity. At a visiting weekend for admitted students, I ran into one of these influencers volunteering at an event. I shyly introduced myself—I was meeting a celebrity!—but she brushed me off. From her perspective, I was just another overexcited prefrosh, and she was just another upperclassman stuck manning a table for an afternoon. The glimmering digital illusion began to melt away.
Realizing that this influencer was now just a peer was the first of many reminders that the Harvard I’d been focused on attending was not the same as the one where I would spend four years. Of course it’s not—admissions influencers are selling a version of Harvard that is unachievable and unrealistically inspiring in order to make their own perspectives and advice seem necessary. That veneer of perfection only adds more stress to an already intense admissions process; many high schoolers know that Ivy League admissions rates have dropped significantly in the past 20 years, and now they’re led to believe that, beyond perfect grades, they also need Instagram-perfect lives.
In fairness, not all influencers take part in this intentional rarefying of Harvard. Some social media stars have started making videos that bring attention to Harvard’s tuition rates and the relatable social and academic challenges students actually face. “Come with me as I catch up from procrastinating on homework” or “Get ready with me for another day searching for an internship,” such videos invite.
These creators mimic the language and style used by the traditional, put-together Harvard influencer. It’s a well-meaning effort to pierce the rosy depiction of the University. But they, too, exploit the outsized attention the Harvard name receives. Would people watch an “I’m normal” video from a school that didn’t wrap itself in a myth of perfection?
Still, who am I to vilify capitalizing off the Harvard name? We all know it’s the thing we’re betting on every time we submit a resume with the “H-bomb” plastered at the top—or fret that news about turmoil on campus will damage Harvard’s reputation.
Indeed, the recent attention on Harvard—good and bad—has brought the mythology to a new level. Sometimes it feels like the entire University is trying to buff its reputation, like an influencer in a video. Some students speculate that Harvard is using its recent report on grade inflation to restabilize its image of academic excellence after U.S. President Donald Trump falsely accused it of teaching remedial math last year. Some undergraduates scorned their classmates for talking to The New York Times about how easy it was to skip class.
In other words, many of us want the world to believe the story influencers tell about Harvard. We just don’t want the lifestyle that comes with it. No one is gunning to fill every second of free time with productive work. This tension between calling for authenticity and maintaining an elevated status is a struggle every one of us contends with when the University’s name comes up in conversation.
Over spring break, I was introduced to a group of post-college, extremely cool artists. “So, you go to Harvard,” one of them started during a lull in the conversation. “What’s that like?”
My options diverged in front of me. Should I play into the Harvard stereotype about being mechanically intellectual (boring, surely, in the eyes of a group of creatives)? Or should I try to push against preconceptions?
“Well, I never get used to seeing my University’s name in the top headline of the Times,” I stumbled, then attempted some quip about how millionaires’ children throw crazy parties. (Reader, if you know one thing about me, it’s that I am as uninvolved in Harvard’s party scene as they come.) It all came out hollow. I couldn’t figure out how to be accurate, say something interesting, show my gratitude for the privilege of being here, and avoid pretentiousness all at once.
When I later shared the experience with a Harvard friend, she teasingly called me out. I was as problematic as the influencers, she argued, in trying to narrativize the so-called Harvard lifestyle instead of just being honest. But she didn’t have the perfect answer, either. “I usually just tell people that I love it there,” she said, “and the hardest part of Harvard is getting in.
