I’m sure we’ve all noticed that the boredom of the pandemic has generated a lot of unexpected and overall bizarre activity on social media over the past year.
From the whipped coffee TikTok trend to photoshopping the cozy Inauguration day Bernie Sanders into every scene you could possibly think of, we’ve found countless ways to entertain ourselves and connect with the world beyond our homes.
In one of my hours-long scrolling escapades, I stumbled upon a true game-changer: suddenly, I was immersed in Pinterest boards of flower-filled meadows, artisanal bread recipes, aesthetically pleasing picnic spreads and far too many straw hats…
Just like that, I had fallen down the cottagecore rabbit hole.
To put it simply, cottagecore is all about the simple, rural life. It romanticizes the idea of being surrounded by lush nature, away from the troubles of corporate society and unburdened by work, school or a pandemic. 
In other words, it was exactly what I needed. 
Others my age also seemed eager to cling to this very specific aesthetic in hopes of escaping an increasingly unpleasant reality. Cottagecore saw its peak in popularity during the lockdown: on social media, people I’d followed for ages were suddenly posting dreamy golden-hour photoshoots in overgrown gardens and taking up grandma-esque crafts; showing off elaborate cross-stitching projects and perfectly baked sourdough loaves they’d slaved over for hours. 
At one point, it seemed like it was all anyone would talk about. I really wasn’t put off or overwhelmed by its presence in my feed though, as I think we can all become with Internet trends sometimes. In fact, it didn’t take long at all for me to become completely enamored with the picturesque dreamscape of the cottagecore aesthetic.
To tell you the truth, after months of listening to endless tragedies on the news, I simply couldn’t help from daydreaming about doing things like running away and raising sheep. 
It provided comfort: an escapist paradise where, for a little while, I could at least feign blissful ignorance. A reaction against late-stage capitalism, TV politics and the misguided response to a fatal virus, the cottagecore fantasy offers a bit of solace and peace in a world where there seemingly is none.
But the more I drank hot tea and daydreamed about being a Jane Austen heroine, the more I realized how surreal the whole thing was: tapping and scrolling away on a phone, surrounded by modern technology and trying desperately to imagine a “simpler” life far away from the modern world.
The idea of such an ethereal rural aesthetic rising to popularity via the Internet is ironic at its core, but I still find myself drawn to it. 
I think a lot of us would do anything at this point to live in a private little world of our own with no economic hardships, political strife or public health crises; indeed, the fervor surrounding cottagecore reflects rising escapist tendencies among younger generations in these intensely troubling times.
In an age when no one can predict what the future will look like, cottagecore gives us the dream of possibly getting away from the chaos of modernity — even if all it means is picking up more traditional hobbies and contemplating someday whisking away to the countryside.
Emily Davison is a 19-year-old anthropology sophomore from Denham Springs.