Why everyone thinks 2026 feels like 2016 all over again

By the end of last year, being online felt like a low-grade, never-ending existential crisis. Every scroll raised the same doubts: Is this really real-life footage? Is this an actual human being? Is this article written by ChatGPT? The internet was full of content, relentlessly so, but much of it felt hollow, stretched thin by algorithms that knew exactly what to show you and somehow still got it all wrong. 

In the middle of that exhaustion, a phrase started making the rounds steadily enough to stick with a good bunch of people. You’d notice it in tweets, captions, and comment sections where people would casually agree that 2026 was starting to feel like it's going to be a lot like 2016. The most fun aspect of it all was that it was rarely explained and never defended.

The phrase worked because it captured a shared feeling rather than a specific reference point, as the internet had started to feel chaotic in a familiar way again. The comparison between 2016 and 2026 landed because people recognised the mood instantly, even if they couldn’t articulate why. 

The real question is what this comparison is pointing to. The answer is quite simple. It reflects a collective response to how digital culture has changed over the last few years. After endless cycles of optimisation, of happiness, of productivity, of identity and even of humour, the internet feels stretched to its limits. Everything has been refined for performance, reach, and constant approvals from peers, leaving little room for spontaneity and surprise. The pull towards 2016 reflects that exact reaction, a desire for Tumblr-esque feeds, lesser curated posts, looser participation, and a culture that feels driven by humans rather than machines.

2025: The year the internet burned out

By early 2025, the shift was already underway. By April, our feeds were flooded with AI-generated images of Donald Trump as a Jedi, shared by the White House and triggering a brief wave of disappointment among Gen Z and millennials. Soon after, the 6–7 trend took over social media, repeated endlessly by Gen Alphas and basketball players—even as most people openly admitted they had no idea what it meant. Despite all the confusion, the slang term was later crowned Dictionary.com’s Word of the Year. Be for real.

Around the same time, rage bait slipped into everyday vocabulary and then got recognised as Oxford’s word of the year, reflecting how provocation had become the easiest way to stay visible online. Trends kept on stacking up on one another, each one either asking for attention, reaction, or emotional energy at a time when most people were already drained and had none left to give.

2016: A whole other vibe

2016 felt like an internet that knew how to pause. It was the year Stranger Things dropped its first season and instantly became a fan favourite. Memes were everywhere, from Vine to Twitter to Instagram, without being engineered to do so. Pop culture moments stuck long enough to turn into references people still recognise today. The internet felt collectively tuned into the same things, whether it was a show, a song, or even the "Sad Affleck" meme that refused to leave the timeline.

A big part of that community building came from the fact that it was a pre-AI era. Content came from people reacting in real time, by taste, humour, and impulse. There was less noise competing for attention and fewer systems deciding what deserved to be seen. When something went viral, it usually made sense why it resonated, it entertained, or it sparked a conversation on all platforms. 

Looking at 2026 through that lens, the contrast similarly becomes clearer. Today’s internet moves faster, fragments attention, and replaces content almost as soon as it appears. In comparison, 2016 reads as a time when culture had room to land and be collectively experienced. That’s why it keeps coming up in conversation as a reference point for when being online felt simpler, more connected, and unmistakably human.

2026: Moving back to simpler things

In 2026, you can see the shift in how people are using the internet. “Boring feeds” are making a comeback, and accounts like @girlscarryingshit, @subwayhands, and @subwaycreatures are blowing up for being so relatable and capturing the essence of simply being human. Low-effort, episodic content is travelling faster than anything overly polished (especially with AI), and it’s helping build stronger recall for both creators and brands. Older songs, remixed formats, and familiar sounds are resurfacing across feeds, not just as nostalgia plays but also as comfort for Gen Z and millennials—reminding them of a pre-AI era.

People have also started questioning anything that looks too clean, too well-curated, or even too perfectly written. Content that feels automated or mass-produced is being side-eyed immediately, while messy, oddly specific posts feel refreshing and appealing. Gen Z, especially, has become more vocal about their frustration and is calling out AI-heavy feeds, Nano Banana–curated images, and algorithm-driven hooks that chase attention for the sake of it.

Being online has shifted from a performance to a coping mechanism, and that change in attitude has set the stage for why 2016 began to feel like a useful reference point again. That craving for something human does not stay online for long. It eventually shows up outside, in the real world, when people step into spaces that cannot be optimised in the same way social media can, where reactions happen in real time, and trust has to be earned on the spot.

Adi Chaudhri, also known as 'Another Adi', a DJ who runs throwback-led 'Millennials Only' parties, describes this shift as something you feel almost immediately. “After a year where the internet felt flooded with AI music and content, the first thing you notice in a room that feels alive is movement,” he says. What people respond to is not curated algorithms, content or perfection, but risk, timing, and the sense that something unscripted is happening in front of them.

That response connects directly to the loneliness many people now associate with being online. “There is definitely a loneliness epidemic,” Chaudhri points out. “People are connected online but are failing to connect on an individual level, and a lot of that has to do with the fact that we are behaving like billboards on the internet.” The constant pressure to present, brand, and perform has stripped everyday interaction of ease. Even music, once a shared experience by default, has become fragmented, thanks to the digital culture. “My best friend and I can have completely different playlists even if our lives are nearly identical,” he says, highlighting how personalised feeds have quietly eroded common ground. Culture still exists, but it no longer gathers people in the same way.

This is where 2016 becomes useful as a reference point. Chaudhri describes a time when risk appetite across DJs, venues, and audiences was higher, when spaces were open to being challenged rather than managed. “The room has always been cliquey,” he says, “but it was open to being educated.” Over time, many of those spaces gave way to templated nightlife experiences built to scale, mirroring the wider shift online toward predictability and safety. Trust slowly narrowed down, and experimentation became harder for many creatives in the industry.

When Content Stopped Feeling Human

As 2025 went on, the problem stopped being volume and started being trust. The gap between posting and connecting widened, and the internet began to feel like a place where things were shown rather than shared. Scrolling became habitual, participation became optional, and attention felt increasingly detached from the meaning of it all.

This detachment from the digital culture shaped how people approached being online. Instead of engaging deeply, many began observing from a distance, consuming without investing. The expectation that every post needed a purpose, reach, growth, and visibility made expression feel heavier than it used to. Over time, this created a quiet discomfort: the sense that digital spaces were active but emotionally flat. That moment, when presence faded, and performance took over, marked the shift toward a different kind of internet experience, one that set the stage for questioning what content was actually for. 

Why 2016 Became the Reference Point

When people refer to 2016, they’re really talking about an era which provided a cultural breathing room. Content moved with a sense of patience that honestly feels almost impossible now. Things stuck around a little longer, and there was time to sit with them without feeling rushed to move on. Being online didn’t come with the pressure of keeping up with something new every single day. 

That sense of space feels missing now. In a digital culture where there’s always a new trend to follow, a new format to learn, and a new moment to react to, everything moves forward before it has a chance to land. Looking back, 2016 stands out as a period when the internet felt less frantic and more communal. That’s the version people seem to be reaching for when they talk about 2026 being the new 2016, a time when being online felt easier to stay present in, rather than something to constantly keep up with.

Lead Image: IMDb

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