Author: Mia Jean

When I first started posting on YouTube, I didn’t think of it as anything deep. It was just a place to share my edits on video games, quick clips, transitions, and entertainment. But over time, I realized something: YouTube isn’t just a platform. It’s a living, breathing culture.

Every comment section is like a public square. Every video is a digital artifact. And every creator, whether they realize it or not, is part of a massive social experiment.

I’ve spent years running YouTube channels and learning how people interact online, what makes them laugh, what makes them click, and what makes them stay. I’ve watched trends rise and fall like empires: reaction videos, mukbangs, gaming montages, “study with me” sessions, and political commentary. They each tell us something about the values, fears, and dreams of the people watching.

That’s why I believe YouTube is the modern anthropology field site. Anthropologists used to travel to remote villages to study rituals, stories, and community behaviors. Now, they just need Wi-Fi. YouTube is where humanity performs itself, where people reveal identity through language, humor, consumption, and connection. When someone uploads a vlog about their daily life or documents their morning routine, they’re not just sharing; they’re participating in a cultural ritual of visibility.

I’ve seen this firsthand while building my own audience. The comment sections under my videos often say more than the videos themselves. They show how people interpret media, how they form communities, and how identity gets shaped through algorithms. It’s not just “content.” It’s culture, raw, unfiltered, and constantly evolving.

So next time you open YouTube, think of it less as an app and more as a global village. Every upload is a field note. Every trend is a shared ritual. And every viewer, creator, and commenter is part of an ongoing story about what it means to be human, digitally, publicly, and together.

The problem with VR is that it doesn’t just show you a story; it controls what you feel. Directors choose what you see, hear, and experience, crafting emotion as much as information.

Unlike traditional documentaries, where you can look away, think, or interpret, VR surrounds you completely. You don’t just observe; you absorb.

That raises big ethical questions. Where’s the line between emotional storytelling and emotional manipulation? When a viewer walks away from a VR experience, are they more informed or just more affected?

For me, VR documentaries sit right on that edge. They have the potential to spark awareness, inspire action, and make distant issues feel personal. But they also remind us how easily technology can guide perception. The same immersion that builds empathy can also shape belief.

Maybe the key isn’t to reject VR storytelling but to use it responsibly, to ask not only what story is being told but why we’re being placed inside it.

Because in virtual reality, every angle we see and every emotion we feel, is part of someone’s design.

So a big question that’s been weighing on my mind is how does storytelling shape public opinion especially during times of crisis? Well, think about it, every time the world hits a crisis whether it’s a pandemic, natural disaster, or major social movement, the first thing that spreads faster than the news itself is the story. The story of what’s happening, who’s affected, and what it all means. And that story? It often shapes how we respond just as much as the facts do.

For example, during COVID, we didn’t just see case numbers. What did we see? Well, we saw videos of nurses crying in break rooms, photos of families holding signs outside hospital windows, and personal stories on TikTok that reached millions. Those moments made the crisis real. They made people care, share, and act.

So clearly, that’s the power of storytelling. Storytelling has the ability to take something distant and turns it into something human and real. Whether it’s a headline about food insecurity, climate change, or war, it’s the story of one person that makes the issue hit home. When a mother shares how she skipped dinner so her kids could eat, or when a student records what it’s like to learn during a blackout, those narratives do more than report, they move.

In a world where media moves at the speed of a scroll, storytelling doesn’t just reflect public opinion, it builds it. The tone of a video, the framing of a photo, even the caption under a post can change how we perceive an entire movement. That’s why I believe storytelling carries a responsibility, especially in crisis, it’s not just about getting attention, but giving context, empathy, and truth.

At the end of the day, data might show what’s happening, but stories remind us why it matters.

For me, food has never just been about eating. It’s a language, a memory, and a way of seeing the world. Having two sets of grandparents from different parts of China, one north, one south, I learned quickly that food carries identity. Every dish has a story, and every province carries its own flavors that say something about the people who live there.

In China, food is geography. Sichuan brings fire and spice, while Guangdong celebrates delicate dim sum and seafood. The north is defined by wheat, dumplings, noodles, scallion pancakes, while the south loves its rice. Each province cooks with the ingredients the land provides, but also with the philosophy of its people. When you sit at a Chinese table, you get to taste landscapes, climates, and histories. All served as bite-sized morsels that you could pick up with chopsticks.

Food is also family. My grandparents’ stories are baked into the recipes they passed down, from mooncakes during Mid-Autumn Festival to hand-pulled noodles on birthdays. These aren’t just traditions; they’re lessons in resilience, migration, and love. When my grandmother kneaded dough, she was also retelling stories of our past, making sure I understood where I came from even if I couldn’t always express it in words.

As I’ve grown older, I see food as anthropology in action. It’s how cultures communicate without needing translation. A dish of mapo tofu doesn’t just feed you; it tells you about Sichuan’s trade history with peppercorns. It’s about its people’s taste for intensity, about the way heat and comfort can coexist. Food is proof that identity can be consumed, shared, and remembered.

For me, Chinese food isn’t just cuisine. It’s a map, a history book, a diary. It’s how I connect my present self to my heritage. With every bite, it’s not all the varying flavors, but I am reminded of all the stories behind my origins.

We live in an era where attention is currency. A single word can change whether someone clicks, or scrolls away forever. But the real challenge isn’t just getting attention; it’s keeping trust.

I’ve had times where I changed a single word, and suddenly engagement doubled. It taught me that writing a headline isn’t just about grabbing attention, it’s about earning it responsibly.

I’ve spent countless hours toiling over the title of a YouTube video, meticulously choosing every single word, rearranging phrases, and testing which one truly captures the heart of the story. Because at the end of the day, a headline isn’t just a hook, it’s a promise. It’s the first thing a viewer sees, and often the deciding factor between a story that’s heard and one that’s ignored.

For me, especially when the people behind the story are real and their voices deserve care, the headline becomes a form of respect. If you want to give dignity and pride to a story and to the people whose experiences it represents, it all starts with how you choose to frame it.In the end, headlines set the tone for conversation. They build the first impression, and in the digital age, first impressions spread fast. So the question isn’t just what will make people click, but what will make them care.

Have you ever clicked on an article just because the headline caught your attention? Maybe it said something shocking, emotional, or a little controversial. Before you knew it, you were three paragraphs deep in a story you didn’t even plan to read. That’s the power of framing in digital media.

Headlines aren’t just titles. They’re lenses. The way a story is framed can completely shape how we think about it. For example, a headline that says “Local Hero Saves Dog from River” gives you a totally different reaction than “Man Jumps into River Without Warning.” Both might describe the same event, but one highlights courage, while the other suggests chaos. This is a stellar example of the importance of headlines. They can completely change the meaning and purpose of a text!

In today’s world of constant scrolling, most people never make it past the headline. That means the first few words you read often decide what side of the story you believe. News outlets, creators, and brands know this, which is why every word is chosen carefully. Sometimes, it is helpful to think of headlines as not always just a way to inform, but sometimes to persuade.

As someone who works in broadcasting at my school, I’ve seen this firsthand. Whether I’m scripting a morning segment or producing a video for our school network, I’ve learned that the headline – or, especially on YouTube, the thumbnail—can make or break how viewers respond.

When you start noticing the invisible power behind the words that pull you in, you begin to see media differently. Every title is an invitation, and a decision about how truth is told.