The Church of Celebrity: The Reality of Parasocial Relationships

When Jayda Cheaves posts a selfie in box braids, the comments come in fast: “She started this!” Within hours, TikTok and Instagram are full of “Jayda Wayda braid” tutorials. But the style isn’t new, it’s been around for generations in African cultures. Still, this moment says a lot about how we relate to celebrities today. In Black communities across the UK and the US, some of us aren’t just following celebrities, we’re ‘worshipping’ them.

It’s more than hype or admiration. It’s something deeper. We give celebrities credit for creating things that have existed long before them, beauty routines, protective styles, wellness practices, and we’re not just doing it for fun. It’s emotional. It’s spiritual. It’s personal.

Think about it: when Jayda shares a skincare tip, fans rush to try it. If Rihanna wears a certain colour or uses a product, it becomes a trend with her name on it. It’s like we’re building mythologies around them, reshaping history to fit the people we admire most. And we’re doing it together,  in comments, on threads, in fan edits. It’s collective. It’s creative. But it can also blur the line between admiration and amnesia.

The intimacy illusion

What makes this all so powerful is how close it feels. Celebs used to be distant, behind velvet ropes and magazine covers. Now, they invite us into their daily lives. We know what Jayda eats for breakfast, how she juggles business and motherhood, what she listens to when she’s down. That kind of access creates a feeling, like we know her. Like we matter to her.

Psychologists call this a “parasocial relationship”,  a one-sided bond that still feels real. And when it feels real, we respond in real ways. We celebrate their wins like they’re our own. We defend them like they’re our cousins. And when they recommend something, we don’t just buy it,  we believe in it. That belief creates an emotional economy where buying a lip gloss or a face mask isn’t just about self-care, but about connection.

It’s not just what we buy, either. It’s how we live. Fans copy morning routines, gym regimens, spiritual rituals, all because it feels like a way to get closer. Like how religious followers light candles, say prayers, or wear certain symbols. These small daily acts help us feel like we’re part of something bigger.

But sometimes, that love goes too far. Stan culture, especially around people like Beyoncé or Nicki Minaj,  can turn intense. Fans organise fierce condemnation at critics, shut down discussions, or spend huge amounts of money just to prove loyalty. It’s passion, yes, but sometimes it starts to feel like a test of faith, where any doubt or disagreement becomes betrayal.

And it doesn’t stop with the living. Aaliyah, who passed over 20 years ago, still has a fanbase that speaks of her in the present tense. People imagine what she’d say about today’s world, and fiercely protect her legacy. The devotion is so strong, it mirrors how saints are remembered, not just as people, but as symbols of something sacred.

There’s also a risk when we start copying everything a celeb does, especially if those choices are risky, cosmetic surgery, extreme dieting, even how they deal with stress or pain. We sometimes forget that what works for someone with resources, stylists, and PR teams might not work for us. Still, we follow. Because we trust. Because we care.

The representation burden 

For Black celebrities especially, the impact they have often reaches far beyond entertainment. In industries where Black voices have long been underrepresented, figures like Jayda become powerful symbols of visibility and pride. Her wins don’t just feel personal, they feel collective. Her success reminds us of what’s possible, and that kind of representation can be deeply empowering.

That visibility also brings a unique kind of influence. Fans don’t just admire her, they look to her as a source of direction, motivation, and hope. It’s a reflection of how deeply people connect with her story. While it can be a lot to hold, it also speaks to the trust and belief her audience places in her. And though perfection isn’t the expectation, or even the goal, there’s something beautiful in how we in the diaspora rally around the people who reflect us most.

Finding balance 

The answer isn’t to stop admiring celebrities or to shut down fandom. These relationships clearly give us something, joy, hope, connection. They help us see ourselves, dream bigger, and feel less alone. But maybe what we need is a little more awareness. A little more balance.

We can celebrate someone’s journey without rewriting history. We can be inspired without losing ourselves. We can love our faves and remember that what we’re seeing is often a carefully curated version of their lives, not the whole picture.

At the end of the day, devotion to figures like Jayda Wayda shows something very human: the need to believe in someone, to see our own potential reflected in others, to feel connected,  especially within diasporic communities still navigating identity and belonging. Whether this is a new form of worship or just how fandom looks in a digital age, one thing’s clear: the stories we tell about our icons are also stories about who we are, who we’ve been, and who we hope to become.

Written by Vanessa Twerefou