When Jennifer Allen gazed at videos of space, she would experience an intriguing sensation—a tingling that would ripple through her scalp as the camera panned out to reveal the Earth’s majestic beauty. It washed over her like a warm effervescence, trailing down her spine and leaving a profound feeling of gratitude and completeness. Allen cherished this peculiar sensation, yet its origin remained a mystery, entirely distinct from anything she had encountered before. Every couple of years, she turned to Google, hoping to find answers by searching for phrases like “tingling head and spine” or “brain orgasm.” But for nine years, her quest yielded nothing.
Then, around 2009, her search bore fruit. Once again, Allen typed in her phrases, but this time, a message board called SteadyHealth provided a result. The post was aptly titled “WEIRD SENSATION FEELS GOOD”.
“I get this sensation sometimes. There’s no real trigger for it. It just happens randomly. It’s been happening since I was a kid, and I’m 21 now. Some examples of what it seems has caused it to happen before are as a child while watching a puppet show and when I was being read a story to. As a teenager, when a classmate did me a favor and when a friend drew on the palm of my hand with markers. Sometimes it happens for no reason at all.”
The poster fervently sought an explanation, and in the ensuing discussion, while nobody had a definite answer, many described experiencing a similar feeling—a “silvery sparkle” inside the head, an euphoric “brain-gasm,” or goosebumps on the scalp, ebbing and flowing in waves of heightened intensity. Consensus emerged that this enigmatic sensation was, indeed, euphoric. One user even wrote, “Aside from an actual orgasm, it’s probably the most enjoyable sensation possible.” The triggers for this feeling were as diverse as watching someone fill out a form, listening to whispering sounds, or witnessing Bob Ross paint landscapes on TV.
As Allen pored through numerous pages of discussion, she felt a revelation. These people were articulating exactly what she experienced.
Over time, the original post spawned a sequel: “WEIRD SENSATION FEELS GOOD – PART 2.” As conversations evolved about this unnamed feeling, users began to share serendipitous triggers they stumbled upon online—like a man unlocking a damaged padlock or someone gently brushing their hair. These videos all shared an elusive gentleness that many found challenging to describe. Some users even expressed the need for a research group to comprehensively understand this fascinating sensation. However, amidst the intrigue, others voiced fears of potential social repercussions: Were they considered perverts? Were they sick? Were they labeled as indigo children? They recognized that pleasure, even in the realm of sensations, rarely came without consequences.
“People faced skepticism, being accused of being on drugs or having lice – things of that nature,” Allen reveals. “Adding to the challenge was the association of the term ‘brain orgasm’ with some kind of erotic fetish.”
Deeply invested in the discussion, Allen showed interest in the budding research effort. While she recognized how the sensation had enhanced her sense of calm, she also worried that its association with a mere “tingling feeling” might hinder its credibility. The terminology sounded too frivolous, even suggestive. To garner scientific interest, a more clinical and scientific-sounding name was needed.
In February 2010, Allen took it upon herself to brainstorm ideas for a suitable name. Previous attempts at describing the strange sensation with spacey nicknames like “attention-induced head orgasm” had failed to gain traction. Allen wanted to pay homage to the sensation’s New Age supporters while acknowledging the importance of a more professional lexicon. Finding no existing term that met both criteria, she coined a new one: Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response, or A.S.M.R. “Autonomous” conveyed that it was an internal sensation, while “sensory” was self-explanatory. “Meridian” served a triple purpose, suggesting a peak experience, orgasmic connotations, and the energy pathways of traditional Chinese medicine. “Response” clarified that it was not a constant state; it occurred in response to specific stimuli, like whispering, gum chewing, or tapping.
Though Allen admits she could have made the name shorter, it was still better than “brain-gasm.” She unveiled the new term on the SteadyHealth board by announcing the creation of the “ASMR Group” on Facebook. The message-board community migrated to the new group, and soon, membership spanned across six continents – a global community of ASMR enthusiasts. They started sharing links to videos specifically designed to induce ASMR, a new genre tailored for the purpose. These videos often featured anonymous women delivering soft-spoken voice-over narrations. The first of this type, titled “Whisper 1 – hello!” and posted in 2009, initially went unnoticed on YouTube due to its vague title. However, under the search-engine-friendly banner of ASMR, this genre provided a convenient and on-demand way to trigger the once-elusive sensation. As a result, a new wave of YouTube creators emerged, serving up ASMR content to the growing subset of the public who had come to identify with and experience the phenomenon.
Around the time Allen discovered SteadyHealth, there were approximately 12 whispering channels on YouTube; three years later, that number had more than tripled. The term “ASMR” gained further prominence with its hard-won Wikipedia page, solidifying the foundation for this emerging video genre. By 2015, the ASMR Group had become somewhat irrelevant, as the term’s influence transcended beyond its initial scope. Allen had not anticipated that her coined term would lead to the creation of an entirely new form of entertainment – something that may even extend beyond mere entertainment, shaped by the fortuitous convergence of algorithmic fate and the intricacies of the human brain.
Today, the ASMR phenomenon predominantly unfolds on YouTube, where countless creators, predominantly female, upload an estimated 500 new videos each day. During the course of researching this article, I spent at least 200 hours on the platform, observing women chewing gum, consuming octopus sashimi, simulating eye exams, flipping through books’ pages, and peeling dried glue off artificial ears. I even watched a teenage girl role-play as a 14th-century nun, treating me for the bubonic plague. Amidst the vast selection of content, I even encountered a two-hour recording of hair-dryer sounds.
In the ASMR community, trends evolve rapidly, fueled by innovation, corporate product-placement deals, and the intricate dance between humans and algorithms, which elevates the best new material to the forefront. Any trigger that garners a following is readily adopted and recreated – often copied by various channels for advertising revenue – until the next trigger takes its place. One month, cranial nerve exams dominate; the next month, creators are indulging in activities like shaving bars of soap, chewing raw honeycomb, or devouring buckets of KFC. The essence driving this continuous growth remains elusive, akin to the mysterious dark energy pushing our universe outward.
The vast internet has a peculiar way of bringing like-minded individuals together. On one hand, it serves as a unifying force for people with diverse interests, including those exploring alternative lifestyles, opposing oppressive regimes, or coping with rare medical conditions. Simultaneously, this connectivity can inadvertently gather cruel or misinformed groups, allowing them to share ideologies and propagate their harmful beliefs. Such a feature of the internet remains value-neutral at best; nonetheless, the ASMR phenomenon pushes the boundaries of this connectivity. Unlike other internet subcultures bonded by shared beliefs, the ASMR community is united by an indescribable sensation, marking the first time the internet has uncovered the existence of a new feeling.
Throughout history, thinkers from ancient Greece to modern philosophers have fixated on understanding the true nature of human senses. The elusive realm of subjectivity, often referred to as qualia – the irreducible stuff of consciousness, is difficult to isolate and study. Instances of new metaphysical sensations are exceedingly rare. An example is synesthesia, where individuals associate numbers with colors, but it was only in the 1980s that scientists confirmed this shared experience was accompanied by observable activity in the brain.
However, A.S.M.R. appears to have bypassed traditional scientific discovery, much like synesthesia, with its origins traced back to individual reports. Unlike synesthesia, cultural acceptance did not rely on brain imaging. The primary “proof” of A.S.M.R. emerges from people seeking the term and others producing videos tailored to these searches. While many YouTube users are convinced of the reality of this feeling, scientific research is still lagging far behind.
Professor Craig Richard of Shenandoah University in Virginia first encountered the term in 2013 while listening to a podcast. Initially skeptical, his interest piqued when the subject changed to the painter Bob Ross, a well-known A.S.M.R. trigger. Childhood memories of watching Ross paint landscapes on TV stirred a deeper connection. Fascinated, Richard searched for academic research on A.S.M.R., but at that time, only websites and forums surfaced, leading him to the Facebook group. He reached out to Allen and, together with a graduate student and community member, Karissa Burnett, they conducted an informal online survey, which has garnered over 25,000 voluntary responses to date. This initiative paved the way for ASMR University, an online archive that serves as a valuable resource for research on the subject. Despite the rapid growth of the ASMR community on YouTube, the scientific exploration of this intriguing sensation continues to lag behind.
Despite the growing interest in A.S.M.R., scientific progress has been sluggish. Securing funding for A.S.M.R. research remains a challenge, as the diverse range of A.S.M.R. triggers can generate “noisy” data, making it difficult to draw definitive conclusions. As of now, ASMR University has compiled a mere 10 peer-reviewed papers, with more than half of them published in author-pay journals. The most rigorous studies utilize functional magnetic resonance imaging (f.M.R.I.) to map blood flow activity in the brain while participants report experiencing the tingling sensations. These studies, albeit conducted on small sample sizes, have hinted at a potential link between A.S.M.R. and socially bonding “affiliative behaviors,” known to stimulate the release of feel-good hormones like oxytocin.
From an evolutionary biology perspective, Richard contemplates the significance of these outcomes. He proposes that the tingles of A.S.M.R. serve a purpose in reproduction and survival. He draws attention to triggers like grooming, whispering, and eye gazing, which closely resemble ways humans soothe infants. In adulthood, similar behaviors contribute to intimacy between mates. While this evolutionary hypothesis may hold merit, our current understanding still leaves us with more questions than answers: Why is it that only some people can experience A.S.M.R. if it indeed played a vital role in survival? And why has it only come to our attention now?
Given the rapid and expansive nature of new content creation, it appears unlikely that scientific research will ever fully catch up. Presently, women and girls take on the role of chief authorities on A.S.M.R., sitting alone at their computers, manipulating objects to captivate a faceless, ever-growing audience.
Around the time “Whisper 1 – hello!” started gaining momentum in Allen’s Facebook group, Gibi, now a renowned YouTube “A.S.M.R.tist,” was just a high school sophomore. As is common with many teenagers, Gibi struggled to fall asleep and turned to YouTube videos to calm her mind. Gradually, this habit led her down an unpredictable path guided by the infinite sidebar of recommended content. Makeup tutorials evolved into massage videos, ultimately leading her to discover A.S.M.R. From that moment on, Gibi watched A.S.M.R. videos every night. This fascination followed her to college, where A.S.M.R. videos became a form of white noise during her study sessions. At this point, A.S.M.R. had expanded its appeal beyond those who experienced the tingles, becoming a popular sleep aid, an alternative to guided meditation, and an online substitute for anxiety-relieving medications.
The A.S.M.R. community on YouTube began developing its own microstars, with creators adopting handles like Gentle Whispering ASMR and ASMRrequests. They produced videos featuring various triggers, such as crinkling paper, tapping nails on wooden bowls, dealing cards, brushing hair, and pouring milk into cereal bowls. Notably, creators like Heather Feather ASMR ventured beyond mere sound effects, crafting full-scale role-play scenes with meticulous attention to sound. Gibi, an avid fan of Heather’s work, found her videos captivating, invoking a sensation of her brain “swimming” in a pleasurable way. She would play these scenes on repeat, revisiting the segments that triggered the tingles.
By June 2016, many A.S.M.R.tists treated YouTube as a hobby, leading to varying production values across channels. Gibi envisioned creating a higher-quality channel with regular content releases, experimenting with new and creative triggers. During the summer before her senior year, she launched her own channel, Gibi ASMR. Within six months of graduation, her channel had grown to the point where it could sustain her as a full-time job, amassing around 1.8 million subscribers. When I first met Gibi in Los Angeles, she was at a Japanese discount store called Daiso, searching for items that could produce good, recordable sounds for her videos. That day, one of her role-play videos, “The ASMR Sleep Clinic | Tingle Experiment,” was trending globally on YouTube, indicating her widespread popularity.
Unlike conventional entertainment aiming to shock or delight, A.S.M.R. serves as a form of mind massage. Gibi’s primary goal is to relax her audience, even hoping that viewers fall asleep during her videos, as this indicates a compliment to her work. Sleeping viewers often leave videos running, benefiting her channel’s view length. Engaging with her content can be minimal, as straightforward entertainment takes a backseat to the sensation of the triggers. For instance, some of the most-requested content on Gibi’s channel revolves around the sound of fingers tapping on a bread-shaped piece of cork, affectionately referred to as the “toaster coaster.” Despite investing significant effort in elaborate role-plays, Gibi has observed that simpler videos focusing on tapping can generate millions of views. The constant search for new objects with intriguing sounds illustrates her commitment to maintaining fresh and captivating content for her audience.
Gibi is the LeBron James of tactile experiences, a professional at touching things. As she held a makeup brush, the firm grip of her finger pads hesitated to release the cellophane wrapper. When she ran her fingers over a microfiber towel, the rough callus against the soft terry cloth made me cringe. Gibi’s movements exuded the expressive flair of a former high school theater kid – which she is. Her presence exudes a captivating blend of confidence and humility, akin to a friend’s older sister.
Her success on YouTube can be attributed to the infusion of her personality into her videos. This emotional availability for her viewers fosters a wide range of attachments. The comments section under her videos is flooded with thousands of appreciative messages, praising the soothing sound of her voice and its ability to alleviate insomnia, anxiety, and P.T.S.D. However, this emotional connection can also lead to more troubling situations. Gibi recounted the story of one obsessive fan who believed she was speaking directly to him and bombarded her with tens of thousands of messages. She eventually had to involve law enforcement. Unfortunately, creepiness and harassment are common issues faced by young female creators in the A.S.M.R. community.
To safeguard her privacy, Gibi takes extreme precautions, refraining from sharing her last name, relationship status, or her exact location. Even when filming in public places like airports, she chooses backgrounds that don’t reveal her whereabouts. Such vigilance is essential to protect herself from overly curious fans.
Outside the store, Gibi displayed her purchases on the pavement – an eclectic assortment of items she intended to use in her videos. We engaged in conversation about human intimacy and the various means through which we seek connection. Often, we enjoy incidental forms of affirmation in our everyday activities, such as the attention we receive during a haircut or the comforting sounds of a podcast playing in the background. However, some desires or pleasures may be less understood by society, leading to labels like “freaks,” “kooks,” “eccentrics,” or even “perverts.”
A.S.M.R. merges the unidirectional social experience of podcasts with the goal-oriented nature typically found in porn.
Discussing the Ambiguity of Intimacy
In the realm of human relationships, there lies a vast gray area that we, as Americans, have struggled to define with sufficient language. What constitutes something sexual? Is it merely a back massage, receiving texts from a married man, or lying on a yoga studio floor with strangers? The boundaries can be elusive and often evoke questions about loneliness, passion, intimacy, connectedness, power dynamics, and more.
The world of A.S.M.R. finds itself entangled in this web of uncertainty, lacking nuanced terms to adequately describe the various shades of experience. Consequently, it often appears to be a peculiar mix of tingles, pleasure, and images of subservient women that one privately watches on a computer. In an era when every action is subject to scrutiny, it becomes inevitable to wonder who else is watching and why. Are those who experience A.S.M.R. merely repressed or peculiar individuals?
Craig Richard, a physiology professor, observes that many visuals in A.S.M.R. videos bear similarities to the aspects of healthy foreplay—gentle talking, light touches, gazing into each other’s eyes, expressing care—creating a sense of safety and connection. While not inherently sexual, A.S.M.R. might still be part of a complex that revolves around safety, caring, trust, and intimacy. Yet, questions persist. Why do some people feel the tingles while others do not? Why is A.S.M.R. only gaining attention now?
Intimacy, in its many forms, plays a pivotal role in human connections. However, defining the acceptable threshold of intimacy can be perplexing. We cherish interactions like getting our hair shampooed at a salon but might hesitate to admit that we find pleasure in an eye test or in making eye contact with a waitress. These affective norms, though counterintuitive, serve a purpose. Engaging in roles that require feigned loving attention can also lead to confusion about what constitutes authentic human comfort.
In A.S.M.R. videos, everyday activities are elevated, and these secondary pleasures take center stage. The usual priorities of an eye test shift, with whispered instructions and warm light gaining prominence. A.S.M.R. blends the one-way sociality of podcasts with the outcome-driven nature of porn, catering to an age marked by loneliness and disconnection. Nevertheless, the gender imbalance among performers raises suspicions. The viewing patterns might resemble porn consumption, but there could be more to it than mere horniness. Throughout history, women have been thrust into caregiving roles, and our brains may find solace in these gendered invocations of comfort. However, whether this is healthy or normal remains open to interpretation.
The challenge lies in the absence of concrete language to navigate these intricate emotional landscapes, especially when discussing A.S.M.R. Does it lean toward sexuality, or does it provide an alternative form of human connection and reassurance? As I delved into hours of A.S.M.R. videos, I felt calm at times, even slightly aroused, but the elusive tingles never graced me. In this mass phenomenon, renowned for alleviating loneliness, I found myself feeling isolated.
In a bid to experience A.S.M.R., I met Melinda Lauw, who provides one-on-one A.S.M.R. sessions through Whispers on Demand. The session involved a range of tactile triggers, creating an environment of comfort and intimacy. Though I may have felt a hint of the famed tingles, I pushed them away, restrained by societal norms that govern our pleasure-seeking behaviors. Intimacy can be transformative, yet it remains bound by the rules we impose upon ourselves, even when seeking comfort in unconventional ways.
As we navigate the complexities of human connection and explore the nuances of intimacy, A.S.M.R. remains an intriguing enigma—a manifestation of both emotional solace and potential discomfort. The boundaries it treads are hazy, and as we grapple with the conundrum of intimacy, one thing is clear: the desire for connection and affection knows no bounds.
