A photo of a 10-year-old girl in a neon pink coat, braided magenta hair, and a proud grin flooded the internet in 2017. The star of the show wasn’t the magenta pig-tails (though it should’ve been); rather, it was the sign she was holding that read, “I’m the scary transgender person the media warned you about”. 

The girl in the photo is Rebekah Bruesehoff and is now a second-year at Dartmouth. She quickly rose to stardom after going viral at a Jersey City rally held to protest the federal administration rescinding the guidance for transgender students in schools. Teen Vogue, USA Today, Good Morning America, Good Morning Britain, and so many more outlets jumped at the chance to speak with her about youth activism. Now with 35,000 followers on Instagram and two books behind her, Bruesehoff continues to utilize social media platforms to mobilize movements oscillating around trans-justice education, gender-affirming care, and transgender sports policy. 

Gen Z has followed a similar trajectory when conducting activism within the past decade. It is clear that the proliferation of social media apps has given this generation a louder voice than ever before—and if not a louder voice, then a more consistent one at the least. No Kings Day, ICE protests, Pride rallies, and numerous other movements have been generously bolstered by the repost button or comment sections of social media posts. Despite the frequency and speed at which modern-day protests are now organized, critics argue that online activism leads mostly to burnout and stagnation; in turn, serving as a sort of pseudo-activism rather than as a vehicle for achieving real change. 

“Slacktivism,” or “clicktivism,” is the term critics reach for. It describes low-effort actions taken in support of a cause, usually online, that give the participant a sense of contribution without requiring meaningful time, risk, or engagement: signing a petition, reposting someone else’s infographic, swapping a profile picture.

The clearest cautionary tale is the black square, posted by millions in solidarity with Black Lives Matter in the summer of 2020. Stakeholders within the movement later said the trend did more harm than good, clogging the very information channels organizers relied on at a critical moment. Beyond the optics of solidarity, the black square substituted visibility for utility. A feed saturated with identical black tiles didn’t translate into bail funds raised, policy rewritten, or votes cast. It signaled allegiance, then went quiet.

But is “passive” even the right word for what’s happening here? A single repost may ask little of an individual, but multiplied across millions of users, it has the capability to mobilize entire audiences and synchronize attention across time zones. In an interview with the Stanford Political Review last month, young activist Rebekah Bruesehoff said that she disagrees with the fact that online activism can be considered “slacking”.  

“Activism online can be really effective. I also think it is really important for us to realize the places from which these activists are coming from,” she said in the interview. “Not everyone has the resources to actually participate in physical activism…and if it’s going out into the streets and protesting, that is not necessarily feasible for everyone.” 

As an activist for transgender rights in an increasingly hostile political arena, Rebekah adds, “Where I come from with LGBTQ+ activism, if a trans individual were to go out into the world and speak their opinion to advocate for trans rights…they would then become a target.” 

From this vantage point, social media doesn’t merely supplement activism. Clearly, the internet sustains activism by consistently keeping momentum alive for people who can’t safely or financially show up on the ground. Does that mean rallies are being replaced by reposts? Bruesehoff doesn’t think so, and she points to a case in point: the No Kings Day protests, which began in 2025 and have carried into 2026 with sustained, massive turnout. “They all started via TikTok and via Instagram,” she said, “and now it seems like they happen all the time.”

Gen Z’s redefined activism does not replace rallies with reposts; in fact, mobilization for traditional modes of activism are actively becoming streamlined and broadcasted at revolutionary speeds. Gen Z is, in many ways, re-drawing the bounds of activism and giving new meaning to the practice. Arguably, the nucleus of activism has always been highlighting injustices and fostering sentiments of unity or togetherness, which hasn’t changed. Only the medium delivering that togetherness has. 

When asked about what she wishes Gen Z could achieve in the near future, Bruesehoff didn’t hesitate.  “I wish that it didn’t have to be seen as brave to be myself authentically and with joy. But also I wish that Gen Z advocates didn’t have to fight for their rights every day.” When prompted further, she added, “Of course that is sort of my wish, but I also think it is really powerful that we’re doing that. We should live in a world where we are all celebrated because of our uniqueness and not in spite of it.”

Wishing the fight weren’t necessary and finding power in the fight itself is what seems to tell the story of this generation’s activism. Gen Z didn’t choose the terrain of Instagram stories and For You pages, but it did inherit a political climate hostile enough to make visibility itself an act of resistance. 

A 10-year-old holding a sign at a Jersey City protest went from a local news footnote to a national conversation essentially overnight. That’s not slacktivism, that’s the movement finding a faster way forward.