LinkedIn Premium: The New Love Language? (16th July 2025)

Written by: Adem Çalhanoğlu

Edited by: Thuth Htet San

My neighbour, who’s moving out soon, recently gave his girlfriend a birthday present that made my soul groan in a very 21st-century kind of way. A few pretty things, some absurd ones—a set of high-end make-up, a Labubu plush doll the size of a small child—and one thing that, to me, bordered on the dystopian: a one-year subscription to LinkedIn Premium.

You read that right. Not a spa voucher. Not concert tickets. Not a polaroid of the two of them framed in something cheap but lovingly decorated. No. A full year of knowing who viewed your profile and getting shoved up recruiters’ feeds.

Happy birthday, my love. Now go get scouted.

It’s easy to laugh. It is laughable. It feels like the set-up to a sketch about how capitalism has wormed its way into our affections. But the laughter catches in the throat when you realise how normal it actually is.

This is what romantic support looks like now. Helping someone polish their brand. Buying them a tool not to explore themselves, but to present a version of themselves more strategically. Love, in 2025, is knowing what keywords your partner should use in their “About” section. It’s knowing which industry they’re trying to break into—and funding their access to its digital gatekeepers.

And look, I’m not above work. I’m not some aloof ascetic who believes earning money is evil and everyone should grow sweet potatoes and write poetry on rocks. I’m a student. I plan to work. I’ll probably need LinkedIn one day too. But there’s something about watching that particular gift exchange—a romantic gesture rooted in employability—that unsettled me deeply.

Because I haven’t even entered corporate life yet, and already it feels fake. Performed. Sanitised. A theatre of hyper-efficiency and unspoken dread, dressed up in terms like “team culture” and “employee wellness” that mostly exist to soften the cold edges of the machine.

People tell me I’m too biased. That I’ve bought into the anti-corporate propaganda without actually living it. That I’ll change my tune when I’m earning a salary, when I can afford my rent, when I get a taste of so-called freedom.

But if the price of that freedom is the constant need to sell myself—not just in interviews, but in every post, every profile update, every algorithmic interaction—then I wonder if it’s freedom at all. Or just a more polite kind of captivity.

What gets me about LinkedIn isn’t the site itself. It’s the way it collapses identity into productivity. There is no room for mess, for play, for being in-between. You are either moving up or dropping off. You are either “open to work” or "celebrating three years at your current company." No one is ever lost. No one is ever uncertain. No one ever says, “I don’t know what I’m doing and I feel like shit.” Unless, of course, they turn it into a viral post with a motivational twist and an aesthetic headshot.

This is what we’re gifting each other now. Not rest. Not softness. Not even escape. We give each other tools to survive the grind. Because we’ve accepted the grind as inevitable and made optimisation the new form of affection.

I imagine her opening the gift, smiling politely, already mentally composing the LinkedIn post she might write: “Beyond grateful to my partner for believing in my career journey 💕 Here’s to new chapters, new goals, and being seen.”

But when did being seen become a feature, not a feeling?

There’s something quietly tragic about needing to pay to see who looks at you. About turning curiosity, admiration, or even envy into something monetised. Love is supposed to be the one place where you can stop performing. Where you can be seen without having to frame it. But now, even visibility is a product.

And maybe I sound bitter. Maybe I am. I’ve always felt slightly allergic to things that smell of curated success. There’s a weird friction between what I value—reflection, depth, contradiction—and what the professional world seems to reward—clarity, confidence, and the right colour scheme for your CV.

I don’t hate work. I want to work. I want to contribute, to create, to be part of something meaningful. But I don’t want my value as a human being to rise and fall with engagement metrics and recruiter interest. I don’t want to feel like a failing brand every time I don’t “network” or post a win.

And I certainly don’t want my birthday to remind me of all the things I haven’t yet achieved.

That’s the thing, really. A birthday is meant to be a pause. A breather. A little break from the pressure to “make something of yourself.” It’s a day when you are enough just for existing. And yet, here we are—gifting reminders of the grind. Celebrating with the same logic that exhausts us the rest of the year.

I don’t blame him. He probably thought it was thoughtful. Maybe it was. Maybe she asked for it. But even if it came from a good place, the symbolism lingers. When survival tools become tokens of love, it says something about the times we’re living in.

It says that the pressure to “be someone” has colonised every corner of life. That personal milestones now come with career milestones attached. That we no longer know how to separate support from strategy.

So yes, I laughed. I laughed when I saw the LinkedIn Premium card peeking out from a pile of gifts. I laughed at the absurdity of it all. But beneath the laughter, there was a quiet panic. A creeping sense that we’re all being groomed to be cogs with good lighting and a strong personal brand.

And I don’t know what scares me more: that it’s happening, or that we’re beginning to think it’s sweet.