ELLE TAIWAN, ELLE 好奇心俱樂部－國民男友許光漢的ASMR 02, CC BY 3.0
It starts with a whisper, a tap, a rustle of paper or a gentle brushing sound—and for some, it leads to a tingling sensation that begins at the scalp and trickles down the spine like carbonated stillness. This is ASMR, short for Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response, a term coined in 2010 to describe the deeply relaxing, even euphoric, response many people experience when exposed to certain quiet, repetitive auditory or visual triggers. Think of it as the auditory equivalent of goosebumps—but sparked by soft-spoken words and crinkling candy wrappers rather than a sudden chill.
Despite the term's scientific-sounding name, ASMR has yet to be fully understood by researchers. While some studies suggest that ASMR may engage the brain’s reward system or mirror neurons, science has yet to reach consensus. What is certain is that it has spawned a global internet subculture complete with millions of YouTube videos, TikTok creators, and microphone setups sensitive enough to hear a single grain of salt fall. It’s a phenomenon that exists at the curious intersection of neurology, pop culture, and internet intimacy.
Emma L. Barratt, Nick J. Davis, Képernyőkép 2023-10-29 194159, CC BY-SA 4.0
The most common ASMR triggers include whispering, tapping, scratching, brushing, page-turning, and role-playing scenarios like gentle haircuts or medical exams. It’s not sexual, though many critics initially dismissed it as fetish-adjacent. Instead, ASMR content tends to be deliberately mundane, slow-paced, and designed to invoke comfort—like being fussed over by a gentle nurse or watched over by a librarian who just wants you to shhh. It’s oddly maternal, quietly hypnotic, and deeply human.
ASMR’s popularity exploded during the 2010s alongside growing awareness of self-care and mental wellness. For a generation raised on overstimulation, it offered something refreshingly quiet. Viewers turn to it for help with anxiety, insomnia, loneliness, or simply to decompress after a day of relentless screens and sharp sounds. Unlike traditional meditation, ASMR doesn’t demand silence or discipline—it just requires a pair of headphones and a willingness to listen.
What makes ASMR particularly compelling in our current digital culture is how unashamedly low-stakes and non-performative it is. The genre has room for everyone: from softly-spoken artists filming elaborate “cranial nerve exams” to amateur creators rubbing sponges on microphones in their bedrooms. It’s democratic, DIY, and often unpolished. And yet, the best ASMRtists earn millions of views—and in some cases, lucrative brand sponsorships and podcast deals.
Still, ASMR isn’t for everyone. Some people feel nothing, while others report intense discomfort, even repulsion. The unpredictability of who experiences ASMR and why remains one of its most fascinating (and frustrating) mysteries. It’s one of the few internet trends that can’t be forced or faked—if your brain doesn’t “tingle,” no amount of tapping will change that. Which only adds to its mythos.
Whether you find it soothing or strange, ASMR raises a bigger question about the sensory hunger we rarely acknowledge: What happens when the world gets too loud, too fast, too much? For millions, the answer is to plug in their earbuds and listen—not for advice, news, or distraction, but for the quiet click of calm. And in that hush, they rediscover the underrated power of attention itself.