In the past, identity was built through personal choices that left tangible marks—what books lined our shelves, what clothes we wore, what music we collected on vinyl or CD. Today, however, we increasingly rent these markers of selfhood through subscription services and brand ecosystems. We no longer buy music; we stream it. We don’t purchase a car to signal status; we lease one or subscribe to a mobility plan. Identity has become less about what we own and more about what services and brands we temporarily align ourselves with.
The rise of subscription culture has transformed consumption from permanent acquisition into fluid access. Spotify, Netflix, and even luxury fashion rental services like Rent the Runway offer us a rotating carousel of cultural and aesthetic choices. While this broadens accessibility, it also makes identity provisional. What we “like” today can vanish from the catalog tomorrow. In this way, the subscription model mirrors modern life: transient, flexible, but often unanchored.
Brands, keenly aware of this shift, now sell more than products—they sell lifestyles and identities. Apple doesn’t just provide devices; it markets a way of being sleek, creative, and aspirational. Peloton isn’t merely an exercise bike but a communal badge of self-discipline and exclusivity. In choosing to align with these brands, we signal to ourselves and others not only what we use but who we are—or who we wish to be.
The danger lies in mistaking these rented affiliations for genuine selfhood. Subscriptions give the illusion of abundance and control, but they are fragile. Cancel your Spotify Premium, and your meticulously curated playlists disappear. Switch from iPhone to Android, and suddenly your blue text bubbles, Facetime calls, and AirDrop convenience evaporate. The instability of rented identity means our sense of self is tethered to ongoing payments and corporate infrastructures.
This phenomenon is not new, of course. Historically, identity has always had external scaffolding—clothes, cars, neighborhoods, and hobbies shaped how we were perceived. The difference is that those markers were materially durable. A leather jacket could outlast decades. A personal library could endure generations. Now, digital subscriptions replace permanence with flux, and thus, our cultural “selves” are constantly renegotiated by the subscription terms.
There is also a subtle gendered dimension at play. Many subscription services—from curated clothing boxes to beauty bundles—target women, framing identity as a purchasable package delivered monthly to one’s door. While this promises empowerment through choice, it can also commodify self-expression, reducing identity to algorithmic curation. The rented self becomes not only provisional but also externally scripted.
Economically, the subscription shift reflects a desire for predictability. For companies, recurring revenue is gold. For consumers, monthly payments spread out costs and make luxury feel attainable. Yet this arrangement places our identities on layaway: you can “be” fashionable, fit, or cultured so long as your credit card stays active. Once payment stops, which isn't always easy, so too does the rented version of yourself.
Psychologically, this fluidity has a paradoxical effect. On one hand, it liberates us from the permanence of bad purchases and outdated styles. On the other, it creates anxiety, as our identities feel unstable and dependent on corporations’ changing catalogs. If HBO Max merges with Discovery+ and drops your favorite show, part of your cultural self disappears overnight. Identity becomes collateral damage in corporate reshuffling.
There are countercurrents, however. The resurgence of vinyl records, independent bookstores, and thrifted fashion suggests a craving for permanence and ownership. People want to hold on to something solid, a physical proof of their identity that can’t vanish with a billing cycle. These practices push back against the rented self, insisting that some identities are worth anchoring in the tangible.
The future of identity likely lies in a hybrid: part rented, part owned. We may stream music but still keep a handful of treasured vinyls. We might rotate through fashion rentals but hang on to one or two signature pieces. The key is cultivating self-awareness—recognizing when we are merely borrowing a brand’s costume versus embodying values that endure beyond payment portals.
Ultimately, the question is not whether subscriptions and brands shape identity—they already do. The question is whether we can maintain a sense of self that isn’t wholly dependent on corporate algorithms and auto-renewal fees. Renting identity is convenient, even seductive, but owning even fragments of who we are—our values, creations, and lasting choices—remains essential to being more than just a user profile in someone else’s database.