The Jaslie Fang Effect (n.) /ˈjas-lee fæŋ əˈfekt/ — A term coined by a friend to describe the phenomenon in which Jaslie Fang has an observable impact on those around her, making them more open, playful, and lively. More broadly, it refers to the social contagion of warmth and enthusiasm, proving that joy—like cynicism—can spread through human connection.
For much of my life, I lived behind a glass wall. I could see the world, hear its laughter, watch its colors shift in the light, but I never let myself step fully into it. I carried cynicism like a second skin, mistaking it for wisdom, maturity, and self-preservation. I convinced myself that if I anticipated disappointment, it would sting less when it arrived: that if I met kindness with skepticism, I’d never be taken for a fool. I thought cynicism made me smarter. It didn’t. It just made me lonelier.
At first, I didn’t notice it creeping into my life. It was in the way I shrugged off any excitement, afraid it would make me naive; it was in the way I hesitated before calling someone a friend, as if warmth was something to be earned, not freely given. Before I realized it, I started seeing it everywhere.
It was in the way people spoke, their words coated in irony, their laughter laced with detachment. Enthusiasm became embarrassing. Hope became childish. Kindness became performative. And sincerity—the rarest currency of all—became something to be mocked. We learned to treat each other like background characters, passing ships in an ocean of indifference. And we all started to drown in it.
I don’t know when exactly I changed. Maybe it was a slow unraveling, a quiet realization that cynicism wasn’t protecting me from the world—it was only keeping me from truly living in it. Maybe it was the small moments: the stranger who held the door open just a second longer, the friend who said, “I’m proud of you” and meant it, the way laughter could fill a room like sunlight and warm even the coldest corners of the world.
Or maybe it was the realization that joy, in all its unguarded, unfiltered honesty, was not something to be embarrassed by—but something to be fought for.
Something happens when you reject cynicism, when you choose to laugh loudly without fear of looking foolish, when you treat people as if they matter, not as if they’re just passing through your life, and when you embrace joy—not as an act of ignorance, but as an act of defiance.
Because joy is radical; it is a declaration that the world, despite its cruelty, is still worth loving; that people, despite their flaws, are still worth trusting; that life, despite its inevitable disappointments, is still worth showing up for.
Somewhere along the way, cynicism stopped being a personal shield and became a societal epidemic. It seeped into our humor, our media, and our relationships. We built entire online identities around the idea that to care is to be weak. We prided ourselves on our detachment, and on our ability to see the worst in things first.
It’s in the way we roll our eyes at optimism, in the way we poke fun at earnestness. It’s in the way we’ve convinced ourselves that sentimentality is embarrassing, that life is just one long series of letdowns, and that the smartest among us are the ones who expect nothing.
But here’s the thing: cynicism doesn’t make you more intelligent. It makes you more afraid.
When we convince ourselves that hope is naïve, we rob ourselves of the chance to dream. When we meet kindness with suspicion, we push away people who might have loved us. When we treat the world with indifference, we permit it to do the same to us.
Cynicism doesn’t shield us: it isolates us. It makes us harder to reach and harder to love. But we don’t have to live this way.
There is nothing rebellious about apathy. There is nothing revolutionary about detachment. If anything, the real act of resistance—the true rebellion—is choosing to care in a world that tells you not to.
Because caring is a risk. It requires vulnerability. It means showing up, even when there are no guarantees. It means investing in people, knowing they might leave. It means believing in something, even when the world tries to convince you it’s pointless.
I used to think that if I cared too much, I’d get hurt. And sometimes, I did. Sometimes, I still do.
But what’s the alternative? To spend a lifetime behind a glass wall, watching the world but never stepping into it? To dull my emotions so I never have to feel pain, even if it means I never feel joy either? That’s not a life. That’s a survival tactic.
I didn’t set out to change anyone. But at some point, I started noticing that when I laughed freely, people laughed with me. When I treated someone like a friend instead of a stranger, they softened. When I spoke with sincerity, people felt safe enough to do the same.
That’s The Jaslie Fang Effect. But it’s not mine alone. We all have the power to shape the energy around us, to create warmth in cold places, to turn moments of discomfort into moments of connection.
So here’s my challenge to you: the next time you feel the urge to roll your eyes, to dismiss something as embarrassing, to meet warmth with skepticism: pause, just for a second, and ask yourself why. Ask yourself what would happen if, instead of recoiling, you leaned in.
Choose to engage. Choose to care. Choose to make the world a little less cold, a little more open, a little more alive. Because if cynicism is a disease, then joy is the cure.
