A friend once leant me her dog-eared copy of Ottessa Moshfegh’s My Year of Rest and Relaxation and said, “you’ll either hate her or see yourself in her.” I did both. Since then, I’ve fallen headfirst into the world of the so-called “sad girl” novels: books where the protagonists are adrift, emotionally numb, self-destructive, hyper-aware, and often deeply unlikeable.

From Cleopatra and Frankenstein to The Bell Jar, from Conversations with Friends to Luster, these novels have become staples on bookshelves.

The question is: why are we so drawn to stories about women quietly (or not so quietly) unravelling?

Release the chaos

University can be a strange endless marathon of emotional pressure. You’re expected to be ambitious but chilled, politically aware but not preachy, sociable but self-sufficient. “Sad girl” fiction cuts through that performance. These books give us narrators who are messy, contradictory, and often deeply unhappy — and aren’t at all sorry about it.

Reading them can feel like finally letting out a breath you didn’t realise you’d been holding. There’s something strangely comforting about seeing your worst thoughts written on a page. When a character admits to jealousy, apathy, obsession, or emotional detachment, it validates feelings we’re usually too embarrassed to confess.

It’s not that we want to spiral — it’s that we want to see the spiral named.

The allure of the unlikeable woman

For decades, female characters were expected to be charming. Even when flawed, they needed to be redeemable, nurturing, or morally improving. “Sad girl” novels reject that expectation. Their protagonists can be selfish, sexually reckless, cruel, passive, or numb.

That rejection feels radical. There’s power in watching a woman centre her own interiority (however bleak it might be). These novels insist that women’s unhappiness is worthy of observation, even when it isn’t neatly resolved. In a culture that still tell women how to feel, there’s something quietly rebellious about a heroine who refuses to be inspirational.

A mirror to society

It’s no coincidence that the boom in “sad girl” fiction has coincided with years marked by political instability, economic anxiety, climate dread, and post-pandemic disillusionment. Many of these novels are preoccupied with turmoil: unstable jobs, complicated relationships, rising rents, and the constant hum of uncertainty.

For students especially, this resonates. We’re hyper-aware of the cost-of-living crisis, the competitive job market, and the pressure to “build a personal brand.” The protagonists of these novels often drift through internships, creative industries, or urban flat shares, suspended between feeling too young but also running out of time. That ambiguity all feels painfully similar.

Aesthetic vs. Authenticity

Of course, the “sad girl” label has been romanticised; photos of aesthetic annotated pages with all different colours of highlighters, underlined passages about loneliness, bags printed with quotes about despair. There’s a risk that genuine explorations of depression and alienation become reduced to a ‘vibe.’

But to dismiss the genre as glorified misery misses the point. At their best, these novels aren’t romanticising sadness; they’re holding a mirror up to it.

Why does success feel hollow? Why do relationships feel transactional? Why are we so tired all the time?

The comfort of being understood

Ultimately, people read “sad girl” books for the same reason we read any fiction: to feel less alone. There’s comfort in recognising yourself in a character who doesn’t have everything figured out. Especially at university, where everyone else can seem effortlessly put-together, these stories remind us that confusion is universal.

Maybe we don’t read them because we’re sad. Maybe we read them because they’re honest. They allow us to be complicated without demanding they be cured by the final page. And in a world obsessed with self-optimisation and happy endings, that kind of honesty feels not just refreshing, but necessary.

So yes — they might leave you staring at the ceiling at 1am, questioning your life choices. But they also leave you feeling seen. And sometimes, that’s exactly what we’re looking for.

Image Credits: Ella Stone