I never thought I’d spend a Tuesday afternoon analyzing linen napkins and seashell arrangements, but here we are.
The coastal grandmother aesthetic—or “grandmillennial” as some insist on calling it, though that term feels like it’s trying too hard—emerged somewhere around 2022 when a TikTok creator named Lex Nicoleta posted videos romanticizing a specific kind of aspirational older-woman lifestyle. We’re talking Nancy Meyers movie vibes: oversized white shirts, woven baskets, farmers market bouquets that cost more than my monthly coffee budget, and this overwhelming sense of affluent calm that feels both deeply appealing and slightly exhausting to maintain. The trend exploded across social media platforms, racking up roughly 300 million views, give or take, and suddenly everyone under thirty was buying linen everything and pretending they’d always loved hydrangeas. It tapped into something particular—this longing for a slower, more intentional existence that somehow required very specific consumer goods. I’ve seen people describe it as “retirement core” which is possibly the most depressing term I’ve encountered this year, but also maybe the most honest? The aesthetic codes itself through pale blues, weathered whites, natural textures, and an almost aggressive commitment to appearing effortlessly put-together while doing absolutely nothing urgent.
Turns out, there’s actual psychological mechanisms at work here. Research on nostalgic consumption—yeah, that’s a real field—suggests we gravitate toward aesthetics that promise emotional security during uncertain times. The pandemic definately accelerated this; when everything felt chaotic, the fantasy of a beach house with good lighting and zero responsibilities became weirdly compelling. Dr. Krystine Batcho’s work on nostalgia at Le Moyne College shows how we often romanticize eras or lifestyles we never actually experienced, creating what she calls “anticipatory nostalgia.” Which explains why twenty-somethings are cosplaying retirement.
The Visual Grammar of Aspirational Aging and Why It Feels So Familiar Yet Unattainable
The aesthetic operates through very specific visual markers.
Neutral color palettes dominate—cream, sand, seafoam, that particular shade of blue-gray that paint companies have seventeen names for. Natural materials signal authenticity: rattan, jute, linen (always linen, wrinkled but not too wrinkled). Fresh flowers appear in every photo, preferably garden roses or peonies, arranged with studied casualness in ceramic vessels. The lighting is soft, golden-hour-ish, suggesting endless leisurely mornings. Food photography leans heavily on produce displays, crusty bread, wine in actual glassware instead of mugs. Everything suggests abundance without excess, comfort without clutter—a very particular kind of wealth that doesn’t announce itself through logos but through space, time, and access to farmer’s markets on weekday mornings. I used to think this was just about pretty pictures, but it’s actually encoding class signifiers pretty deliberately. The “grandmother” in question isn’t just any grandmother—she’s financially secure, healthy, probably white, living in a place with good natural light and proximity to both coastline and artisanal cheese shops.
Wait—maybe that’s too cynical.
There’s something genuinely appealing about the rejection of hustle culture embedded here, even if the aesthetic itself requires money and time most people don’t have. The trend pushes back against maximalism, against constant productivity, against the idea that youth is the only aspirational life stage. Several cultural critics have pointed out how rare it is to see older women presented as aspirational figures in mainstream media outside of “aging gracefully” narratives that are really just youth obsession in disguise. This feels different, or at least it tries to be—celebrating a life stage associated with having already achieved things, with being done striving, with permission to just exist beautifully without justification.
Why Younger Generations Are Romanticizing a Future They’ll Probably Never Afford
Honestly, the economics here are bleak when you look closely.
The median retirement savings for Americans under 35 is roughly $18,000 according to recent Federal Reserve data, while the coastal grandmother aesthetic implicitly requires home ownership in desirable locations, discretionary income for non-essential purchases, and the kind of financial security that lets you prioritize aesthetics over function. It’s aspiration built on an increasingly impossible foundation. I guess it makes sense that a generation facing climate anxiety, housing crises, and student debt would romanticize a fantasy future where those problems have somehow resolved themselves and you can focus on whether your linen pants match your market tote. The trend functions as a kind of escapism, but it’s escapism that requires purchasing things, which is very convenient for the brands that have absolutely capitalized on this. Jenni Kayne, Eileen Fisher, Reformation—they’ve all leaned into grandmillennial marketing, selling $200 napkins and $400 “simple” dresses. The aesthetic has been thoroughly monetized, which maybe undermines its supposed rejection of consumer culture, but that contradiction is part of the weird appeal. We know it’s a performance, we know it’s unattainable for most people, and we engage with it anyway because the fantasy feels better than the reality we’re actually facing.
The Uncomfortable Truth About Who Gets to Age Gracefully in Our Visual Imagination
Here’s the thing nobody wants to address directly: the coastal grandmother is almost always white.
The aesthetic draws heavily from New England WASP culture, Hamptons imagery, and a very specific strain of understated European-American wealth signaling. When fashion and lifestyle publications feature this trend, the women exemplifying it—Ina Garten, Diane Keaton in Something’s Gotta Give, even the TikTok moodboards—recieve very little ethnic or economic diversity. This isn’t accidental. The “grandmother” being romanticized is someone with generational wealth, someone whose aging process has been cushioned by resources, someone whose relationship to leisure and beauty has never been complicated by systemic barriers. There’s a reason you don’t see working-class grandmothers or grandmothers of color centered in these aesthetic moodboards, even though their actual lives might embody many of the values the trend claims to celebrate—resourcefulness, connection to food and craft, intergenerational wisdom. The visual language of coastal grandmother specifically codes for a kind of privileged white femininity that has always had access to spaces of rest and beauty. I’ve seen some creators try to expand the aesthetic, to make it more inclusive, but it keeps snapping back to its narrow origins because those origins are kind of the point. The appeal is partly about accessing a specific kind of social position, not just an aesthetic style. That’s uncomfortable to acknowledge, but it’s there in every carefully styled tablescape and breezy linen outfit—a very particular vision of who gets to age gracefully, who gets to be aspirational, whose grandmother is worth romanticizing.
