DARINA ON TOP: From Almost Quitting to Creating One of Summer's Biggest Trends

Camille Roe S.
Jun 20
4 min read

Everyone loves an overnight success story; One video. One song. One trend. One moment that makes millions of people stop scrolling and ask, Who is she? For Darina, that moment arrived with an instinctive dance to Kylie Minogue's Can't Get You Out of My Head. What began as a playful piece of content quickly became one of the internet's defining trends of the summer. Thousands recreated it, the song found a new generation of listeners, and suddenly, her name was everywhere.

But virality has a way of flattening a story. It compresses years of uncertainty into a fifteen-second clip, making success look effortless; as if all it takes is the right song, the right movement, or the right algorithm. The truth, as Darina tells us, is much quieter. Long before people knew her name, she was preparing to walk away from social media altogether.

As a model, she had always believed platforms like Instagram and TikTok were something she had to do rather than somewhere she wanted to be. She posted because it was expected. She tried different formats, chased ideas that didn't feel like her, and slowly found herself caught in the exhausting cycle that so many creators know too well: creating without feeling connected to what you're creating.

"I was burning out all the time," she tells us. "I couldn't understand what I was supposed to do."

Eventually, she reached a decision that many people only fantasise about making. She gave herself one final month. Thirty days to create every day; not for the algorithm, not for validation, but simply to see whether there was still something worth discovering. If nothing happened, she would leave social media behind.

The first video worked.

Then another.

Within two months, she had built an audience of more than 300,000 followers on TikTok. Listening to Darina speak, it's tempting to describe the moment as luck. But the more we talk, the more it becomes clear that what changed wasn't the algorithm; it was her relationship with creativity. Instead of asking what people wanted to watch, she started asking herself what she genuinely wanted to make. That's a subtle difference, but perhaps it's the difference between content that performs and content that resonates.

Throughout our conversation, one idea returns again and again: instinct. If inspiration arrives in the morning, she wants to film that same afternoon. Waiting too long risks losing the emotion that made the idea exciting in the first place.

"I have to do it immediately," she says. "Idea, action, release."

It's a philosophy that feels increasingly rare in an online world obsessed with optimisation. While creators meticulously plan content calendars and analyse trends before pressing publish, Darina seems to trust something less measurable; the feeling. Perhaps that's why her videos carry a kind of cinematic intimacy. They don't feel manufactured; they feel remembered.

She speaks passionately about creating things by hand. Rearranging furniture to build the right scene. Using every lamp in her apartment to shape the lighting exactly as she imagines it. Choosing imperfection over convenience, even as artificial intelligence promises to make creativity easier than ever.

"When I look back at something I've created," she says, "I remember exactly how it was made. It's real."

Ironically, it's that very realism that often leaves people asking whether she's AI. She laughs at the contradiction.

"I just leave the comments," she says. "What can I say?"

The internet may know her as a content creator, but she doesn't speak like someone whose ambitions end with social media. In fact, social media almost feels incidental. When we ask where she sees herself in the future, her answer arrives without hesitation.

Movies.

Not modelling.

Not influencing.

But telling stories.

She lights up when she talks about directing; the collaborative energy of a film set, the conversations between cinematographers, actors, lighting technicians and directors, all working towards the same vision. Years ago, after creating a personal video inspired purely by imagination, an American band reached out and asked her to direct one of their official music videos. She had no formal directing experience. She simply said yes. That willingness to step into the unknown seems to define her entire journey.

But perhaps the deepest part of our conversation has nothing to do with creativity at all. When the war in Ukraine began, Darina left home and eventually rebuilt her life in Paris. For a year, she lived alone. At one point, she moved thirteen times in just four months, searching not only for somewhere to live but for a sense of stability that no city could immediately provide.

"I lost the spark in me," she admits.

It's a sentence she says quietly, almost in passing, yet it reframes everything that came before it.

The viral trend.

The audience.

The opportunities.

None of them were really about becoming famous. They were about finding that spark again. Towards the end of our conversation, Darina reflects on childhood; the certainty so many of us have when we're young, before practicality begins replacing imagination. She remembers wanting to sing, dance and perform from the age of four, only to slowly lose sight of that version of herself as expectations grew louder than intuition.

"I was afraid I was losing it," she says.

Maybe that's why her story feels so universal. Because beneath the millions of views is a question almost everyone has asked themselves at some point:

What if I stopped trying to become who everyone expects me to be and became who I always wanted to be instead?

By the time our conversation ends, the dance that introduced Darina to the world feels almost insignificant. The trend will eventually disappear, as every trend does. Another sound will replace it. Another creator will dominate our feeds.

But the reason Darina's story lingers has very little to do with the internet. It's about having the courage to give yourself one last chance. To trust your instincts when there are no guarantees. To create because you cannot imagine not creating. The internet may remember the dance, however we think it will remember the artist behind it even longer.