I’m Not Sorry About My Unhealthy Obsession with Justin Bieber

LOS ANGELES — The thing about loving Justin Bieber is that you don’t get to decide when it happens to you. One day, you’re a normal person, concerned with normal things. And then suddenly, you’re eight years old, sitting in a school auditorium, watching a group of middle school girls sing “Baby” at the talent show. Something shifts in your brain chemistry forever.

Before you know what’s happening, you’re begging to go to the My World tour in 2010, convinced you will simply die if you don’t see him flip his hair in person. When your mom tells you to calm down, you wonder if she’s ever felt anything in her entire life.

Years pass. The haircuts change. The scandals, the arrests, the romances—they pile up. He marries a superfan. You get a job. You tell yourself you’ve outgrown it. You take the posters off the wall.

Then one day, you’re scrolling TikTok and see a clip of him singing at an Indian billionaire’s wedding, and just like that—the ache returns. The conviction that no one understands you better than Justin Drew Bieber.

So no, I’m not sorry.

I was in second grade when I first heard his voice, and from that point on, he was everything. I was certain I would one day be Mrs. Bieber. I had a bracelet that said so.

I watched every Ellen interview. Memorized every lyric. Kept notifications on for every post. Somehow, I saw myself in him. His triumphs were mine. His lowest lows wrecked my entire week.

Every store trip meant hunting for merch. In fourth grade, I hit the jackpot: a cardboard cutout of him at Macy’s. I begged my mom for pictures beside it. It felt like meeting royalty.

But nothing compared to seeing him live. My first concert was the My World Tour, October 24, 2010. I was eight, decked out in a black shirt with Justin’s face, pink hearts everywhere. The screaming crowd. The hysteria. I swore the music touched my soul.

When he announced the Justice Tour in 2022, I snapped up floor seats for three West Coast dates. I made it to both LA shows.

But when he canceled Vegas? Heartbreak. It was Purpose Tour 2016 all over again. That one was canceled too. My front-row seats became dust. I tried not to cry. I told myself there were bigger problems. But I felt betrayed.

Still, my loyalty didn’t crack.

I even made a viral TikTok comparing myself at his concerts in 2008 and 2022. Proof of a devotion that never aged out.

But I started wondering: Why do people become this obsessed? I knew Justin didn’t know I existed. I knew he wouldn’t flinch if I sobbed in a sea of Beliebers. But it didn’t change what I felt—or how his faith deepened my own.

So I went looking for answers.

Dr. Paul Harrison, a psychologist at Deakin University, revealed fandom fills a real need. “Humans are wired to form attachments,” he explained. “And that includes figures we don’t know. Celebrity worship can be about identity, community, and personal aspiration.”

Music historian Jennifer Otter Bickerdike, author of Being Britney, told me via email that “[f]andom can offer meaning, identity, and connection in a moment where people feel lonelier than ever. It becomes a personalized way of coping, of belonging.”

Suddenly, it all made sense. As a celebrity journalist at PEOPLE, I now spend 45 hours a week immersed in this world. I’m one of the first to know where he is, what he’s wearing, whether he seems okay. It deepens the obsession. But it also sharpens my lens.

I know he hates the paparazzi. I know he dresses down to disappear. Reddit threads speculate constantly on his mental health. His “bad boy” era? The redemption arc? Carefully curated. And yet, none of it has made me love him less.

Then came the moment that cracked the fourth wall. In a Slack thread, a grad school classmate mentioned her children’s nanny used to be Justin’s personal assistant. In 2013.

“It was wild,” she said. “She went from wrangling toddlers to managing a global pop star.” The assistant treated him like a kid. Made sure he ate. Slept. “It was like being a road mom.”

According to her, Justin was “quiet and sweet,” but his team controlled everything. “His image was protected,” she said. “The bad-boy narrative, the comeback — it was all part of the plan.”

I couldn’t stop thinking about that. Maybe we don’t know Justin. Maybe we never did. But maybe that’s the point. The magic is in the illusion. The closeness we invent.

Now he’s nearly 31. He has a son, Jack Blues Bieber. (“That Should Be Me” playing softly in the background.) Rumors of a new album swirl.

And me? I’ve grown up too. I have a car note. Law school aspirations. But when I hear the opening bars of “One Less Lonely Girl,” I’m eight again, screaming lyrics like they’re sacred scripture.

People thought I’d grow out of it. They were wrong.

Ask me about Justin Drew Bieber, and I’ll tell you: born March 1, 1994, 12:56 a.m., St. Jude’s Hospital, London, Ontario. Room 266. 7 lbs 11 oz. Blood type AB+.

Do I know my celebrity crush?

Of course not.

And I’m not sorry.