20Something: Henry

“I think I’m a himbo. I’m literally a himbo.”

Henry Claudius Smith is 6 feet, 4 inches tall, and has squeezed himself, cross-legged, into an armchair that I say is blue and he says is gray. His glasses are perched atop tousled brown hair, and he’s wearing a (slightly wrinkled) white graphic tee and green striped boxers. There were actual shorts in the mix at one point, but right as we sat down to record he had an incident involving a glass of red wine. The shorts are now drying on the bathroom counter. No attempt was made to replace them.

I arrived at his hotel room not long after he did – he’s in town for a work trip – and for the first 30 minutes I’m there he’s buzzing around the room, swearing over and over that he’s “almost ready to be in full Ellie mode, I promise!!” He jots some things down in his planner (“I have meetings all day tomorrow, I’m so mad.”), washes his face (“Do you pronounce this brand ‘O-see-uh’ or ‘O-say-uh?’”), inspects his hair in the mirror (“So we’re looking really handsome tonight!”). Anthony Rizzo follows him on Instagram. His Doordash order arrives. Winegate occurs. Finally, we settle in.

I have something to confess: I went into this interview unsure of how much much serious material I’d get out of him. We’ve known each other [read: been social media mutuals] for almost two years now, and our entire correspondence to date has been quippy, bantery texts and Instagram DMs. His TikToks, which are reaching a rapidly growing audience, are of a similarly lighthearted caliber. (If you have not had the pleasure of having a Henry video come across your FYP, I suggest you take a gander through his page: @HENRYHENRYHENRYHENRYHENR. Nudge your algorithms a little.) A scroll through the comment section on any one of his videos will yield several entries along the lines of: Is this a bit? Or, neeeeeed to know if this is his real personality.

But even from our sporadic online interactions, I could have already told you one thing: he’s markedly earnest and concerningly disarming. Like, to the point where, before even having met him in person, I’m calling him “Hen.” I have no business bestowing a nickname upon him. And yet. 

Henry started to blow up on TikTok last November. At present, his following sits at 180K, amassed in mere months. But before that, his page was dormant for over a year, sitting at around 4,000 followers. Before that, there was The Henry Show, OOTD (that’s “outfit of the day” for those who are not chronically online) videos in his signature helter-skelter style posted daily to a much smaller following, but beloved all the same. And before that, there was just Hen. 

As we transition from our pre-interview small talk to my official line of questioning, I realize quickly that I’ve met my match in the verbosity department: right off the bat, he gives me a 45-minute long, very detailed account of his life. He begins with the day he was born (“I was born on February 19th, 1997 in Huntington Hospital in Pasadena, California”), a fun fact about the hospital he was born at (“It’s a hospital that looks like a mansion, but it’s a hospital.”), and his parents’ professions (a professor at San Diego State and a high school Latin teacher turned criminal defense attorney). I’ll give you the abridged version:

Henry was raised in La Jolla, California, in a household that he describes as “very liberal and forward-thinking.” Education and the arts were sacred; he took ballet as a child, went to the symphony on the weekends, and the requisite for any sleepover was a Latin assignment. He grew up swimming and playing water polo (the latter would come to be a saving grace in his 20s), but above all else, he loved to socialize. Where the rest of his family found success in academia, Henry thrived around people. “A big part of my upbringing was me being the one person in the family that wasn’t necessarily like the rest.” This, he tells me, is important for me to know so that I can put the pieces together when he talks about his 20s.

He recalls being enthralled by social dynamics throughout high school and obsessed with the idea of being in a fraternity. To a young Henry, college was just another place to make friends. He set his sights on Indiana University, a decision that  came down to one very important factor: he could be roommates with his best friend, Park. But his time at IU was short and not-so-sweet. All of his attention went to fraternizing, none of it went to academics, and after two semesters he found himself dismissed from the school. “That was the first time in my life where… I think I got a dose of reality… Probably really the first and only time I’ve hit rock bottom in my life.” 

Luckily, he wasn’t down for long. His parents moved him home and put him back in community college, which he says he’s extremely grateful for. He picked up water polo again, got recruited to play for the D1 team at San José State University, and started to take academics more seriously.  He got glasses! Intent on becoming a couples’ therapist or a marriage counselor, he began studying psychology. 

“Why couples’ therapy?” I ask.

He tells me that from a young age, he’s been fascinated with love of all kinds: relationships and soulmates, platonic and romantic. I ask if he’s read “All About Love,” and when he says no, I tell him he needs to. This sends us down a bell hooks tangent, and then down another tangent about soulmates, and then another about how the Russian language has extra words for shades of green, which allows native speakers’ eyes to be better at perceiving different shades of green than English speakers, and another about love languages. Then he offers me more wine. 

As he pours, he reflects on the volatility of his college years: “Never once do they tell high school boys that it’s okay if you’re 17 and you’re not feeling ready to move to college and do well. That you can go to community college, and you will do so well there, and you can grow up emotionally and mentally, in all aspects of your life… I wish somebody had told me that.”

After graduating from years of uncertainty, Henry decided that psychology wasn’t the right career path for him. Instead, he landed a job in the public service sector, first as a mayoral intern in San José, and then as the Mayor’s environmental policy advisor. Given everything he’s told me so far, environmental policy seems out of left field. “Did you just learn that on the job?” I ask. Basically, yes. Mass consumption of information during his internship + learning on the job + his obvious people skills = Henry’s New Groove. It felt good to build momentum again, he tells me. Really good.

“More than anything, [my time working for the Mayor] taught me that if, in your life, you want to achieve forward-moving outcomes, you can’t…” He trails off, and I can tell he’s choosing his words carefully. “When it really comes down to it, it’s people who can find consensus with people who think differently than them, who will make the small steps forward to eventually get you to big steps and change and positive progress… You have to understand, fundamentally, that there will always be people who think differently than you, and they have valid reasons for thinking differently… You can’t force them to change and be like you, because then you’re part of the problem.”

I chime in: “If you try to force change by ostracizing another group, it’s only going to cause another set of issues.” He gives me an emphatic nod of agreement.

But the public service sector, while rewarding in many ways, is not without its downfalls. At the ripe old age of 25, Henry realized he was burnt out already. He decided to transition to the private sector, this time working in renewable energy. He doesn’t offer up much about his current position – privacy is a precious thing when you’re a budding social media star – but he says it suits him nicely. 

It dawns on me that sometime in the past thirty minutes, the bubbly, slightly chaotic man who opened the hotel room door for me has faded away, leaving a contemplative, more subdued one in his place. He’s not gone entirely – it’s more so as if the saturation has been turned down – but the Henry sitting across from me feels more deliberate, like he’s telling me these things because he really wants me to know them (then again, maybe it’s just because I asked). Whatever the case may be, any doubts I had of a serious conversation have dissipated.

So, readers, this brings us to the present: Henry has blown up on TikTok.

“You’re America’s sweetheart now. How does it feel?”

“It’s so strange,” he laughs. “So strange.” He first started posting TikToks during the summer of 2022. He’d just gotten out of a relationship, and was feeling “free, and, like, happy again.” Goofy, too, he adds. There wasn’t much thought that went into these videos – he’d set a phone up, welcome his audience to “The Henry Show,” run us through his outfit, and finish things off with a handstand. Rinse and repeat every day or so. Then he took a year-long break.

He tells me that his decision to start posting again was born not out of his own desire, but at the urging of some of his friends. They wanted free stuff. “It was entirely because I was getting pressured by the people in my life to do it again for their benefit. Which is so scary,” he adds. One day before work he posted a video jokingly comparing himself, with his black Dakine backpack, to Jacob Elordi, dubbed by the thirst monsters of the internet as the King of Bags. “That was the most likes I’d ever gotten on a video at the time. So that got me excited again.” (That video, posted on November 28th, 2023, is sitting at 283K views, and it’s far from being his most-viewed video now.) His videos quickly started to garner more and more attention. It was then that he realized he might be onto something, and things began to spiral.

I cut into his train of thought: “Do you think the excitement was coming from the external validation you were getting, or was it from the creative output?”

For a moment, silence. “I’ve never actually reflected on this,” he admits. “I think at the time… I felt pressure to be creative because my following was going up so high, or so fast. I felt pressured to, like, be perfect every step of the way. So in my mind, I wasn’t having fun… It was like a dance I was dancing… Fortunately, I was just being myself through all of it, and I wasn’t forcing myself to be somebody I’m not, which I’m very thankful for.”

He tells me that it’s still all happening so fast that he hasn’t truly taken a step back to internalize it, or to think about why it’s gotten to the point that it has. “It” being thousands of adoring fans, comment sections steeped in praise, new friends within the internet’s most coveted circles, invitations to influencer-studded events, PR gifting, and the list goes on. I’m relieved to discover that Henry still looks at things humbly (“It’s not that huge”). He seems incredulous about it all; several more times, he describes this experience as “so strange.”

There’s a reason why I asked this question, and it’s not to expose a rising star’s self-indulgence or hankering for clout. Henry doesn’t seem to possess either. I tell him that this is something I think about whenever I post a piece of writing. I’m constantly asking myself, constantly reassessing, whether the excitement I feel when I share my work is for the work itself, or for the reaction I might get, however meager. Do I simply want my writing to be out there for people to read, or do I want people to interact with it, comment on it, start a dialogue about it? I’m still not entirely sure. 

Neither is Henry. “That’s exactly how I feel.” He admits that he craves “being perceived” and external validation. He says it comes from a desire for support and affirmation, and it all roots back to his childhood, where his preference for socializing over academics set him apart from the rest of his family. Remember when he told me that was important? Therapy is in session! 

Waking up each day to notifications of thousands of new followers would be addicting to anyone living in our connection-crazed world. Feeling himself getting caught up in the numbers, he forced himself to take a step back and re-ground. He treats it more like a business endeavor now, rather than a source of external validation. He doesn’t check notifications as often, and he rarely responds to DMs (sorry ladies). “At first, that’s what I was totally absorbed by. Now… I don’t really get the same rush that I used to.” He’s still taking it in stride, he says. It’s refreshing to see someone who’s been served Gen Z’s dream on a platter remaining rooted in reality. 

* * * *

I had intended to ask how he plans on making a dent in a space that’s becoming increasingly oversaturated, but after spending the last hour with him, the answer is right in front of me, boxer-clad, legs crossed at the knee and bouncing, sipping wine out of a coffee mug as daintily as a grown man can: he’s truly authentic.

I told a few of my friends that I was interviewing Henry; I know he’s made the rounds on their TikTok FYPs in recent weeks. Each of them had the same question for me: is that his real personality? When I report back to them the morning after our interview, my answer is unequivocally, “Yes.” 

I tell him this. That’s sweet of me, he says, but he thinks there’s another factor to his popularity: over 90% of his followers are women. “I think I’m a himbo. I’m literally a himbo.” (Can confirm he is peak himbo, but I assure you it is in the best way.) And there’s more to his theory: “I think because the bar is so low for men… I can put up my phone and talk about things, [and] girls follow me because they’re like, ‘Oh my god, it’s a guy who can say a thought.’ So I’m fortunate that men suck.”

This reminds me of his earlier point about the need for young men to be exposed to narratives outside of the hegemonic norm. While I think there’s something to be said for men being held accountable for their own emotional development and growth, it’s worth acknowledging that society is set up in a way that isn’t always the most conducive to them taking the first step, especially if it’s outside of their operating norm. I pass the mic to Henry for input. 

“I think I have to start by saying… [While] I’m fortunate that the pieces were in place to educate me that it’s okay to be emotional, and be articulate in expressing those emotions… I have certainly, certainly, certainly, certainly been… I’ve been a boy.” Clutching his wine glass coffee mug, he gives me a few examples. They’re not great. He seems unabashed, but not in a way that lacks remorse. I sense the opposite, actually – he’s aware of the mistakes he’s made, but makes no attempt to excuse them with platitudes. He simply takes accountability and tries to do better the next time. “I’ve had moments of failure and let down where I think… It's more how I think I’ve internalized and handled and grown from those situations where I have been a stereotypical man that I think keeps me on the path of, in the end, trying to make myself a better person.” 

He admits that he falls prey to a recurring pattern: “I lovebomb!” I laugh at this – he’s so earnest in his admission. “I’m the most criminal love bomber there ever was.” He explains that this pattern applies to his friendships in addition to romantic relationships. He struggles to set boundaries and say no to people, which lands him in situations that he doesn’t realize are wrong for him until it’s too late. I suppose we all have our cross to bear. 

People assume that his newfound TikTok fame has opened the dating floodgates, but he says it’s driven him in the opposite direction. He seems hesitant to confess outright that the attention frustrates him at times, but it’s what he’s alluding to. He seems keenly dubious of people latching onto him while he’s on the up and up. “It’s hard to talk about with my friends who don’t have this stuff going on because you sound condescending… [but] it just really turns you off. So now that’s helping me refrain from jumping right back into my next shitty relationship… I feel like I’m slowing down, which is nice.”

“You seem pretty emotionally intelligent,” I tell him. I realize this can be a dangerous compliment to bestow upon a man in his 20s, so I add: “Then again, I’ve known you for all of an hour.” I ask if there was a part of his upbringing that led to what I’m picking up on, or if he thinks it’s just part of who he is intrinsically. He attributes his ability to look critically at his own behavior and course correct when necessary to “being raised in a house where I was educated.” To his fellow men he says, “Read a book!” 

“When you develop your brain, and when your parents help you develop your brain, it doesn’t even matter what their ideologies are–” He pauses to gather his thoughts. “Basically what my mom taught me is, you know, never fight physically, use your brain to talk things out, to discuss, use discourse, use your words…” He trails off again. I think I’ve stumped him. He never quite articulates the point he wants to make, but I can see it percolating in his mind. “I wish you could ask my mom these questions, because I’d love to hear what she would have to say about all of these things.” I tell him I’ll send him home with a list of questions.

He settles on this: “I’m a firm believer that everybody is capable of changing, and nobody is defined by who they are when they were younger, and that we can always change at any point in our life.” There’s a statement I can get behind!

* * * *

I watch as his brain meanders down some untrodden path. It’s well past midnight.

“There’s a lot of years in your 20s,” he remarks. 

“I know.” 

“How old are you?” 

“26.” 

“26… When do you turn 27?” 

“December.” 

“Saturn return,” he says warningly, giving me a sage nod. "I just got taught about Saturn return.”

Help! I am many things, but an astrology girly is not one of them. Apparently, when I turn 27, my Saturn will return to… something? Somewhere? “You can read about it,” he says matter-of-factly. “It’s actually so fascinating.” In Henry’s words, your late 20s are your second puberty. That checks out.

His second puberty must be going pretty well, though, because he tells me that he feels very in control and very adult. “The only part of my life that I don’t think I have found my stride, or felt happy or proud of, is my romantic life.” We begin to commiserate about how strange it is to be at your most single, while all of your friends are getting engaged and married. “I want to find comfort, but I don’t want that,” he declares. “I don’t want to be single, but that path is terrifying. I have no interest in that, either.” Relatable, Henry! I don’t think this is a bad thing, though. Our 20s are our time to be selfish, to prioritize ourselves. I feel far more fulfilled on my own than I would if all my energy were directed at finding a boyfriend. Then again, it’s entirely possible that I have it all wrong. I’ll let you guys know if I end up a spinster.

He requests a bathroom break. “Do you think I should follow Anthony Rizzo back on Instagram?” he shouts from the bathroom. “Definitely!” I shout back.

We wrap up not long after. It’s 1am. “Sorry that was only me talking. I feel awful.” I laugh away his apology, telling him not to worry, that’s exactly what I needed him to do. I start to pack up, and I call my Uber. He tells me to “wait here” until it arrives, and to text him when I’m home. Chivalry lives another day! I oblige on both counts, and leave his hotel smiling. His energy is contagious. 

Henry feels like a farmers market on a sunny day. One of those really colorful ones, where the produce is laid out in a full, vibrant array and the flower stalls are overflowing and there are throngs of people and dogs everywhere and it’s a little chaotic but more than that it’s joyful and carefree and the energy is palpable and infectious. He’s managed to bottle that in his TikToks, somehow. 

The next night, we’re standing outside a comedy venue where his friend Connor is performing. Henry is on the list, and I’m trying to snag a standby ticket so I can keep him company (I come up empty handed, he watches alone amidst a crowd of adoring fans). When I leave his side to stand in the ticketing line, I watch a small throng of women engulf him, and I hear his name a thousand times, flitting around the crowd like a hummingbird. You’re the talk of the town back here, I text him. You’re the people’s princess!

Oh lord what are they saying, he responds.

A few days later, I ask him if he ever got the wine stain out of his shorts. “It looks like it never even happened!” he texts back.