Dr. Alex cradles a woman鈥檚 face in his hands. He stands behind her, in a white T-shirt, his scruff covered in a face mask (an atypical look for him, even in a pandemic), the heel听of his palms fastened just below her ears. The woman sits, eyes closed, and admits she鈥檚 nervous. It鈥檚 her first time getting a chiropractic adjustment. Dr. Alex, casual, kind, tells her to relax. Then it happens all at once, in a single, swift motion: Dr. Alex twists the woman鈥檚 neck. It sounds like he鈥檚 stomped on bubble wrap.
She laughs. 鈥Wow.鈥
鈥淛ust like the videos?鈥
鈥淥h, my god. It feels different,鈥 she says. 鈥淏etter.鈥
I watch, hunched over my iPhone, my shoulders curved forward, my dowager鈥檚 hump growing more irreversible, my spine increasingly resembling the shape and fortitude of a balloon dog with every passing day. As I鈥檝e come to do since mid-2020, I scroll to the next video. And then the next. And then the next.
Dr. Alex is one of the big players of my pandemic-era internet obsession: Chirogram. Chirogram is a subsect of social media sites, including Instagram, YouTube, and TikTok, where chiropractors post videos (go with me here)听of听themselves performing spinal adjustments on patients. The doctors worth following听mic up听their patients鈥 backs, capturing that oh-so-satisfying crack-crack-crack听of each adjustment. Chirogram videos span anywhere from six seconds to 60 minutes听and range from detailed explainers to super-cut compilations.
I promise you I鈥檓 not the only sicko logged on to this realm听of the internet. Dr. Alex boasts 227,000 followers on Instagram听and 2.1听million on TikTok (totals that pale in comparison to 鈥,鈥听who has 3.4听million TikTok followers). , for example, is a 41-minute back-cracking compilation video听that has tallied听over 5.8听million views on YouTube. The hashtag #chiropractor has four听billion views on TikTok. Chirogram is, in other words, a thing.听
Each chiropractic internet persona has their own flair, their own favorite adjustments, their own bedside manner. (Though听by and large听it鈥檚 a mostly male, very bro-like听cohort.) Dr. Alex has a casual, flirtatious vibe听and specializes in what he calls 鈥渢he magic hug,鈥 where patients let their skulls hang into the crook of his biceps, and then鈥crack! 罢丑别谤别鈥檚 , an American expat in Sydney with a confusing transpacific accent, a gray Weimaraner,听and easygoing, best-friend vibes. is the down-to-business New Yorker: he makes basically no small talk with patients, apparently relying on the element of surprise to increase their neck rotation by 15 degrees each visit. Personally, I love 听who cracks ankles (something he calls a navicular bone HVLA adjustment? OK!).听 is more of a long-form guy; he straight-up records entire sessions with patients for YouTube, where he boasts 1.8 million subscribers. One chiro I follow adjusts baby spines, slowly, carefully, with basically no audible cracking.听And then听there鈥檚 ,听who gives back-relief tips to the tunes of Megan Thee Stallion. Chirogram has everything.
I should mention that I鈥檇 never actually been to a chiropractor prior to my descent into Chirogram. Honestly, the whole thing seemed a little scammy to me. And also: What if I go to get my neck adjusted and the doctor, I don鈥檛 know, accidentally paralyzes me? That fear isn鈥檛 really warranted, but it鈥檚 true that chiropractic sits somewhere between standard and alternative health care. Chiropractors aren鈥檛 medical doctors, but they鈥檙e not acupuncturists, either. (Chiropractors don鈥檛 go to med school, but they do become 鈥渃hiropractic doctors,鈥 thus the use of the title doctor.) This field of complementary care, which deals with manipulating the musculoskeletal system鈥攅specially the spine鈥攚as developed in the U.S. in the late 19th century. It鈥檚 over the past few decades, and many studies have affirmed chiropractic鈥檚 effectiveness in relieving lower-back pain, particularly in tandem with听modern medicine.
Some chiropractors today听create听viral content to promote their businesses鈥攁nd chiropractic care in general鈥攕ituating this trend at the bizarre American intersection of health care, capitalism, and social media. Dr. Sayegh (a.k.a. the King of Cracks) told me via听Instagram DM (where else?) that he started posting adjustments during the first COVID shutdowns of听2020听as a way to stay connected with followers while his offices were empty. (He posted his on April 6, 2020, and created the King of Cracks Instagram account about a month later.) The videos became a way, in the King鈥檚 words, to educate the public about chiropractic care听and to entertain听followers.
I鈥檓 a writer, so I spend most of my days looking at my laptop or a notebook, pandemic or no pandemic. But the past year has necessitated an increased amount of听screen time, even for me: more time contorting my body so I look slightly better on Zoom, more nights scrolling aimlessly through Instagram because there鈥檚 so little else to do. I was primed to fall into Chirogram, and I fell for it听hard.
First, there鈥檚 the ASMR of it all. For the uninitiated, 鈥攁utonomous sensory meridian response鈥攊s the soothing, tingling sensation many people get from listening to , like whispering and tapping and the crinkling of paper. Chiropractors say producing a loud crack听isn鈥檛 integral to achieving back relief, nor is it an indicator of an adjustment鈥檚 effectiveness. The crack is, however, integral to the virality of Chirogram. The phenomenon hinges on that satisfying, audible crunch of the body听and the ASMR response that many viewers (including me) get from it. I鈥檓 not big on other, more popular ASMR-inducing sounds. But there鈥檚 something about Chirogram that gets me, that generates a calming sensation鈥攅ven a sense of relief鈥攚hile watching others get their backs adjusted. Those听cracks听sound听so good that they also feel听good.
ASMR isn鈥檛 a sexual thing (for the most part)听and neither is Chirogram, but there鈥檚 certainly something pseudo erotic about the whole subgenre. Many, many patients call their adjustments 鈥渙rgasmic鈥 in videos. 鈥淒oes anyone else have a VIRGIN SPINE that you鈥檇 love to let me get my hands on?鈥 Dr. Cody asks in one caption.听One YouTube video, titled听鈥,鈥澨齭ounds particularly pornographic, but I promise听it鈥檚 just 11 minutes of a routine chiropractic appointment.
As a marketing strategy, Chirogram seems to work. The King of Cracks鈥 TikTok account has gained 2.4 million followers in less than a year, and Dr. Sayegh tells me his practice has gotten 鈥渕uch busier鈥 since he started posting adjustment videos. He鈥檚 not alone in having hyperenthusiastic followers. Posts on popular chiro accounts are littered with comments from users declaring, 鈥淚 NEED THIS!!!鈥 Random Instagram users threaten听to buy flights to Australia on nearly every one of Dr. Cody鈥檚 posts. Patients in videos (including one six-year-old in a Dr. Alex clip) often cite TikTok or Instagram as their means of discovering this new chiropractor, or for inspiring them to get their first-ever chiropractic adjustment. I mean, it worked on me.
After about three months, I鈥檇 watched so many chiropractors adjust so many joints on so many strangers that my body ached for adjustments of its own. First听I bought a laptop stand to bring my screen parallel to my face while working. Then听I realized I needed a Bluetooth keyboard to help unscrunch my shoulders. Then a听mouse, a mousepad, a听big blue exercise ball.听Then I asked my girlfriend to tell me to roll my shoulders back whenever she noticed me hunching听over. I started doing yoga鈥攁 lot of yoga. And finally, after watching so many Chirogram adjustments that my eyes nearly dried out, I bit the bullet and scheduled an appointment with a chiropractor. My insurance didn鈥檛 cover it, but no matter. I longed for听the relief I saw in those videos. I knew that the satisfaction of watching viral crack content was just a sliver of the relief I鈥檇 feel. It was like I had a song stuck in my head, and if I just listened to it, I鈥檇 be free of its grasp.
My chiropractor, Dr. Matt, had major Dr. Cody vibes, minus the Weimaraner. I explained that I鈥檇 experienced pain in my lower left back for years now, a hang-up from an old track injury, and that it often flared up after working out. He popped my midback and听twisted my lumbar spine鈥攖he whole dang thing,听just like I鈥檇 seen on Chirogram. Yet听the most cathartic release of the visit wasn鈥檛 when Dr. Matt cracked me like a glow stick. It happened at the top of the session, as he听laid a heating pad on my lower back. Glancing听at my car keys, which I鈥檇 tossed on a chair in the corner, Dr. Matt asked,听鈥淒o you like your Subaru?鈥
鈥淚 do,鈥 I said. 鈥淚t鈥檚 great. My girlfriend and I drove it cross-country this summer, to North Carolina and back.鈥
Several seconds passed, and I could see听Dr. Matt weighing听whether to make The Joke. I knew it was coming. I always know when it鈥檚 coming. 鈥淜ind of a clich茅, being a lesbian who drives a Subaru, eh?鈥 he said.
I laughed politely, like I鈥檇 never heard that observation before. But of course I had:听the main thing about being a lesbian who drives a Subaru is fielding jokes about being a lesbian who drives a Subaru. Still, in the middle of a pandemic, it felt so fucking good to be roasted by a gay听stranger for being a lesbian who drives a Subaru. It was like he was a friend鈥檚 friend at Akbar, half drunk and grasping for something easy to laugh over, treading water until his crush came back from the bathroom.
Appointments with people who work with bodies feel so magically, instantly intimate. Chiropractors fall into this category, as do masseuses, personal trainers, and physical therapists. It鈥檚 not just the feeling听of an unfamiliar hand on your body, but that the hand understands听why you walk and ache the way you do. It鈥檚 startling to meet someone for the first time, exchange a few words, and then have听them听read your body like a book. Such experts can make assumptions about our unique aches and听pains based on such little information: When I move your elbow like this, does your shoulder hurt? If I twist your hip like this, is it easier to lift your knee? So few people know the ins and outs of our bodies鈥攚e often don鈥檛 even know them ourselves鈥攖hat it鈥檚 easy to mistake this immediate knowledge for connection. But really, they鈥檙e just trained professionals who didn鈥檛 flunk organic chemistry and are paid to know听how human bodies work.
The thing I鈥檓 so drawn to in Chirogram isn鈥檛 the crunch of bones听but the casual intimacy between doctor and patient. These aren鈥檛 just videos of people getting their spines adjusted, but footage听of two people who don鈥檛 really know each other having a nice time together. God, it鈥檚 so satisfying to watch! Remember casual intimacy? Remember clicking with a friend of a friend at a party, or joking with someone in line for the bathroom, or seeing a friend鈥檚 full face from less than six feet away? In the past year, my social circle has dwindled. I have maybe, maybe two social engagements per week, all of which are outside, the vast majority ending by 9 P.M., and very rarely do they include anyone I鈥檝e never met. On the occasions I opt for in-store shopping instead of curbside pickup, masks make it hard to spark听natural chitchat with strangers in stores. All of these restrictions are necessary, minor inconveniences in the scheme of the past calendar year. But the midwesterner听in me misses talking to strangers. It isn鈥檛 musculoskeletal manipulation that I need, but feeling like I听know someone I鈥檝e听only just met. And also, maybe a deep-tissue massage.
I haven鈥檛 been back to Dr. Matt for a few months. (My last appointment was on my birthday; I got cracked as a treat.) Not because my spinal adjustments didn鈥檛 feel phenomenal, or because my lower-back pain has fully gone away, but because out-of-pocket chiropractic care ain鈥檛 cheap鈥攐n average, it鈥檒l run you around $65 per session.听I do, though, still regularly donate hours of my precious, one-time-only听life to Chirogram. Only听now听I鈥檓 begrudgingly aware that the relief I鈥檓 looking for isn鈥檛听going to come all at once, with a swift crack of the neck. It鈥檒l happen听more slowly, vaccination by vaccination, reopening by reopening. In the meantime, I鈥檒l keep doing yoga. And fine, I鈥檒l try to cut back on screen time.