Mathilda Djerf: When a Brand Becomes a Person

I am dreaming of a Scandinavian summer- a summer where I wake up in my little cottage on the southern coast of Sweden, wrapped in Djerf Avenue from head to toe. A yellow robe adorned with orange papayas, pink cherries, blueberries, and petite wildflowers. Waking up from a Djerf Avenue nap in my Djerf Avenue sleepwear and Djerf Avenue lingerie. My tall, handsome high school sweetheart is by my side, and my 80s-styled hair has more volume than Sabrina Carpenter’s. I am dreaming of that perfect Scandinavian summer- a life that looks flawless on the surface.

But dreams have a way of unraveling when reality sets in. Mathilda Djerf, the CEO and founder of the popular fashion brand Djerf Avenue, known for her effortless beauty and slow living lifestyle, is now at the center of a controversy that shatters my Scandinavian dream. In recent weeks, she has faced backlash after being accused of bullying, body shaming, and favoring certain employees. The Swedish influencer, model, and entrepreneur, who once had 3 million followers on Instagram, has now dropped to 2.8 million. That is 200,000 people who decided they no longer wanted to be part of her world anymore. Sure, unfollowing is easy when all it takes is the click of a button. What is more challenging for me to understand is why cancel culture feels so complicated in Mathilda Djerf’s situation. This essay will explore how her identity is inseparable from her brand, making the backlash against her fashion label one of the most personal I have ever seen.

Canceling Djerf Avenue feels arguably personal because it is not just a brand- it is also the name, essence, and identity of a woman who is just as human as the rest of us. Mathilda Djerf has decided to not play her role as a businesswoman hidden behind a corporate structure but as the product herself. This is what makes the backlash against her fashion brand fundamentally different from others. Back in 2018, when H&M sparked a major scandal by releasing an ad featuring a black child wearing a hoodie that read “Coolest Monkey in the Jungle,” no one really cared who Helena Helmersson, former CEO, was. Her company took a hit, but she remained with no bruises. Comparing this to Djerf and her brand, the lines are blurred. In essence, buying Djerf Avenue is not just about buying trendy fabric; it is about buying into her. 

The point of my essay is not to defend the bad behavior of Djerf by any means- in fact, I disagree entirely with many of her choices. However, it cannot be ignored that the backlash against her is intertwined with the very thing that made her beloved in the first place: her relatability. Mathilda Djerf built her empire on a sense of intimacy by inviting us into her daily life. We watched her make breakfast in the mornings, debate what coat to wear, and fell in love with her fluffy little dog. Djerf was a master at making her followers feel like they were part of her dreamy world- as if they too could wake up in a sunlit cottage on the southern coast of Sweden. But when speculation and bad rumors cracked the illusion, so did the trust. We began judging her the same way she allegedly judged her employees, mirroring the very behavior we once condemned.

Djerf’s situation has become a toxic cycle between her and her once-loyal followers, caught in the familiar push and pull of a love-hate relationship. We see it everywhere- in the shoes we swear we will stop wearing but never do, in the brutally honest words of our moms, in the friend who gets us into the best clubs but disappears when the bill arrives, and, of course, in real relationships. The ones built on trust, communication, and consistency. So when Mathilda Djerf fell from grace, it was not just disappointing; it felt like a personal heartbreak.

Matilda Djerf’s controversy shows just how blurred the line between her and her brand truly is. Looking back, Djerf Avenue was never just about the clothes; it was about the dream she sold, the lifestyle she embodied, and the trust she built with her followers. When the trust was broken, the reaction felt personal, as if the perfect Scandinavian summer had never really existed. But perhaps this situation is a reminder that no dream, no influencer, and no brand is ever as flawless as it seems. Mathilda Djerf may have built her empire on authenticity, but she is still flawed, complex, and human. As I try to make sense of where cancel culture takes place in Mathilda Djerf’s situation, maybe the question is not whether she deserves to be canceled but rather what it means when we expect perfection from those who were never meant to be perfect in the first place.