If you've scrolled TikTok, ESPN, or your uncle's Facebook feed this week, you've probably tripped over the name Jackson Olson. And no, he's not a quarterback, a crypto bro, or the latest Bachelor villain—though the internet is currently treating him like all three at once. Here's the thing: nobody can fully agree on what actually happened, which is exactly why this story has metastasized across every platform faster than a gas station sushi burrito.
For the uninitiated (congrats on your peaceful existence), Jackson Olson is a 23-year-old former college baseball player from Minnesota who, depending on which algorithm you trust, is either: (a) missing, (b) hiding, (c) pulling the greatest influencer marketing stunt since someone faked a proposal at a Waffle House, or (d) all of the above and also possibly dating your cousin. The details are murky because—shocker—the primary sources are TikTok theories, a GoFundMe, and a guy named "Chad" who claims he saw Jackson at a Buc-ee's in Texas.
Let's recap the chaos. Last Tuesday, Jackson's family posted that he hadn't been heard from in 48 hours. Within six hours, the internet had him: kidnapped by a cult, living off-grid in Montana, recruited by the CIA, and/or starring in an upcoming Netflix docuseries nobody greenlit yet. A Twitter user with a blue check and zero credentials declared it "the next Gabby Petito situation," which is the kind of take you can only make from the safety of a bean bag chair. Meanwhile, a TikTok sleuth with 400 followers "debunked" everything using a blurry Ring camera still and a lot of confidence.
By Thursday, Jackson himself posted a video from what appeared to be a Chipotle. Just… eating a burrito bowl. Caption: "Chill lol." The internet, as you might expect, handled this with grace and dignity. People accused him of wasting police resources. Others demanded he apologize for "trauma bonding" them. One woman on Facebook wrote a 900-word essay comparing him to "the boy who cried wolf, but make it Gen Z." Ma'am, he ate a burrito. Relax.
The real kicker? The GoFundMe raised over $14,000. For what, exactly? Unclear. Jackson's cousin said it was for "search efforts," which apparently included a lot of posting and one guy driving around in a Honda Civic. When asked if the money would be returned, the family said they'd "pray on it." Ah yes, the classic "thoughts and prayers and Venmo" approach.
Now, let's address the elephant in the group chat: was this staged? Jackson's Instagram following went from 8,000 to 340,000 in five days. He's already got a Cameo link in his bio. His agent—because apparently he has an agent now—told a podcast that "Jackson is exploring opportunities." Translation: he's about to sell you a protein powder or a course on "personal branding." America loves nothing more than a mystery that ends with a merch drop.
Here's the uncomfortable truth: we did this. We shared the posts, we speculated in the comments, we made the memes. We turned a guy eating a burrito into a national emergency because we're bored, we're doomscrolling, and we haven't touched grass since 2019. Jackson Olson didn't break the internet. We broke it ourselves, then blamed him for the mess.
**Opinion:** Jackson Olson is either a mastermind or a lucky idiot, and honestly, the distinction stopped mattering the moment his GoFundMe hit five figures. If you donated, I have a bridge in Brooklyn to sell you—cash only, no refunds. And to the rest of us: maybe the real missing person was our collective critical thinking skills all along.