By: Daiman Teer
Oh, bless the simpleton hearts of Tyler Henry’s drooling devotees, the so-called “Hollywood Medium” who we’ll affectionately dub “Temu-Macaulay Culkin”—a knockoff psychic with the charm of a Home Alone rerun and the authenticity of a dollar-store crystal ball.
Look, I’ll give Tyler Henry credit: the guy’s got a knack for making people believe he’s chatting with their late Aunt Edna. The self-proclaimed “Hollywood Medium” has built a career on his boyish charm and vague, tear-jerking “messages” from the other side.
For years, fans have eaten it up, hooked on the hope he’s the real deal. But his latest move—a $15-a-month membership club—feels like he’s swapped spiritual guidance for a straight-up money grab. And honestly? It’s hard to watch without wincing.
Let’s break it down. Tyler’s shtick is classic cold reading. He tosses out lines like, “I’m sensing a heavy chest… maybe your dad had a heart attack. Did a truck ever fall on him?” He then waits for the audience to fill in the blanks with misty-eyed nods. It’s not magic; it’s psychology, polished to a TV sheen.
This trick’s been around forever—think 19th-century mediums rapping tables to scam the grieving. Tyler’s just modernized it with Netflix specials and a smile that says, “Trust me, I’m wholesome.” And yeah, he’s likable. Even I can’t hate the guy—he’s polite, stays out of politics, and seems genuinely nice, which is why he’s dodged the skeptic’s pitchforks for so long.
Then there’s his boyfriend, a new addition named Clint. You’d expect this Tyler twinky to hook up with some fiery, larger-than-life partner to match Tyler’s spotlight—a tattooed bad boy, maybe, or at least someone with a pulse. We already knew from day one that there was no hope for a chick in Tyler’s tarot cards because — well — be serious.
Anyway, Instead, of a dangerous dope addict, we get a guy who’s… well, nice. I don’t mean nice in the sense that he’s a nice person, I mean nice in that there’s nothing worth noting. He’s a photographer because he has a camera. He has a guitar, calls himself a musician. You know the type. He probably writes songs about sunsets. He’s just there – a soft anchor — , just not what you’d expect next to a psychic superstar. It’s like casting a beige couch as the romantic lead.
But enough about Clint—that’s not why we’re here.
The real story is Tyler’s new “Collective,” a $15-a-month club where fans pay for virtual group readings, Q&As, and the chance at private sessions. Think of it as a subscription to recycled ghost stories, like signing up for a Zoom with Casper’s less interesting cousin.
It’s bold, I’ll give him that, but it’s also a gut punch to his fanbase.
Most of Tyler’s followers aren’t exactly swimming in cash—they’re regular folks buying into hope, not hedge fund managers. Studies show people are already burned out on subscriptions, with many ditching services after a few months if the value’s not there.
For $15, you’d expect more than warmed-over platitudes about “love from the other side.”
Here’s the kicker: Tyler’s fans might not stick around for this. The diehards will pay, sure, but the casual believers? They’ll balk when the credit card bill hits. It’s not just about the money—it’s the shift from “I’m here to help” to “pay me to pretend.” Tyler’s always walked a fine line, but this feels like he’s tripped over it.
He’s made millions from books, tours, and TV—fair play, everyone’s gotta eat. And yeah, his recent health struggles add some sympathy points. But charging fans to join a psychic fan club? That’s not connecting with spirits; that’s cashing in on trust.
I don’t dislike Tyler. He’s charming, seems sincere, and probably believes he’s helping. But this membership club might be the moment his fans start asking if the glow’s worth the cost. Maybe it’s time to trade the crystal ball for a reality check—because $15 a month for “messages” you could get from a fortune cookie? That’s a hustle even the ghosts might not buy.
