Humans of New York Instagram Stats & Analytics

Humans of New York has 12.9M followers. Est. daily gain: - with an average of - posts/day. (Based on history)
Time Until	Date	Followers	Posts	Growth
Live	2025-09-08	12,858,721	5,811	—
Not enough data.

Date	Day	Followers	Δ	Posts	Δ
2025-09-07	Sun	12,858,721	-	5,811	-
Totals	-	-

Answer: New York City, one story at a time. Created by Brandon Stanton. Dear New York, featuring hundreds of unseen stories, coming in October. Preorder below

Answer: Humans of New York has 12,858,721 followers on Instagram.

Answer: Engagement rate of Humans of New York's Instagram Account is 0.84%.

Answer: Average likes are about 106,415 per Instagram post.

Answer: Average comments are about 2,033 per post.

Answer: Instagram Id of Humans of New York is @humansofny.

Answer: Worth of an Instagram post on Humans of New York’s profile is $500 USD - $9K USD.

Answer: Humans of New York discusses Photography, Storytelling, Social Documentary on their Instagram.Top captions from recent popular posts:

“When I entered Gaza the Israeli military had a rule: I was only allowed to bring in seven pounds of food. As I was weighing out protein bars, trying to get under the limit, I said to my husband: ‘How sinister is this?’ I’m a humanitarian aid worker. Why would there even be a limit on food? I’ve worked in many places with extreme hunger, but what’s so jarring in this context is how cruel it is, how deliberate. I was in Gaza for two months; there’s no way to describe the horror of what’s happening. And I say this as a pediatric ICU doctor who sees children die as part of my work. Among our own staff we have doctors and nurses who are trying to treat patients while hungry, exhausted. They’re living in tents. Some of them have lost fifteen, twenty members of their families. In the hospital there are kids maimed by airstrikes: missing arms, missing legs, third degree burns. Often there’s not enough pain medication. But the children are not screaming about the pain, they’re screaming: ‘I’m hungry! I’m hungry!” I hate to only focus on the kids, because nobody should be starving. But the kids, it just haunts you in a different way. When my two months were finished, I didn’t want to leave. It’s a feeling I haven’t experienced in nearly twenty years of humanitarian assignments. But I felt ashamed. Ashamed to leave my Palestinian colleagues, who were some of the most beautiful and compassionate people that I’ve ever met. I was ashamed as an American, as a human being, that we’ve been unable to stop something that is so clearly a genocide. I remember when our bus pulled out of the buffer zone. Out the window on one side I could see Rafah, which was nothing but rubble. On the other side was lush, green Israel. When we exited the gate, the first thing I saw was a group of Israeli soldiers, sitting at a table, eating lunch. I’ve never felt so nauseous seeing a table full of food.”
“I remember taking my final exam, getting stuck on an answer, and thinking: ‘Who cares, I’m about to die.’ I knew something was very wrong. Medical school is always tiring, but this was a different kind of tired. I was getting by on multiple cups of coffee, multiple energy drinks. Large lumps had begun to appear in my neck. After the exam I stumbled down the hall to the ER and the doctors told me that my organs were failing. It took eleven weeks to make a diagnosis: a rare disease called Castleman’s. But there was no cure. A priest read me my last rites. I said goodbye to my family and prepared to die. But a last-minute dose of chemotherapy saved my life. Over the next year I relapsed three times. Each one almost killed me. The last was the worst: I spent a month in the ICU, and it took seven different chemotherapies to bring me back. By then I’d reached the maximum dose of chemo a human can tolerate. The doctors told me I was out of options, and the next relapse would certainly kill me. I only had one hope. A tiny hope, but a hope. I had to cure the disease myself. It takes a billion dollars and ten years to create a new drug; I didn’t have the money or time. My only chance was to discover an existing drug that would work. I made spreadsheets of every similar disease and every drug used to treat it. I wrote over 2000 emails to every doctor who’d published a paper on Castleman’s. I started studying samples of my own blood, but I ran out of time. Another relapse put me back in the ICU; from my hospital bed I asked the doctor to cut out one of my lymph nodes. I took it to the lab and discovered a particular protein called mTOR that was sending my immune system into overdrive. And that’s when I knew. I knew from my research that a drug called Sirolimus inhibits mTOR. My doctor was hesitant to prescribe it; there was no research to support my theory. But he took a chance, and within days my symptoms began to disappear. I still take the pill every day, eleven years later. I was able to marry my wife and have two beautiful kids. And through my work I’ve been able to save thousands of lives, by repurposing fourteen different drugs to treat rare diseases.” dfajgenbaum
When I tried to interview Marwa, the internet in Gaza was so bad I couldn’t hear half of her words. She then sent me a written follow-up, which was so moving, and so beautifully written, that I’ve ditched the interview altogether and am including it here in full: “Israel bombed our house into a pile of rubble and dust. Everyone in it— my mother, my father, my four sisters, my brother, my baby niece— became a memory in the same instant. During the war, the home had become our lifeline. Comfort wasn’t always in words. It was in a shared cup of tea in the dark. It was my mother holding our hands, her presence a silent promise that we were not alone. It was my sisters distracting the children with stories. We would huddle together, our physical closeness a shield against the terrifying sounds outside. It’s probably a mercy that the house is now gone, because I don’t think my heart could bear to see the physical emptiness of the rooms where so much life once existed. It’s the ‘unimportant’ moments, the background noise of a living family, that I miss the most. I miss the sound of my father’s key in the door at the end of the day. I miss my mother’s hand on my forehead, checking for a fever that wasn’t there, just out of habit. I miss arguing with Nour about politics and then laughing about it two minutes later. I miss Mona’s quiet smile from across the room, a look that says: ‘I understand. I miss Ayat bursting into my room to show me a funny video. I miss the boys debating which one of them was the better gamer. Where all that beautiful noise used to be—there is nothing but profound silence. If I had one more moment with each of them, I would simply say: ‘Thank you.’ To my father: ‘Thank you for believing in me more than I ever believed in myself.’ To my mother: ‘Thank you for every silent sacrifice I was too young or too busy to notice.’ To my sisters and brothers: ‘Thank you for being the irreplaceable pieces of my childhood and my heart.’ And if I could sit all of them together one more time, the whole family, I would say to them: ‘I see you. I see everything you did for me, for us. And I am so incredibly grateful.”

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