Do influencers owe us relatability?

This whole topic started when I was chatting with a pal about whether or not we unfollow content creators once they get pregnant. Not in a “ew, how dare you have a baby” kind of way, but in a “this content isn’t for me” way.

The chat spiralled into a bigger one: when do we stop following influencers altogether? There’s the obvious “cancelled” influencers (which, last time I checked, the Paul brothers are still very gainfully employed and profitable), but what about those who’ve “made it”? They quit that day job, they buy that house, they start working with bigger brands… and suddenly they feel less “relatable.” Less like “our” internet friend and more like, well… an influencer.

For the purpose of this post, let me break down how I see the difference between an influencer and a content creator. To me, an influencer is someone who makes moves. They’re the ones swaying opinions, shaping trends, convincing you to try the latest thing, or straight up making you click the link in bio for shopping links. Their whole deal is literally influencing (I think we often forget that the word influence exists without the influencer.)

A content creator, on the other hand, is literally anyone who makes content. And I mean anyone. Even if your account is private, if you’re sharing original content, congrats, you’re a content creator. Differentiating the two was a game-changer for me, especially when a full-time content creator pal told me not to obsess over my own numbers. When brands hire me, it’s not because they expect me to single-handedly move units—they like my voice, my image, my editing style, or something about me specifically. Brands can always pay to boost content for the reach they want.

So why do people hate the full-time influencer? Well, frankly, because some of them do fucking suck. I’ve been in this space long enough to have met some truly shitty people. I’ve seen influencers roll into events with unapproved plus ones, shove past the public just to be the front of the line, and (my personal biggest ICK) film strangers without their consent. And, of course, the most obvious stereotype: the ones who are just in it for the free stuff. Those people exist, sure, but here’s the thing: why do we treat influencers like a monolith? Some of them are fucking horrible, yes, but it feels lazy (and honestly unfair) to lump every single person who makes content into that category.

I always compare being an influencer to being an actor. We’re not all Kate Winslet, cashing in Kate Winslet-type paycheques and having the luxury of being picky about what roles we take. Some of us are working actors. For a lot of people, this is a side hustle, a hobby, or simply a community they love being a part of. And yeah, sometimes you can make some money doing it.

Full transparency? I was a content creator for over four years before my first brand deal. My most profitable month in this space paid me over five figures, but since then I’ve also had months where I made zero dollars. There’s no steady ladder or guaranteed paycheck, it’s feast or famine, and I can’t predict which month is going to be which.

So why do some of us hate seeing our favourite content creators grow enough to make it their main hustle instead of a side hustle? A full-time content creator I know summed it up really well: “I think unless someone is exclusively posting day in the life of a corporate girlie content where having a job is integral to the content, I truly don’t care if someone has an external job or not. The way most influencer campaigns have such short timelines, it’s very, very difficult to balance another full-time job unless it’s also contract, self-managed, or you just take way less sponsored work.”

They also noted the difference between a life pivot and a content pivot. “People can follow whoever they want, but there’s a big difference between, for example, someone I follow having a child and then only posting mommy content, and someone having a child but continuing to post 80% of their typical content. If 80% of your content is staying the same, I don’t care how you’re paying your bills—I’m still following you.”

It goes without saying that misogyny plays a role here, this space is overwhelmingly female-dominated, and that colours how influencers are perceived. But it also feels like people want to cage something they love. Is the relatability rooted in struggle, in the hustle, in watching someone “make it” but not too much? And why don’t we see content creation as credible work?

As someone who juggles both being a content creator and a freelance writer, I can tell you the reactions I get are wildly different depending on which title I use. When I say I’m a writer, people nod approvingly with an unspoken belief that I am wildly underpaid. When I say I’m an influencer, the energy shifts. The thing is, the Venn diagram of those jobs overlaps more than most people realise. Both rely on me being personable (I’m a person with a lot of social anxiety and this one is tough for me), both mean my next paycheck could come from networking or attending events, and both have given me access to opportunities I wouldn’t have gotten otherwise. I get “free” stuff through both (though that’s a rant for another day, because it’s not free, it’s for editorial consideration). I set my own schedule in both. The overlap is wildly similar, but one gets taken seriously and the other gets eyerolls.

From what I can tell, the main difference comes down to perceived wealth. Saying I’m a freelance writer makes me sound scrappy, like I’m just getting by, hustling for every byline. Saying I’m an influencer? Suddenly I’m spoiled, lazy, and overpaid. And for what it’s worth: fuck you if you ever think that I, a woman of colour, child of immigrants, am being overpaid. Save that energy for the Kardashians and the Bezoses of the world.

Another part-time content creator put it this way: “I think it’s a wider issue of influencers who live wildly different lives than the average person, widely share their day-to-day (obviously), and come across very out of touch to their audiences that they end up needing to sell products or a lifestyle to. I also don’t doubt misogyny is part of the problem (it always is).”

And honestly, they’re right. One of the wildest parts about hating a content creator for actually earning some money is that you, as a follower, don’t even have to give them any. Supporting content is free.99. You follow, you like, you engage. If you want, you can buy something they recommend, but the majority of creators don’t make their income off you swiping your credit card. They make it through brand deals.

And that’s the part that blows my mind. People will sit on their phones for hours, scrolling and double-tapping, eating up free content, and then get mad when the person making it actually gets paid. Like… do you yell at the bar for charging you for tickets to see a band? No, you just pay up and show up or opt out. The only difference here is that on social media, you’re used to getting it for free, so the second someone secures a brand deal, suddenly it’s “ugh, they sold out.”

A friend of mine who works in PR nailed it: “Ding ding ding! It’s always misogyny. Like how do people think the content that fuels these sites gets made? People deserve to get paid for their work and it’s obviously a real job these days.”

And they’re right. Most of the time, you’re not paying for it, so why does it matter if they’re cashing a cheque from a brand? What’s not fair is punishing people (mostly women) for figuring out how to make money off the same platforms where you expect endless entertainment for nothing.

At the end of the day, it comes down to this: support people for the content they deliver, and unfollow what doesn’t align with you. Obviously. I’ve definitely unfollowed influencers who started out sharing beauty tutorials and somehow slid into posting “wellness content” that was actually thinly veiled conspiracy theories about oat milk (you know the type). That’s a hard fuck no for me. But someone making money from brand deals or shifting to full-time content creation? That doesn’t automatically make them less worthy of a follow.

As one full-time creator shared with me: “I think it depends on the content. When I think of lifestyle creators, I absolutely agree that their content becomes less relatable as they grow because their lifestyle tends to naturally inflate with their income. But if I’m following someone for restaurant recs or tech reviews, I don’t really care because their lifestyle isn’t a part of their content and I’m following them for their personality or the actual recommendations. Whether they do it full-time or not is kind of irrelevant.”

And another part-time creator pointed out the unfairness of expecting people to juggle both: “Sure, but I think there are plenty of large content creators who are still relatable—it doesn’t necessarily change who you are! Feels very icky to me.”

So maybe the solution is simpler than we make it. Follow who feels good. Unfollow who doesn’t. Don’t project your own hang-ups onto creators who are just trying to pay their bills, and don’t confuse “relatable” with “deserving.” They don’t owe you relatability any more than you owe them a like.

Support your faves (I love seeing my friends quit their job, TBH) and let’s stop pretending that liking free content makes you their boss.

If struggle porn is your thing, please know that this took me over 2 hours to write, I won’t make a dime off it, and I’m so use to writing for editors that I am certain that this is a clusterfuck of grammatical errors. I am going to shamlessly plug my own social media account because why the fuck not: @vickiduong