Two posts in one month! I have been feeling inspired lately, particularly on the heels of my 1 year anniversary on
. I can now proudly say I have “hundreds” of subscribers, which is a big accomplishment for me, so thank you for letting me into your inbox. I started out on Substack with my first article about how culture is getting over-optimized and therefore homogenized — something that now feels more relevant than ever.Today’s piece was inspired by some influencer drama which I SWEAR is not something I’m usually drawn to, but as a young Millennial who grew up watching beauty and lifestyle YouTubers, this particular scandal has me in a chokehold. It got me thinking about an ethical dilemma we have in internet culture — what do creators owe us?
The creator economy continues to grow, and with it, the influence that these creators have over our everyday lives. The intensification of parasocial relationships is deluding us further into thinking we have some sort of intimate connection with these people. By some estimates, 51% of Americans have been in parasocial relationships, though interestingly enough, only 16% will admit to it. More and more, it seems that followers feel as though they are owed something by the creators they follow — be that access, information, or intimate details about their lives.
Aspyn Ovard, an OG Youtuber, has amassed an enormous following over the years, parlaying her early beauty tutorial videos as a teenager into a full-blown family page with millions of followers. Now, divorce filings from her husband of 9 years have surfaced, driving her followers into a frenzy. The gossip Reddit thread r/aspynovardsnark has grown over 89% since the news first broke on April 1st. While it was recently announced that divorce proceedings had been paused, rampant speculation continues.
Ovard, who announced the birth of her third child on the day the divorce papers were filed, has yet to make any sort of comment. In fact, it seems any comments or questions about the topic are being removed from her posts. The sentiment from her followers is — you’ve put yourself online your entire adult life, we are owed an explanation.
For a sensitive topic like divorce — is that fair to demand? Or, for someone who has profited enormously off the commodification of their personal life, is sharing the bad along with the good just part of the job description? “If she really wanted true privacy she would stop posting altogether,” said one Redditor.
Still, there are many on the Reddit thread who have pushed back. “So many people think she owes them an explanation…that is absolutely delusional,” wrote one user. “The parasocialism on this page is INSANE,” remarked another.
What's more — what happens when (like most humans do) creators decide to evolve?
Body positivity influencer Dromne Davis gained a following through posts that criticized diet culture and built a career as a proud plus-sized model. Then, quite suddenly, she lost the weight. Her followers felt betrayed. The truth was, she was dealing with a long-standing eating disorder — something she had struggled with admitting to herself, let alone thousands of followers. “I’m scared of being judged or yelled at or letting people down,” Davis said in an interview with The New York Times. “Which is ironic, because I think my silence is letting people down more than me talking about it.”
Davis isn’t alone. In the age of Ozempic, many body positivity influencers who have lost weight are having to deal with a similar issue — a community rooted in an outdated identity that now feels duped. When it comes to a delicate subject like body image, the stakes are high.
There are parallels within the mental health space as well. Lexi Larson is well known for her TikToks discussing her struggles with anxiety and her favorite coping methods (often referred to on the platform as “gardening”). But several months ago, bolstered by her social media success, she decided to leave her corporate job that had long been the root of her mental health issues. Many of her followers were not so pleased. In a video addressing the commentary that she was “not relatable anymore”, Lexi duly points out “The problem was, I built a platform off of being f**ing miserable.”
“I think people are burnt out / feel trapped in their traditional 9-5, so it’s difficult to watch others escape it,” said one commenter on her video.
The criticism around the shift from side hustle to full time influencer is becoming more prevalent as the creator industry continues to grow. Like Larson, many creators are often met with push-back from their followers, feeling that their content is less relatable, authentic or resonant when they quit their jobs. Influencers, they’re just like us…until they’re not.
They’ve profited off our viewership and engagement, yes. But do they owe us their personal growth? Or their continued misery?
Maybe we all need to set more boundaries online. Which feels impossible, given the algorithmic imperative to share more and be exceedingly candid to increase engagement. “Being ‘vulnerable’ online and using your platform to ‘normalize’ things by divulging personal information somehow turned ‘transparency’ into something we unequivocally owe one another—despite the damage this can cause in reality. “ writes
for . The imperative to overshare online can become toxic to everyone involved — both to followers and the creators themselves.For creators, perhaps there needs to be an exercise around boundary setting with their followers if they want to avoid being in the spot that Ovard now finds herself. And for us everyday users, maybe we need to critically interrogate these “relationships” we’ve built online. Parasocial relationships can serve a purpose, but given the growing loneliness epidemic maybe they aren’t the relationships we should be prioritizing. Let’s not rely on creators for intimacy, connection and honesty. Let’s demand that from each other, and focus our energy on the symbiotic relationships that truly nourish us.