I can’t be the only one who finds it strange that we’ve become a culture where our lives are open books for anyone with Wi-Fi, our art is trimmed down into quick, consumable bites, and our every move feels like a performance for strangers to scroll past. Yet here we are, in an era where to “make it” as a creative, you’re expected to play the part of a reality star: share your life, curate your storyline, and package yourself into a persona that’s entertaining, commodifiable, and easy to consume.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about the connections between our society’s obsession with reality TV and celebrity culture—and how those obsessions have trickled down into the way we create (and consume) content online.

Reality television doesn’t just entertain us; it rewires us. It teaches us to value stardom over specialty, spectacle over substance. And now that same playbook runs the influencer economy, pulling small brands, micro businesses, makers, activists, and artists into a game many of us never wanted to play. When the most popular and well-known faces in pop culture dominate the blueprint for how we “should” create and share online, of course, it trickles down to small brands and businesses. In the social media arena, you’re expected to be the product. And if you’re not careful, you can lose the very thing that made you start your work in the first place.

The Reality TV to Influencer Pipeline

I’ll be honest right out of the gate: I love a good reality TV show. I’m not embarrassed to admit it. I find it ridiculous, sometimes cringe-worthy, but also a weirdly satisfying break from, well, actual reality. Still, I’m also fully aware that reality TV sets toxic social standards, giving us a template for “visibility” in the digital age that most of us don’t align with.

It’s normalized constant self-disclosure, drama-as-engagement, and (often performative) entertainment as a kind of social currency. It’s built the idea that a “personal storyline” can be just as valuable, if not more, than actual work or talent. And if we’re being honest, most of us would probably agree: if it weren’t encouraged, we’d never make another dancing or lip-syncing reel again. But here we are, in a culture where it’s no longer enough to be great at what you do or deeply driven by what you believe in—you’re expected to prove yourself in the trendiest, most “pop culture–friendly” way possible.

As social media exploded, this template was recycled into the influencer economy. Creators and brands began building followings not just through their craft, but through the performance of their lives. We’re not just selling products or art anymore; we’re selling access. The persona has become just as important, sometimes even more important—than the work itself.

And here’s the kicker: most people teaching social media marketing today are upholding the very templates created by celebrities and influencers, convincing small brands they have to play by those same rules to succeed. Don’t believe it? Start paying attention: compare the tactics of celebrities and influencers to the “strategies” being taught by top social media coaches. The overlap isn’t an accident.

The Performance Trap for Creatives

For creatives, the unspoken job description now comes with a side of performance:

Be constantly visible. Always on. Always available. If you’re not visible, you don’t matter.
Share not just your work, but the behind-the-scenes of your life. Be an open book.
Make content that’s quick, catchy, and algorithm-approved, even if it means sacrificing your craft.

Most of us didn’t get into our work for this. We started making, designing, or advocating because we cared about something deeply. But now, to survive online, we’re pushed to package ourselves for consumption: our relationships, our vulnerabilities, even our “authentic” moments.

This might sound familiar if you’ve ever caught yourself thinking:

I should share this story, even though it feels too personal, because it might “connect” better.
I don’t have time to create the work I love because I’m too busy making content about my work.
Everyone is doing this trend right now and going viral, so maybe I should too.

What once felt like a joyful outlet for expression can slowly start to feel like a stage you can’t step off.

What Has Playing the Game Cost You?

At first, it just feels like part of the job: posting regularly, staying “engaged,” keeping up with trends. But over time, cracks start to show. You feel the exhaustion creeping in, not just creatively, but physically. You burn out from the constant need to “show up.” You notice how much of your mental space is taken up by worrying about the algorithm, and how your joy in making things is slowly replaced by the pressure to make content about making things.

Then there’s the stuff nobody warns you about: late-night DMs that cross boundaries, strangers commenting as if they know you, that unsettling feeling of being watched by people you’ve never met. Public and private life begin to blur in ways that feel impossible to untangle.

And on a bigger scale, it’s not just about you. Every post, every scroll, every viral trend reinforces the idea that worth is measured in numbers, that competition is the default, that we’re all chasing scarcity instead of abundance. This culture runs on extracting our attention and labor, without giving anything back.

The hardest truth? Most of us know this system is harmful… and yet we keep feeding it. Every login, every tap, every share is another brick in the wall of a culture we claim to want to dismantle.

At some point, you have to ask: Is this really how I want to spend my creative energy? That’s the question I’ve been sitting with… and it’s led me to take a long, hard look at my relationship with Instagram.

My Personal Reckoning with Instagram

Instagram used to feel like my creative playground: a place to share my work, connect with like-minded people, and grow my business in a way that felt natural. But over the years, that joy has thinned.

The newest location-tracking feature tipped me over the edge. It’s invasive, unsafe, and yet another reminder that these platforms aren’t built for our wellbeing, they’re built to mine us. It left me wondering: At what point is enough, enough?

I’ve built a solid brand presence on Instagram over the last decade. I still get client leads from it. But I haven’t posted to my grid in nearly a year, even though I still log in daily to scroll mindlessly. And I keep asking myself: Is this worth it? Can I keep critiquing capitalism while actively feeding one of its most extractive machines?

The truth? There’s hypocrisy here, and I’m not immune to it. Neither are most creatives I know… we’re all having some version of this same conversation. And yet, the more I pay attention, the more I realize there’s little I’d actually miss if I left Instagram entirely.

I’ve found more joy and connection this year in other spaces: Substack, Pinterest, Threads… but none of them are perfect. Substack has its own ethical blind spots. Pinterest is being overrun with AI-generated content. Threads is owned by the same tech giant as Instagram. Which leaves me wondering: how do we build community and connection when every option feels like a compromise?

Disrupt or Depart? The Two Paths Forward

When you start questioning your relationship with a platform, it’s a bit like deciding whether to stay in a messy relationship: do you try to make it work, or finally pack your bags? There’s no one-size-fits-all answer, but there are ways to figure it out.

When It Might Be Worth Disrupting From Within

If you’re not ready (or able) to leave entirely, disruption is about bending the platform to work for you, not the other way around. This might be your path if:

You have clear boundaries and a strategy rooted in your values—not the algorithm’s demands.
You refuse to create in ways that drain you or compromise your authenticity.
You treat the platform as a bridge, not a home—using it to connect people to spaces you own and control.

I’ve done this for five-plus years. But even when you play by your own rules, the cost is high. Disruption from within is possible, it just requires constant boundary-setting and resistance to a system that thrives on eroding both.

When It Might Be Time to Depart Entirely

Sometimes, the healthiest choice is to walk away. You might be ready if:

The platform’s core practices violate your values in ways you can’t reconcile.
You leave more depleted than energized.
Your creative energy would be better spent building new, liberatory spaces than maintaining a broken one.

Leaving isn’t “quitting”… it’s creating space for something better to grow. And you don’t have to decide overnight. Test the waters. Log in less. Post differently. Redirect energy to spaces that nourish you. That’s where I’ve been, and it’s shown me that when something is rotten at its foundation, lasting change from within is nearly impossible.

A Decision-Making Guide for Creatives

If you’re sitting in that limbo space… torn between staying, disrupting, or leaving—it helps to slow down and check in with yourself. These aren’t just logistical questions; they’re values check-ins. Here’s where to start:

1. Does this platform align with my core values?
Before you think about marketing strategy, think about ethics. Does the platform operate in a way that reflects what you believe in? Does your presence there feel like it supports or undermines the kind of work you want to be known for?

2. Am I shaping my content to fit my work, or my work to fit content trends?
This one can sting. Are you creating what you truly want to create, or are you bending your work to fit what the algorithm rewards? If the latter is true most of the time, that’s a sign the platform might be steering your creativity more than you are.

3. Do I leave this space feeling energized or extracted?
Pay attention to your body after you log off. Do you feel inspired and connected… or drained and disconnected? If the emotional toll outweighs the benefits more often than not, that’s important data.

4. If I walked away tomorrow, what would I gain? What would I lose?
Sometimes we focus so much on the fear of losing reach or visibility that we overlook what we might gain: more time for our craft, more privacy, less noise, more presence in other areas of life. Weigh the trade-offs honestly.

5. Could my time and energy be better used building something new?
If you didn’t have to feed this particular machine, where could you put your creative energy instead? Maybe it’s into an email list, an in-person community, a different platform with less toxicity, or something entirely offline.

This guide isn’t about pushing you toward one choice or the other… it’s about helping you make the decision with clarity, alignment, and a sense of ownership over how you show up in the world.

The Call to Reclaim

We don’t owe the algorithm our souls. We don’t owe capitalism our creativity. And we sure as hell don’t owe strangers a 24/7 backstage pass to our lives. The system won’t slow down for us… it will keep demanding more until there’s nothing left to give.

The choice is ours: keep feeding the machine, or step off the stage and build something better. Let’s reclaim our timelines, our platforms, and our purpose. Let’s be known not for how consumable we are, but for how deeply we create, connect, and contribute, on our own terms.

Until next time…

Natalie Brite - DoGoodBiz Studio

Featured