I dislike a lot about influencer culture: its connection to overconsumption, how it promotes and spreads unrealistic beauty standards, hidden ads, obvious wealth, fake closeness, and the growing confusion between sharing your life and selling it—just to name a few. And I say this as someone who, by many definitions, is an influencer myself.

But the recent wave of negative talk about influencer culture feels different. Hating influencers isn’t just a snarky online hobby anymore. It’s becoming a socially accepted stance—from Nantucket’s “No influencers” sign, to the backlash against the social-media-driven crowds flooding the Dolomites, to podcasters (who are very much influencers themselves) claiming influencers are ruining everything.

Of course, influencers have pushed back. One particular comment—”I think hating influencers has become a socially acceptable way to hate women”—sparked a viral debate. Many of my friends and peers in the industry liked the video and commented in support.

My first reaction was, Hell yeah. But then I felt uneasy about it.

Let’s get one thing straight: Influencers are not an oppressed or marginalized group. They come from all races, ages, economic and educational backgrounds, genders, and jobs. Still, the typical influencer in our cultural imagination isn’t a man reviewing watches on YouTube or hosting a podcast from his Austin studio. It’s a woman—likely young, attractive, into fashion or beauty, taking selfies or talking to the camera, selling you something. And the traits we find so unbearable about her are also oddly familiar. She’s vain. She’s materialistic. But above all, she’s embarrassingly sure she deserves to be looked at.

None of these ideas were invented by Instagram or by women alone. The idea of the attention economy goes back to the early 1970s, and the saying “no press is bad press” has been around since the 19th century. The only difference now is that social media makes it easy for almost anyone to turn their own life into a small business. As a result, once again, there are all kinds of influencers: middle-aged moms, outdoorsy types, kids, farmers. I’m pretty sure there’s an influencer in every industry, every field, every niche.

What’s also fairly new is that these platforms let women turn the very things they’ve historically been mocked for caring about or forced to do—clothes, beauty, decorating, cooking, relationships, motherhood—into highly profitable businesses, without waiting for some institution to decide they deserve an audience. That doesn’t make those businesses virtuous, but I do think it complicates our disgust toward the women who’ve figured out how to profit from them.

Because if the objection were simply to wealth, consumerism, vanity, or making money off attention, our contempt would be spread much more evenly. George Clooney has been the face of Nespresso for about twenty years. David Beckham appeared in 11 World Cup ads this year. Joe Rogan and I have both done ads for the same powdered electrolyte company. Celebrity has always been commercial, and famous people have always turned attention into cash. Yet we rarely treat a male actor, athlete, or podcaster’s willingness to sell us something as proof that his whole life is pointless. So it’s worth asking why women visibly making money from this economy seem to anger people more than the economic conditions that make their success feel offensive in the first place.

There’s a lot of money to be made in the influencing industry. It would be dishonest to pretend that the growing resentment toward influencers has nothing to do with how much many of them earn, especially when life is getting harder for everyone else. The more out of reach ordinary markers of stability become—The wealthier society becomes, the more uncomfortable it can feel to watch someone earn in a single sponsored post what another person makes in a month—or even a year. It’s hard to direct anger at the broad economic and political forces that have made rent unaffordable, wages insufficient, and wealth increasingly concentrated among a few. But a woman filming her extravagant PR haul? She’s an easy target.

Still, as an industry, we need to recognize that the labor and consumption behind the most visible and successful influencers’ lifestyles often rely on women with far less power—many of them women of color, migrant workers, or workers in the Global South. These include garment workers who make the clothes they promote, domestic workers who maintain the homes that serve as backdrops, childcare workers who enable the illusion of effortless motherhood, and warehouse workers who pack the endless stream of products arriving at their doors.

So, what’s truly anti-feminist isn’t necessarily taking part in these systems—we all do to some extent—but refusing to acknowledge the inequalities that support them until you personally face criticism. There’s deep hypocrisy in discovering and using the language of women’s liberation only when your own status, reputation, or income is threatened. If misogyny matters when it’s aimed at a wealthy woman with hundreds of thousands of followers, then the exploitation of the women sewing her clothes, caring for her children, cleaning her home, packing her products, or otherwise enabling the effortless lifestyle she sells should matter just as much.

Feminism can’t simply mean defending women when we identify with them, aspire to be like them, or see our own struggles reflected in theirs. A politics of women’s liberation must extend downward as readily as it does sideways and upward. Otherwise, what we’re defending isn’t feminism—which is collective advocacy—but individual advancement.

I don’t think hating influencers is inherently misogynistic; people’s anger has many roots, tied to the social and economic instability of our times. But I do believe misogyny has found a comfortable hiding place within that hatred, as it often does.

Frequently Asked Questions
Here is a list of FAQs based on the premise that influencers arent the real issue

General Definition Questions

1 Wait what do you mean influencers arent the real issue Theyre so annoying
It means that while individual influencers can be tonedeaf or annoying they are mostly a symptom They are playing the game that the algorithm and our culture have set up The real issues are the systems that reward them for this behaviorlike the pressure for constant growth the lack of regulation and our own consumption habits

2 If influencers arent the problem who is
The problem is a mix of the platforms the brands and us for rewarding sensationalism over substance Its a systemic issue not a singleperson issue

3 So are you saying influencers are completely innocent
Not at all They have agency and can be held accountable for harmful actions But focusing on them alone is like blaming the cashier for the stores high prices They are the most visible part of a broken system not the root cause

4 What is the real issue exactly in one sentence
The real issue is a capitalist attention economy that prioritizes profit and engagement over truth mental health and genuine human connection

Benefits The Positive Side

5 Is there any actual value to influencers then
Yes When done well they are just modernday tastemakers and community builders They can introduce you to niche hobbies provide honest product reviews and create a sense of belonging for people who feel isolated

6 Can influencers be a force for good
Absolutely Theyve been crucial for spreading awareness on social justice issues organizing grassroots movements and democratizing access to information A good influencer educates and empowers a bad one just sells

7 Arent influencers just doing what TV ads always did
Kind of but the intimacy is different TV ads are oneway Influencers feel like a friend recommending something The problem isnt the recommendation its that the friend is often hiding a paycheck and the algorithm rewards the most extreme versions of that friendship

Common Problems Criticism