C.U.I (Consuming Under the Influence)

In the world of influencer culture, where authenticity is currency, perhaps it’s time to ask: Are we really consuming under the influence—or are we being consumed by it?

So, apparently the Girlies were lying?

This month, 170 million people endured a collective, involuntary detox as TikTok went dark, its impending ban briefly becoming a reality.This frenzy was coupled with the trending sound “Since we’re all gonna die, there’s one more secret I feel I have to share”. The sound prompting the apps most popular creators to expose “mistruths” they had shared.This was arguably the best way to say our farewells, the veil had been lifted and the “app of truth” had one more lie to expose.

Influencers revealed to Tiktok users that they had lied about doing their workout routines – fitness influencers confessed to having BBL’s, content creators revealed that they had actually not done the things that made them famous on the app.

It was the plot twist of all plot twists, but let’s be honest—the public had every right to react with outrage.

Let’s Digest!

Here’s the thing: influencers are supposed to embody authenticity and relatability.They are not celebrities, whose fame is a side effect of their talents but influencers gain their platform through relatability and perceived honesty.Marketing literacy is apparent when it comes to celebrities- When they promote a product, we know it’s transactional. We understand their lifestyle is far removed from ours. There is a distortion when it comes to influencers - they’re the people we turn to for realistic recommendations, routines, and habits—the ones who are “just like us,” but with better lighting. Their entire appeal lies in the idea that they’re trustworthy, attainable, and aspirational in equal measure. The facetime style format of their content makes it feel like they’re your friend. So, when the curtain drops and the truth reveals smoke and mirrors, it’s not just disappointing—it feels like a betrayal.

If you can do it I can do it!

Sure, we all have the same 24 hours in a day as Beyoncé, but let’s not forget the small details—celebrities have assistants, personal trainers, stylists, and chefs. Minor things, right? Yet, when it comes to influencers, the equation feels different. They’re not global superstars—they’re “just like us,” but better. They represent the version of ourselves we dream of becoming: fitter, more stylish, more productive. It’s easy to think, if they can do it, I can do it too! – But what happens when the illusion crumbles?

You commit to their leg day routine, dreaming of that shelf back there, only to find out the BBL allegations against them weren’t just rumors — While you were building your FYP brick by brick what’s on it was built by Dr.Miami. Or maybe you buy six aesthetic ice cube trays because someone swore they make hydration life-changing, only to learn that person doesn’t even use ice. This influencer even has an Amazon Storefront boasting 73 “Ice Essentials” - with every sale she makes commission.

Influencers aren’t just selling you products—they’re selling you the dream of transformation. And when that dream doesn’t pan out, the disillusionment cuts deep.

Here’s where the trap lies: consuming influencer content makes you mirror their mindset. Their success feels accessible, almost inevitable. If they can work out seven days a week, why can’t you? If they can build their empire, why can’t you? The catch is that their relatability is often an illusion. You don’t see the behind-the-scenes realities: the paid trainers, the filtered edits, or the glossy partnerships. You see effort + consistency = success.

So, when your results don’t match theirs, it’s not them you blame—it’s yourself. I must not be working hard enough. I must be doing something wrong. This mental spiral is the Achilles’ heel of influencer culture. What started as a source of inspiration turns into a breeding ground for self-doubt.

Influencers thrive on being reflections of their audience, but when the reflection is distorted—built on unattainable standards or half-truths—it stops being aspirational and starts being harmful. If they can do it, maybe you can, too. But first, let’s ask the real question: What is the cost?

This cycle of aspiration and disillusionment ties directly to the two core theses we’ve explored in Consumer Digest:

1. Social Media is a Feudal System

2. All Extremities Lead to Consumerism

Feudalism, the medieval socio-economic system, revolved around landownership and loyalty. Lords owned the land, and serfs worked it to create value. Social media mirrors this structure. Platforms are the “digital land,” and users, particularly creators, are the “serfs,” creating the content that generates value.

Digital Feudalism comes into play when we consider how the Creator Economy builds on this model. Just like feudal lords controlled resources and wealth through land, platforms like TikTok, Instagram, and YouTube hold power by owning the "attention" that creators seek. Creators—who cultivate audiences and make content that attracts views are effectively working for the algorithm to rise in the platform’s ranks. Their success hinges not on a singular skill or product but on continuously fueling viral content, meaning they’re in a constant cycle of effort + consistency + brand visibility to maintain relevance.

In this modern “feudal” system, creators are dependent on their ability to produce content that serves both themselves and the algorithm, much like serfs who worked the land for the benefit of their lord. But in the Creator Economy, there is no direct exchange of ownership over land—instead, creators are selling their time, effort, and personal lives in exchange for visibility, engagement, and ultimately monetization through brand deals and partnerships.

The parallel to feudalism is clear: just as serfs could never escape the system without the resources and connections of the lords, creators in the Creator Economy find themselves perpetually striving for relevance, often constrained by algorithmic needs, societal pressures, and the expensive tools they must invest in to keep their audience engaged. This system not only drives consumption (buying products to signal “in the know”) but also reinforces a cycle of social comparison and insecurity, especially among audiences who feel they need to mimic influencers' purchases and lifestyles to be seen as relevant themselves.

This is where “All Extremities Lead to Consumerism”

All Extremities Lead to Consumerism: The Trap of Aspiration in the Creator Economy

As content creators hustle to rise through the ranks of the digital hierarchy, the line between personal choice and algorithmic necessity begins to blur, trapping both creators and their followers in a never-ending loop of aspiration and consumption. The dream of success in the Creator Economy is tantalizing—but like medieval serfs, we’re all working tirelessly to build someone else’s wealth. In this case, it’s the platform that holds the power of attention. Despite the supposed democratization of access to social media, creators often bear the brunt of the financial and personal costs just to remain relevant. This is even true for their aspirational audiences.

Influencer culture is the heart of this transformation. It’s reshaped social media, turning it into a marketplace of constant economic exchange. The influencers themselves are driven by brand deals and partnerships—which only materialize once they gained a follw. What’s revolutionary here is how social media has changed marketing. Gone are the days of casting actors to sell us fake perfection. Instead, the new gold standard is relatability and reality. Consumers are no longer sold on the idea of an idealized, untouchable life; they’re drawn to people who seem just like them, or at least close enough to make that aspiration feel within reach.

Think about it: celebrities used to be the faces of brands, but their disconnection from the average consumer was palpable. Social media filled the gap, offering us “real” people whose lives were more accessible. Enter the influencers, the modern-day marketing tools who share not just products but pieces of their lives. In fact, Martha Stewart has been called the first influencer—a title she earned by teaching a mass audience practical skills that made her an unparalleled force in the lifestyle space. Early influencer culture—especially on platforms like YouTube—focused more on how-to content, which was about demonstrating value through sharing real, usable knowledge. But with the rise of TikTok and the shift to short-form content, the focus has shifted dramatically. These days, beauty influencers, for example, are more about showcasing products rather than in-depth tutorials.

Content Creators vs. Influencers.

Content Creators = "Reviews" the ones who raise brand visibility & awareness.

Influencers = "How-To"directly sway purchasing and social decisions.

It’s subtle but crucial.

But why does this matter? The emergence of the Creator Economy has been touted as a new economic revolution, but the conversation often gets reduced to capitalism. There’s more to the story.

Lights, Camera, Relevance: The Cost of Attention in the Creator Economy

The Creator Economy is, in essence, a product of the Attention Economy, where relevance is the currency. What gets the most views? What’s driving conversation? The answer is simple: new products. As content becomes increasingly product-focused, creators are pushed to keep up, but here's the twist—they need more than just creativity. They need cash.

Being a creator today is about paying to get noticed in the first place. Before you can land those lucrative brand deals or even secure gifted products, you have to show the world you're already on board with the brands you aspire to work with. Relevance in the algorithm means investing in the latest viral products, the ones that grab attention, spike views, and—hopefully—grow your following. For the lucky few, this cycle can lead to enviable rewards. Next thing you know you’re on a brand trip to Bora Bora. But here’s the catch: every creator has to pay to play.

To capture an audience, creators must “Keep up with the Blushes,” meaning they need not just creativity but also capital.

You Have to Pay to Play

In 2025, who doesn’t have a ring light collecting dust? But lights, tripods, and mics are just the starting point in a creator’s quest to stand out. Take the Alix Earle light for example, I personally have 4 of them. It’s not just a tool; it’s a symbol of aspiration. Fans don’t see Earle as a distant celebrity but as someone they could become. If they purchase the tools she has they’re one step closer to getting their name on a pair of jeans. Her content is more than entertainment—it’s a blueprint.

Her followers aren’t just buying what she recommends; they’re investing in their own potential stardom. That Alix Earle light isn’t just for selfies—it makes their content pop. The rosemary oil they buy? It isn’t just for shiny hair; it’s for shiny metrics on the FYP.

Consumer decisions in the Creator Economy have transcended the intrinsic value of products. Instead, purchases are leveraged as stepping stones, a way to climb the ladder of the Attention Economy. In this landscape, owning the right product isn’t about blending in; it’s about standing out. The initiation fee may be steep, but the promise of visibility and success keeps the cycle alive.

This dynamic ties into the Relative Income Hypothesis, a theory by James Duesenberry, commonly known as “Keeping Up with the Joneses.” It suggests that a person’s spending and saving habits aren’t solely dictated by their income but, by how that others consume. In the context of influencer culture, this takes on heightened relevance. The constant exposure to what others have creates a collective benchmark for consumption that individuals strive to match, regardless of personal circumstances.

What’s common becomes perceived as normal—despite the fact that the two are not synonymous. This exposure amplifies consumption habits that, while ubiquitous in influencer culture, are far from sustainable for the average person. The disparity is further compounded by a lack of transparency: many influencers showcase an abundance of products, but much of it is gifted rather than purchased.

While audiences foot the bill, overconsumption appears widespread and normalized, encouraging audiences to replicate these habits without fully understanding the financial or logistical context behind them – we are aware of what others have without the context of how they have it.

In the Creator Economy, consumption isn’t just about utility—it’s about aspiration. And the pursuit of relevance often demands participation in a cycle of spending that blurs the line between personal choices and algorithmic necessities.

In the end, what we consume isn't just the products themselves, but the dream of a life that's more than attainable—it's aspirational. But dreams built on half-truths and illusions often crumble, leaving us to grapple with the reality of an economy that thrives on our insecurities. The question is no longer "What are we buying?" but "What are we losing in the process?"

In the world of influencer culture, where authenticity is currency, perhaps it’s time to ask: Are we really consuming under the influence—or are we being consumed by it?

Thanks for Consuming!

“Each Day Gets Better”

Phia