How I Accidentally Became an Influencer

& Why I Quit the Job Everyone Apparently Wants

“The only two questions, at any moment of choice in life, are what the price is and whether or not it’s worth paying.”

— Oliver Burkeman

Not What You’d Expect from a Digital Detox

Mere months after our wedding, my husband Aaron and I decided to quit our jobs and move across the country—leaving boring ‘ole California for the most exciting state in the union: Kentucky.

I wasn’t thrilled, but it was our first big adventure, and even dishes sound romantic to a newlywed. Aaron had been accepted to a Master’s program at Asbury Theological Seminary. Meanwhile, I thought it would be easy to quit teaching and make a huge career change.

It wasn’t.

Kentucky is lovely, but it’s not exactly drowning in job openings for former middle school teachers who are wildly unqualified for virtually any job other than teaching middle school.

Just before we set off, I deactivated all of my social media accounts and went dark. This was 2017, and no influencer had yet graced my feed, so my reasons were less about the debilitating effects of the internet and more about potential FOMO. How could I go from sharing my sunset film dumps and Montecito coffee shops to…Kentucky?

A year into my digital fast, I’d found a job and a few friends, and I decided to dip my toe back into Instagram—not to reconnect socially, but to start a tiny vintage resale account. It didn’t take long to discover that when I posted photos of myself wearing the clothes, engagement soared. I had accidentally become an influencer.

My first photo spot in our very simple rental in a tiny town of five thousand people. Just a white wall, a tripod, and a dream. Can you believe it was once this easy to grow a following?

The Influencer Gold Rush

Perhaps that was always the problem—I never intended to become an influencer. I was just posting everyday outfits with long, rambling captions, unaware that “authenticity” would soon become a marketing tactic. I kept my personal life close to my chest: I didn’t want to share my newly unglamorous reality, and I was ill-equipped to navigate the nuanced waters of translating my faith for an “audience.”

But I had struck gold at exactly the right time. I grew thousands of followers a month without sharing much more than mirror selfies. I discovered that I had a knack for negotiating with brands (one paid me almost a thousand dollars a month to simply tag their products in-feed once a week). Meanwhile, I leveraged my side hustle success to earn a full-time marketing role.

You’d think we were rolling in it!

(We were not.)

We had six figures of student debt, a car payment, and were taking on more loans to cover our rent and my husband’s program. We went from barely making ends meet to dumping tens of thousands of dollars on our debt. Nothing really changed about our lifestyle except that I got free clothes and we treated ourselves to coffee now and then.

I regularly pinched myself, all the while wondering when this magical well would run dry. We were still so far from our goal. I didn’t need it to work forever—but I was going to mine it as long as I could.

Motherhood Broke the Spell (and Me)

In 2024, in the third trimester of my pregnancy, Aaron and I sat in our one-bedroom apartment and clicked “submit” on our final loan balance. After seven years of juggling brand deals, freelance clients, and full-time work, we were debt-free.

I thought freedom would feel like a deep breath. Instead, I realized my life had become a spreadsheet of deliverables. Without this seemingly impossible goal, I didn’t have the motivation to keep running. My burnout was bone-deep.

Then my son was born, and I re-entered survival mode—although this time it wasn’t financial. It was physical, emotional, cellular. He had colic (and other issues we would discover later), and nothing soothed him except motion and noise turned up to almost violent levels. So I rocked him over the vacuum. Then bounced him on a yoga ball. Then walked circles around our living room. If I stopped, he screamed.

Nursing was the only time my body was still, and that’s when I disappeared into my phone.

I have so much compassion for that version of myself. I was in love with my son but overwhelmed by the whiplash of my newborn experience being nothing like I’d imagined. And even without the colic, postpartum depression, or sleep-deprived hallucinations, I had no goals or deadlines on the horizon. I didn’t know who I was without striving.

Motherhood stripped away my ability to outrun myself. I couldn’t hide behind productivity or distraction anymore, not when a little human was watching me become who I would be to him.

Taking Off the Golden Handcuffs

Could I create without consuming? Could I keep a healthy distance from my phone and still make a living online? I didn’t want my son growing up looking at the side of my face while I stared at a screen. I hated how much time I was losing to my phone, how quickly a day disappeared when I was scrolling between soon-to-be cherished memories.

I flirted with the idea of doing all the best-practice influencer things one last time, but I couldn’t get myself to follow through. I made content calendars that sat collecting digital dust. I even tried to talk myself back into it—It’s flexible, it’s good money, people claim this is their dream job.

But the more I thought about “showing up,” the more my body resisted. Over the years, I had built a small marketing and PR business. I’d come out of those client meetings alive and full of energy, only to see my tripod in the corner and shiver. Then boxes of free clothes and elaborate skincare routines would appear at my doorstep and instead of feeling incredibly fortunate, which I was, I felt trapped, like I had to stay on this hamster wheel.

I had kept my Instagram afloat for eight years—through cross-country moves, health issues, and job changes—and I wasn’t afraid of hard work. I just didn’t want it to be my whole life anymore.

I had prayed since the beginning about what to do with my account, how God wanted me to use it, if at all, and whether it was still mine to steward. I never got a dramatic answer, just a quiet, growing discontent I could no longer ignore.

Influencing isn’t evil, but it no longer fit the life I wanted.

My Life Is Not an Aesthetic

Eventually, my son went from crying 90% of the limited time he was awake to 50% to barely at all. My hair started growing back. Leaving the house no longer felt like preparing for a cross-country expedition. I went out for drinks with friends. Aaron and I could watch a show after bedtime without Oliver waking up before the episode ended.

And with that tiny bit of space, a more challenging question rose to the surface: What do I actually want?

I knew the answer wasn’t social media. It wasn’t even entrepreneurship. What I really wanted wasn’t more money or more stuff. I wanted to build a life I truly enjoyed.

Motherhood had stripped me of any illusion of control. It forced me to define what I value, how I spend my time, and what story I’m telling my son with my actions, not just my words.

I didn’t want a slow aesthetic—I wanted a truly slow life. I wanted to enjoy my own existence again, without turning everything into content or strategy.

I lost my “why” for influencing when we paid off our debt. Sure, it was fun. It changed our lives financially. It gave us the freedom that allows me to stay home with my son. But fun isn’t the same thing as purpose. And success—especially online—is a fickle lover.

Which Brings Us to Mother Memos

I also wanted a creative outlet that didn’t immediately become a side hustle. For me, that is writing. My relationship with social media is complicated; my relationship with writing has always been easy.

Naturally, I did the most avoidant thing possible—I swore I’d never make a Substack. I rolled my eyes at “yet another platform.” Which, in hindsight, was an obvious sign: resistance sometimes reveals what we’re afraid to admit we actually want.

One night, I opened my Instagram archive and scrolled all the way back to the early days, before the strategy and the brand deals and the audience. My early captions were a rambling mess, but I loved writing them. I had always been writing; I just got distracted by monetizing it.

These days, I keep social media blocked other than when I’m working. I spend the mornings playing with Legos or walking the neighborhood or drinking coffee with friends while the kids destroy one of our homes. I usually forget to take photos.

I am equal parts overjoyed and terrified to launch this Substack, Mother Memos, but it feels like coming back to the beginning, now with an arsenal of wisdom. I’m excited to stretch myself and hopefully sharpen my mom brain. I want to connect with other women working to live a life aligned with their values, which this season so mercifully brings into focus.

More than anything, I don’t want to do anything out of obligation anymore, too afraid to lose something good to aim for something great. At some point, you stop asking what something gives you and finally ask what it costs.

How sweet it is to be at an age where you can look back at your old self with fondness and affection, rather than pointing out her flaws, inexperience, and naivety.