When I first started posting my homestead chaos online, I thought I was about to become the next Joanna Gaines. I pictured brand deals rolling in, companies sending me free farm gear, maybe even my quail landing on the cover of Backyard Poultry Monthly or something.

Instead? I learned the hard way that the influencer dream is basically modern-day sharecropping — but with hashtags. You do all the work, the platforms take all the profit, and you’re left with burnout, crumbs, and maybe a free t-shirt.

The advice everyone loves to give is: “Just post.”
Just post every day. Just post more. Just post better.

And for a while, I believed it. I thought if I just posted my homesteading life — the quail math disasters, the chickens staging coups, the rabbits acting like they were auditioning for a fertility cult — then eventually, the internet would reward me with freedom.

But here’s the scam: “Just post” is about as useful as saying, “Just throw seeds in the dirt and you’ll have a harvest.” Sure, something might grow. But you’ll be drowning in weeds, fighting off pests, and realizing you planted in the shade. Posting without strategy doesn’t give you freedom — it just gives you chores you can’t skip.

The Dream vs. the Reality

I went viral my very first month of posting regularly. Millions of views. My phone buzzing like a beehive I couldn’t silence. And almost immediately, brands started reaching out.

I thought it was my big break. I was flattered — they wanted me. My messy homestead. My chaotic stories. My quail. They promised partnerships and paychecks, and I thought, “This is it. This is how I finally make real money online.”

But what I didn’t know is that they’d been playing this game far longer than me.
Behind the curtain, the strings were already being pulled.

They didn’t want to pay me for my content. They wanted me to do the work for free, and maybe — maybe — they’d toss me a percentage of sales. But only after I hit some arbitrary “threshold.” Until then, I was making them money, boosting their brand, and getting nothing in return but the illusion of success.

And that’s the dirty truth about the influencer dream.

On Instagram, it looks like this:
A perfect life. Money for nothing. Brands paying you to sip coffee and look cute in a cowboy hat.

In reality?
You’re working harder than ever. You’re chained to your phone. You’re filming videos in between feeding animals and putting kids to bed, and your “dream income” looks suspiciously like gas money.

Meanwhile, my actual dream was much simpler: feed my family, make the homestead pay for itself, and maybe — just maybe — have enough left over to buy a goat without feeling guilty.

But the influencer game never got me there. It just left me tired, broke, and wondering why I was letting strangers on the internet, and brand managers I’d never met, decide what my time was worth.

The Hidden Costs

When I first started my TikTok account, I went from 0 to 10 thousand followers in 30 days. And I won’t lie — it was exhilarating. Every time I posted, my phone lit up like a Christmas tree. Comments, shares, new followers — all rolling in faster than I could keep up.

But the high came with a quiet panic: how was I going to keep it up?

What could I possibly keep saying that would pull in hundreds of thousands of views on a single video? How was I supposed to compete with the girl getting millions of views on every post — the one who always seemed to have the perfect lighting, the perfect hook, the perfect story?

That’s when the real cost started to sink in.
I wasn’t just making homesteading videos anymore. I was auditioning for the algorithm.

I caught myself obsessing over what would “hit” instead of what I actually wanted to say. I started second-guessing every clip: Was it funny enough? Sharp enough? Relatable enough? Was I even interesting if I wasn’t showing my entire life?

And then there was the pressure to create intimacy with an audience I didn’t even know.
Everyone says “Build a community” — but what they don’t tell you is how much of yourself you’re expected to bleed into the process. Was I supposed to share my entire life story to prove I was “real”? Was I supposed to cry on camera just to make strangers feel like they knew me?

Because that’s the unspoken cost of going viral: the internet doesn’t just want your content. It wants you. Your energy. Your vulnerability. Your private moments packaged into consumable clips.

And once you’ve tasted that first viral rush, you feel like you have to keep feeding it — or risk fading back into invisibility.

My Wake-Up Call

I hit the wall of burnout harder than I’d like to admit.

One day, the thrill of going viral turned into the dread of logging in. The comments felt heavier, the pressure unbearable. And while strangers on the internet cheered me on, the people closest to me weren’t clapping.

I had family who didn’t support what I was building. Friends who mocked me for daring to post online — like chasing visibility was some embarrassing hobby instead of a strategy. One friend even decided that if I was going to put myself out there, speaking to me was no longer in the cards.

And that hurt. More than I wanted to admit.

So I did the only thing I knew to do: I stopped posting. And I spiraled. The silence after the chaos of going viral was deafening. For a while, I thought maybe they were right — maybe I was foolish to think this path could work.

But in that quiet, something clicked.
I realized that the problem wasn’t the content itself. It was the way I was using it.

I had been treating views as the prize — like the number on the screen determined my worth, my success, even my future. But views aren’t the prize. They’re the signpost.

They’re simply a way to direct those looking for information in the right direction.

And once I saw it that way, everything changed.

I no longer had to bleed out my life story or cry on camera just to “connect.” I could build a community without feeling smothered. I could create content that was authentic to me — the chaos, the humor, the birds, the business — and let it point to something bigger than likes.

And that “something bigger” made me more money than a couple of bucks off a mega-viral video ever could.

That was my wake-up call: the influencer dream is a trap, but strategy is freedom.

The Better Path

The turning point for me was realizing I didn’t need to play the influencer game to win.

I didn’t need to chase followers like a dog chasing cars. I didn’t need to dance for algorithms or cry for sympathy on camera. I didn’t need to wait around for brands to decide if I was worthy of a discount code and a pat on the head.

What I needed was a system.

Because here’s the thing: views don’t pay the bills. But views can point people toward something that does.

That’s when I stopped asking, “How do I get more likes?” and started asking, “What happens after someone watches?”

And suddenly, the pressure cracked wide open.

I realized I could make my quail videos, my chaotic stories, my unapologetic homesteading life — and instead of being at the mercy of ad pennies or shady brand deals, I could use them as a doorway. A doorway to my eBooks, my courses, my community, my products.

I could sell knowledge, not just eyeballs.
I could create something once, and let it work for me over and over again.
I could build a community that connected through value — not oversharing.

And you know what? It worked. I made more money from one simple digital product than I ever did from a brand “partnership” that expected me to perform like a circus act for exposure.

The influencer path kept me tired, broke, and replaceable.
The better path made me free, profitable, and fully myself.

Because at the end of the day, a homestead that feeds you is great.
But a homestead that funds itself?
That’s freedom.

And that’s the path I want for you, too.

If you’re tired of playing the algorithm’s game, if you’ve been sold the “just post” scam, if you’ve been grinding for views that never seem to translate into income — there’s another way. A better way.

That’s exactly why I share the Business Builder Challenge. It’s the blueprint I wish I had when I was drowning in viral chaos, wondering if the dream was broken or if I was. It’s not about chasing clout. It’s about building something real, something lasting, something that can support your family and your future — even if the algorithm changes tomorrow.

That’s the better path.