For content creators, courting the internet’s wrath is as easy as putting in your two-week notice. At least, that’s the lesson that Connor Hubbard, the creator behind the viral vlog account Hubs.life_, is learning right now.
Hubbard, a 30-year-old husband and father living in Dallas, Texas, grew his TikTok account to close to 1 million followers by posting daily videos about the mundane routine of his nine-to-five day job as a senior analyst for a Fortune 500 company. The digital masses eventually flocked in by 2024, drawn by the blank stare and discordant soundtrack that accompanied videos of him slowly removing his laptop, typing under fluorescent lights, walking his doodle, and finishing his nightly routine just to do it all again the next day. His posts managed to draw in crowds with humor, camaraderie, and horror all at the same time, with videos purposefully edited to play up the hints of malaise — stretching that line between whether he had a dream life or was in the middle of a waking nightmare. “A lot of what you see today is, you know, these luxurious lifestyles, people traveling here and there, and selling get rich quick schemes, and things like that,” he told GQ in 2024. “And I hadn’t seen a guy posting his normal, ordinary life. It just seemed to get a lot of traction. Because I think most of the world is working, they have to work for a living. They can’t all be influencers.”
When Hubbard announced in February that he quit his day job to make content full-time, the backlash hit. In the past month, Hubbard has become a reviled figure on TikTok, with former followers calling the transition a “rug-pull” and criticizing Hubbard for relying solely on TikTok videos and Live sessions for funds. (He’s turned his TikTok comments off, posted several videos about ignoring internet haters, and did not respond to Rolling Stone’s request for comment.) But while Hubbard has been classified as TikTok’s villain of the week, what’s emerged in the wreckage of his comments section and the drama breakdowns is the biggest and defining paradox of the influencer ecosystem. Several creators who previously worked day jobs tell Rolling Stone that there’s an ongoing stigma surrounding the idea of leaving a steady day job — a stigma that’s decided less by rules and more by undecipherable vibes. The creator economy has given content creators the ability to turn themselves — and their videos — into a business by building an active following. So why do some audiences seem so upset when their attention actually works?
When Callie Wilson was in her third year at Brooklyn Law School, she realized that she had a big choice to make. The now-27-year-old, originally from New Hampshire, had built a sizable TikTok following around her easygoing videos about doing self-care while in the middle of the active stress. “I wanted to not make it look like this whole Legally Blonde, perfect thing,” she tells Rolling Stone. “Bringing in realness.” But as graduation approached, Wilson realized that she was steadily losing passion for the law career she’d once envisioned, at the same time her social media presence was netting her a steady salary. She walked across the graduation stage, passed the bar on her first try, and told her audience her big news: She had decided to not pursue a job in law, and intended to be a full-time creator. “I knew people would be mad, but I didn’t expect the amount of backlash,” she says. “It sent me into a spiral.” She lost 30,000 followers — dropping below a million, a milestone which she’s still working to reach again.
“The hardest part of being a content creator is that people feel like they know you, like they’ve gone [with you on the journey],” Wilson says. “The [path] that makes sense is you go to law school, you pass the bar, you become a lawyer. So when I didn’t become a lawyer, people went ‘Wait, this isn’t the storyline.’”
Fashion creator Miranda Sanchez thinks many people project anger when what they’re really feeling is a loss of rapport. Audiences also got to reckon with the fact that, in many cases, it was their support, comments, shares, likes that helped make the creator profitable in the first place. Sanchez recently quit her job in social work to switch to full time content. “People love you when you’re on the rise, when you’re on the up and up, and your content is blowing up,” she tells Rolling Stone. “And then once you finally find success from it, people are like, ‘Oh, no. That’s not what we want.’ It’s a lot easier to root for the underdog.”
“There’s a narrative that when creators leave their nine-to-five, they lose credibility,” says Eni Popoola, a lifestyle creator who went full-time after leaving her career as a corporate lawyer. Popoola, 30, was incredibly nervous when she decided to quit her job and move strictly to content creation. “I was worried that people would see me as a sell out,” she says.” She was upfront with her audiences that she wanted to try a new path — and it grew.
While it’s not an exact science, audiences seem to accept creators who quit their nine-to-five jobs for reasons like mental health, work-life balance, or family needs. Popoola thinks people accepted her switch because people considered it a self-care move, as her “choosing [herself] over a rigid system.” Wilson thinks that her announcement faced more backlash because she posted it after vlogging her celebration vacation for graduation law school — like people felt it was no longer deserved if she didn’t actually use the degree. Sanchez left a taxing but rewarding job in social work, and many of her followers have called the switch “well deserved.” Comments under Hubbard’s videos differ significantly — with the majority of negative takes calling Hubbard’s career change a wasted opportunity or a selfish act. (Notably, Hubbard has said part of his decision was his excitement to be able to be stay at home dad for his child— something his followers haven’t accepted as a right enough reason.)
Brooke Erin Duffy, an associate professor of communication at Cornell University, says that while many situations have similar setups, the difference between acceptance and backlash often comes down to whether people feel like the creator is still authentic. It’s a nebulous marker to achieve in the first place, and one that’s even harder to keep.
“Part of the draw of this field since its emergence is this promise of authenticity that is a departure from mainstream media,” Duffy tells Rolling Stone. “Why would I pay attention to these individuals when there are celebrities or actors? Because these people are quote-unquote, ‘just like me.’ So much of this economy is predicated on authenticity. And so the question that emerges at a moment of job transition is whether people are doing this for ‘right reasons.’”
Tim Chiusano, 47, used to be a VP in advertising sales, posting unattainable content about his packed schedule, mile-long morning runs, and gorgeous house in Brooklyn, peppered with affirmations about just how good life can be at its calmest and most frantic. Though he eventually quit that job to focus on content creation full time, he recognizes that his success on TikTok (1.1 million followers) only happened because his videos weren’t relatable.
“My videos [say] you’re not going to lose your soul by growing up and it can be a bit quirky. [Adulthood] is not going to completely destroy you. My [content] was more of a window into what’s possible and less of ‘Oh, I feel you,’” he says. “The extreme side of it is that we’re all here kind of supporting each other in this lifestyle. And then once [your life] becomes too cool, then I’m not sure what your value is to me.”
Chiusano’s transition to creating could have gotten backlash — but he doesn’t know, most because he purposefully spent the first year as a full-time creator actively avoiding his comment section. (His follower count didn’t drop.) Now, it’s easy for him to spot when a creator isn’t making the same jump with as much ease. But he thinks that backlash over relatability is entirely misplaced emotion. “Everybody’s gonna fumble when they make some sort of career transition, especially when you make one that’s in public,” he says. “Unless people are doing things that are intentionally harmful, or they’re associating with brands that are shitty, or they’re working with people that are doing awful things across the global landscape — of which there’s plenty right now — getting a little bit of grace can go a long way.”
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