The intersection of mom influencers and loneliness

And rethinking social media as a parent

I spent days and nights postpartum consuming the lives of mom influencers. As my son, a dedicated contact napper who largely rejected independent sleep, snored lightly on my chest, I sat in a dark room, noise machine blasting, swiping through videos chronicling every detail of other moms' lives: their morning routines, coffee orders, and nursery decor. I watched their videos for entertainment, mostly, but also a mildly embarrassing sense of connection.

I had never felt lonelier than I did in early motherhood; I was tired, hormonal, and overwhelmed by the deep love, lack of predictability, and tears (both his and mine) that defined our newborn stage. Watching other new moms rock their own babies to sleep on my screen made me feel temporarily less alone, but the spell broke as soon as I put my phone down.

This is the unspoken contract of the mom influencer corner of the Internet. Moms set up tripods and film hours of content, posting "day in my life" videos and brand partnerships that allow viewers to feel like they are a part of their world. These parasocial relationships create the illusion of connection, but they are often built on loneliness. And the dark reality of an economy built on maternal vulnerability was exposed last month when popular lifestyle influencer Emilie Kiser lost her 3-year-old son, Trigg, in an accidental drowning in their backyard pool. With over 4 million followers, Emilie is one of the most popular creators on TikTok, posting frequent videos of her home, beauty routines, family, and daily life. Many of her followers felt they knew her son on a personal level and had watched him grow up via her content. But in the aftermath of her son's death, Emilie received an intense outpouring of parasocial grief online from fellow mothers.

“When one mama cries, we all cry,” a user posted alongside a melancholy video of her rocking a sleeping toddler. “Just a SAHM making the chaos feel less lonely,” her TikTok bio reads. Others compiled and posted old clips of Emilie's son set to sad songs, while a separate group lobbed accusations of blame at Emilie and her husband in the comments section. Emilie has not posted on social media since her son’s death, but she did file a lawsuit to keep records of his death private, citing more than 100 public records requests filed since his passing.

The tragedy and subsequent deluge of online reactions highlighted an ugly truth: despite how often the word “community” gets thrown around to describe online followings, you don't actually know the influencers you think you love. Emilie’s silence on social media speaks volumes; she doesn’t owe us anything, and we don’t know her.

For me, participating in mom influencer culture continued to leave me feeling disconnected. I scrolled daily — through recipes, tips for sleep/language/developmental milestones, top strollers and car seats and try this bedtime routine! videos — and woke up most mornings feeling anxious. (I also didn't know then that postpartum anxiety can fluctuate over time; I thought I was supposed to be "cleared" once I passed the 4-5 month mark.) It took my husband pointing out his own experience to help me connect the dots: he had recently cut back on his social media usage and noticed a big positive difference in his mental health. I wondered if TikTok was making my anxiety symptoms worse, so I decided to cut back and see if it helped.