Why People Are Weird About Latter-day Saint Influencers

Let’s just say the quiet part out loud: people get weird about Latter-day Saint influencers. (Not all people! But this article isn’t about them.)

It’s not weird to see strangers on the internet as influencers. That’s expected! I mean real-life people. Friends. Ward members. Even family. The ones who love you… but somehow never mention the work you do. They don’t share it. They don’t ask about it. They don’t quite know what to do with it.

As an online content creator for over 10 years, I think there are some very real psychological and cultural reasons behind this.

First: it’s still new.

The influencer industry didn’t exist 20 years ago. It wasn’t a career option our parents prepared us for. There was no “major in Instagram strategy” at BYU in 2004. So when someone says they create digital content, build community, negotiate brand contracts, and generate income online, it can feel ambiguous.

And humans are uncomfortable with ambiguity.

Psychologically, we’re wired to categorize things quickly: doctor, teacher, accountant—real jobs. Influencer? That category feels fuzzy. When people don’t understand something, they often minimize it. And I don’t think it’s always conscious. Or malicious. It just IS. It doesn’t fit their mental model of stability, so they hesitate to validate it.

Second: it disrupts social roles.

When you grow up in a family or a ward, people form an identity of you. “She’s the responsible one.” “She’s shy.” “She’s the Bishop’s wife.” (Ask me how I know.) When you step into a public-facing role, especially one that requires visibility, confidence, and marketing, it challenges their internal script.

And when someone outgrows the script others have written for them, it can create subtle tension.

Third: visibility triggers comparison.

Social media inherently involves metrics like followers, views, and engagement. Even if you’re not aware of them, they exist. And comparison is one of the most universal psychological reflexes. When someone close to you builds a platform, it can unintentionally stir insecurity:
Why her?
Could I do what she does?
Why didn’t I think of that?

Most people won’t consciously admit this. But comparison often shows up as silence, sarcasm, or subtle dismissal.

Now layer in Latter-day Saint culture.

In The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, we value humility, consecration, and service. Those are beautiful principles. But culturally, we can sometimes conflate visibility with pride.

If you are publicly sharing your faith (and especially if you are monetizing content that includes gospel-centered living), some members feel uneasy. There can be an underlying question: Should anyone make money in proximity to the gospel?

Historically, we revere unpaid ministry. We quote leaders like David A. Bednar who have encouraged members to “flood the earth” with truth through social media. But when that flooding becomes structured, strategic, and sustainable, some members struggle to reconcile it.

Part of that tension comes from not distinguishing between exploiting the gospel and building a values-based business.

There’s also the cultural expectation that influence should stay small and local. Serve in your calling. Love your family. Don’t build a brand. So when a Latter-day Saint creates a platform, it can feel like she’s stepping outside an invisible boundary.

So what do we do about it?

For those of us building online:
First, extend grace. Most of the “weirdness” isn’t hostility. It’s unfamiliarity. Second, normalize the work. Talk about it like the real job it is. Share the strategy, the planning, the analytics, the contracts. The more tangible it becomes, the less abstract it feels. Third, stay anchored in intention. If your motive is to serve, uplift, provide for your family, and build something meaningful, you don’t need universal validation. Your stewardship is between you and the Lord. Finally, check your own heart. Make sure your platform reflects discipleship more than ego. The cleaner your motives, the steadier you’ll feel, even when support feels thin.

For friends and family who aren’t influencers but want to bridge the gap:
You don’t have to understand every algorithm to be supportive. You just have to be curious. Ask what they’re working on. Celebrate milestones the same way you would a promotion or certification. If their content aligns with your values, share it. And if you have concerns about monetizing faith, have an honest, kind conversation rather than withdrawing. Most influencers you love are not trying to commercialize the gospel. They’re trying to integrate faith into modern work. Your willingness to engage instead of dismiss builds trust on both sides.

New industries always feel uncomfortable at first. Cultural shifts always create friction. But friction doesn’t mean failure.

Maybe the “weirdness” isn’t a sign that something’s wrong. Maybe it’s a sign that we’re all learning how to navigate something new. And maybe the invitation isn’t to retreat from each other, but to grow into a better understanding… together!