Why influencers feel the weight of unseen labor

The first wave

Muzamil begins by setting the stage: a woman who was there at the beginning, when Instagram in Pakistan was not yet normalized for female faces. Hira started Her and Hem in 2014, a fashion and beauty blog built on anonymity, with neither sister showing their face. “We were two people running the blog,” Hira explains. “People love it when people are there together.”

But anonymity did not last. Her and Hem was reported and deleted twice. Desperate to keep the platform alive, Hira created her own account with her face. Within a week, the new account hit 10,000 followers. What took her and her sister collective years to build as an anonymous duo grew overnight once her identity was visible. “I think everything happens for the best,” Hira tells Muzamil. “I think we gained more than we lost.”

The algorithm became the boss

“Our content in the past was much more fun because it was spontaneous,” Hira tells the host. Now, before she posts anything, a different calculation happens. “I’m taking my phone and I’ve been thinking, can I read this story? Am I being politically correct?”

The shift matters because it changed who controls the narrative. Early Instagram rewarded creativity and surprise. The modern algorithm rewards consistency, engagement, and now, activism. “It’s more driven by consumer sentiment than actually than your own creativity,” Hira says, adding that her role as a creator has become split: entertain, yes. But also educate. Advocate. Speak out. Never disappoint.

The invisible costs

Viewers see business class tickets, designer clothes, PR packages. They do not see the person buying 10 glasses at her own expense to stock a shoot, or the team she pays weekly, or the 70 percent drop in her income during COVID lockdown. “All the PR packages we get, all the glamorous things we get, they’re not free,” Hira insists. “We promote them and we’ve worked really, really hard for that.”

She remembers the years when brands said no. When she had to educate luxury labels about influencer marketing. When she charged minimal amounts just to build relationships. “Every single brand that we’ve worked with has initially said no to us in the very start,” she recalls. The glamour is real. The labor to get there is simply invisible.

COVID and the toxicity storm

Muzamil presses on a critical moment: the pandemic. People were locked inside, grieving, traumatized. They came to Instagram and saw Hira posting fashion. The response was fierce. Why are you talking about clothes when the world is dying?

Hira’s answer is logical but rarely heard: “My work is putting out content. Whether it’s related to fashion, beauty or lifestyle. So that’s what I’m going to do.” She was not refusing to feel the weight of the moment. She was refusing to stop surviving.

“I think everybody was so done and sick and tired of everything that they had no outlet to take out their frustration, anger, whatever you call it,” she explains. “So then you come on Instagram and you open your feed and you see someone smiling, you’re like, this is the person having a good day. No, if I’m not having a good day, you’re not going to have a good day.”

The unpaid labor of activism

Most creators are not journalists. Most are not trained activists. Most are women who wanted to tell stories. But once you have followers, strangers assume you now have a moral obligation to speak about every crisis. “There is so much pressure to keep on speaking about it,” Hira says. “Why do you want people to keep on thinking about something bad that has happened? People want to calm down as well.”

She has a different vision for her platform: a space to rest. To create. To be inspired. Not a replacement for activism, but a refuge from constant outrage. This distinction matters and Muzamil understands it: different roles, different platforms, different responsibilities.

The gender gap is real

Hira names the disparity plainly. Female creators who hit a million followers are not celebrated like their male counterparts. The pay is lower. The work is the same. The respect is not. “Because in this world, women are always paid less in every single field,” she notes. It starts with families, who teach sons and daughters different lessons about their own worth.

Building the path forward

Six years in, Hira is still happy, but not the same. She has grown. She has learned what boundaries look like. And she is asking audiences to do the same: “If you don’t like my content, you don’t have to see it. There’s an option. You can either scroll down.”

She closes with a simple ask: “Be nice to people online. And if you like this episode, do share it with your friends.”