Cancel Me Softly

An influencer going Amish is like a fish trying to live on land. Sure, you can flop around for a while, but eventually, the lack of Wi-Fi will kill you.

How did I end up here, you ask? Well…

I wake up to 3,000 notifications. Normally, that’s champagne-popping territory—viral content, ad deals rolling in, and enough dopamine to light up Times Square. Today? Not so much. 

By the time I scroll past the meme of my face photoshopped onto a cockroach, it’s painfully clear: Brynn Starr isn’t trending. I am canceled.

What killed me? A leaked video of me, on my fifth margarita, saying, “My fans are morons. They’ll buy anything if you slap a hashtag on it.” Not exactly the kind of message you want your 2.3 million followers hearing. Turns out, unintentionally insulting the people who pay for your Balenciaga is bad for business.

The fallout is swift and ruthless. Sponsors drop me faster than a diet pill lawsuit. My so-called friends—the same influencers who’d sell their own mothers for a viral reel—send DM after DM: 

From @GlowUpGina:

couldn’t have happened to a faker person #FakeAF #ByeFelicia”

From @SoulCleanseSteve:

karma’s a bitch, huh? #WhatGoesAround #NamasteNot

From @TotesAuthenticTina:

i always knew she was shady #BrynnScam #ToldYaSo

Oh, you always knew? Funny, Tina, you didn’t seem to know when I was tagging you in brand deals and inviting you to VIP events. Guess your moral compass showed up just in time for the shitstorm.

It’s a feeding frenzy. They’re sharks, and I’m the bleeding tuna flopping helplessly in the shallow end. They’re circling, trying to figure out which piece of my carcass they can slap a hashtag on for likes.

I do damage control. Apology video? Check. Fake tears? Check. Pledge to donate my entire next campaign to charity? Check. None of it works.

Getting canceled is like losing at musical chairs. The music stops, and suddenly you’re the only one left standing in a room full of people who don’t even know why they’re pissed off—until the next viral video tells them how to feel. Meanwhile, you’re stuck flailing like a drowning rat in a kiddie pool, and every time you try to surface, someone’s there to shove your head back under, all for the sake of a few likes.

I’ve hit rock bottom. In a panic I Google how to disappear. There’s advice on fake passports (too expensive), living off-grid (too many bugs), and becoming Amish.

Amish? The idea hits like a rogue algorithm. No Wi-Fi, no electricity, no makeup—basically everything I love in life. But the Amish don’t use social media. No one could tag me in a post.

I click an article: “10 Steps to Embrace Amish Life.” Step one: humility. Yeah, that’s gonna be a problem. Step two: let go of material possessions. WTF?

Still, desperate times call for desperate measures. I’m not sure if I’m trying to disappear or nosedive into mental breakdown, but either way, I throw some clothes in a bag and book a one-way bus ticket to Pennsylvania.

*******

I showed up at the Amish settlement wearing a bonnet that cost $200. It was organic cotton, hand-dyed in “milkweed beige,” and—get this—pre-distressed for that authentic look. If these people find out, I’ll be burned at the stake for financial witchcraft.

The bishop greeted me with a handshake so firm I thought he was trying to crush my sins out of my palm. “Welcome, Rebecca,” he said, his eyes scanning me like a TSA agent who’d just spotted a bottle of water in my carry-on.

“Thank you, Bishop Amos,” I replied, keeping my voice humble. This was my new persona: Rebecca, seeker of simplicity. It was all bullshit, of course. But hey, I was good at bullshit. It was my brand.

He motions toward a small wooden house that smells like hay and the faint but unmistakable tang of cow poop. “This will be your home.”

I nod solemnly. “It’s perfect,” I lie. Inside, the walls are bare except for a single cross, and the furniture looks like it was built by someone who hates comfort.

By dawn, I’m at the barn, standing in front of a cow that looks like it’s judging me harder than the bishop did. Milking? Not my thing. My first attempt ends with a bucket of spilled milk, a moo of disapproval, and my dignity somewhere under the hay.

“The cow doesn’t trust you,” says Eli, the young farmer assigned to babysit me. He’s got a face that belongs on a cereal box—earnest and clean, like the only thing he’s ever lied about is sneaking an extra slice of pie.

“The feeling’s mutual,” I snap, wiping milk off my arm.

He chuckles, soft and polite. “You’ll learn. Or she’ll kick you.”

Later, I meet Hannah in the kitchen. She’s kneading dough like she’s exorcising demons from the flour. She doesn’t even look up when I walk in.

“You can stir,” she says, shoving a wooden spoon into my hand.

I swirl the batter tentatively, my wrist already cramping. “This is... fun,” I say, trying to sound enthusiastic.

“It’s not supposed to be fun.” Her tone could freeze boiling water.

Note to self: avoid Hannah. She could cut glass with that glare.

By the time we start churning butter, my arms feel like I’ve done a CrossFit class with Satan. And let me tell you, butter doesn’t just appear. It’s a slow, thankless process—a metaphor for my life, really.

As the sun sets, I collapse onto the rough wooden bed in my bare room. My back aches, my hands blister, and my stomach growls. I have never worked this hard in my life. But it’s just temporary, I remind myself. A way to lie low until the internet moves on to its next victim.

*******

The Amish don’t know they’re sitting on a goldmine. These people have the market cornered on authenticity, and they’re just giving it away. No hashtags, no influencers, no overpriced carrots look like they grew in a Renaissance painting. It’s criminal.

And let’s be honest—I am nothing if not a criminal.

By week two, it’s clear I’m not cut out for farm work. Milking cows? Disaster. Churning butter? Let’s just say I haven’t seen any butter. But marketing? That’s where I shine. Selling Amish goods to tourists is like bottling fresh air and charging for it. People will buy anything as long as you convince them it’s better than what they already have.

“Eli,” I say one morning, leaning against the barn like I’ve just discovered fire, “why don’t you guys do more to, I don’t know, sell yourselves? You’re sitting on a pile of rustic charm, and you’re just letting it rot in the field.”

Eli frowns, his hands busy fixing a horse harness. “Sell ourselves? That’s not the Amish way.”

“Well, it should be,” I counter. “You could triple your sales at the farmer’s market with a little pizzazz. Let me help. I’m great at pizzazz.”

Eli glances at me, wary but intrigued. “What’s pizzazz?”

I grin. “It’s like butter—but for marketing.”

It doesn’t take much to win him over. The guy is curious about the “English world” anyway, and I sell him on the idea that this is more about sharing the Amish way of life than exploiting it. It’s not lying—it’s branding.

The next market day, I’ve turned their stall into a bona fide spectacle. Handmade signs in bold, earthy tones. Free samples of baked goods. And the pièce de résistance? Storytelling. I stand at the edge of the stall, weaving tales about how the bread is kneaded by generations of hands and how the jams are made from “he purest berries, picked with love at dawn.

It’s all true. Mostly.

The tourists eat it up. Literally. They’re lining up like it’s Black Friday at a pumpkin patch. And the money? It’s pouring in. Even Bishop Amos raises an eyebrow when Eli hands him the day’s earnings, wrapped in a pristine white cloth.

Hannah, though? Not impressed. She corners me after the market, her arms crossed so tight they might snap.

“What are you doing?” she hisses. “This isn’t how we do things.”

I smile innocently. “I’m just helping. Look at the sales! More money means more resources for the community.”

Hannah’s glare could curdle fresh milk. “It’s not about the money. It’s about integrity.”

Integrity. It hangs in the air like a scolding from a nun. I shrug it off. She’ll thank me when the barn roof doesn’t leak anymore.

Eli, on the other hand, is fully on board. After the third market day, he’s grinning like a kid who just discovered candy.

“You really know how to talk to people,” he says, counting cash under the warm glow of a lantern.

“It’s a gift,” I say, plopping cross-legged on the barn floor like a motivational speaker who missed the stage. “People don’t buy products—they buy stories. Tug at their heartstrings, tickle their funny bone, make them feel something, and they’ll throw money at you like it’s the cure for boredom. It’s not about the thing; it’s about the feels. You entertain ’em, and they’ll thank you for the privilege of being hustled.”

He pauses, thoughtful. “But aren’t the products enough? Shouldn’t they speak for themselves?”

Oh, sweet summer child. I pat his shoulder. “Maybe in a perfect world. But in our world? Stories sell. Always have, always will.”

*******

It happens on a sunny Saturday at the farmer’s market. The stall is bustling, tourists are buying everything that isn’t nailed down, and I’m in the middle of spinning some nonsense about how these wooden toys are handcrafted with prayers and moonlight when I hear it:

“Oh! My! God! It’s her!”

The words hang in the air, sharp and unmistakable. I freeze, a smile still plastered on my face like a malfunctioning wax figure. Slowly, I turn toward the voice. A woman in yoga pants and oversized sunglasses is pointing at me like she’s spotted Bigfoot at a Starbucks.

“Brynn Starr?” she says, her voice climbing into the dog-whistle range. “Is that you?”

My brain short-circuits. This can’t be happening. Not here, not now. I force a laugh, stepping back toward the stall. “You must be mistaken. My name is Rebecca.”

The woman pulls out her phone faster than a gunslinger in an old Western. She snaps a picture before I can even blink. “Oh, it’s you. I’d recognize those cheekbones anywhere. You’re the scammer from TikTok! This is going viral.”

The word viral hits like a punch to the gut. I bolt, ducking behind a rack of quilts, but it’s too late. By the time I return to the stall, Eli and Hannah are staring at me like I’ve grown a second head.

“What was that about?” Eli asks, his voice cautious but confused.

Hannah, on the other hand, doesn’t wait for an explanation. “She knows you,” she snaps. “Why is she calling you Brynn Starr?”

Once we’re back at the community, Hannah marches off to snitch—I mean, speak—to the Bishop. By the time I shuffle up the path, he’s already there, waiting for me with an expression so carved it might as well be Mount Rushmore. The guy doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t wag a finger, but his silence? Oh, that silence is louder than a stadium packed with 50,000 people booing you off the field and throwing popcorn for good measure.

“We need to talk,” he says, motioning toward the barn.

Inside, the air feels heavier than the sacks of grain piled in the corner. Bishop Amos stands there, hands clasped in front of him, while Eli and Hannah flank the room like they’re about to hold an intervention.

“Rebecca,” the bishop begins, his tone steady but razor-sharp. “What’s going on?”

I open my mouth, but before I can speak, Hannah steps forward.

“She’s not who she says she is. She’s been lying to all of us.”

Her words cut deeper than they should. “I wasn’t lying,” I protest weakly. “Not exactly.”

Hannah scoffs. “You exploited us. Turned our way of life into a sideshow to make money.”

Eli’s eyes widen. “Is that true?”

I look at him, at his honest face, and the weight of everything comes crashing down. There’s no more running, no more spinning stories. I take a deep breath. “Yes,” I admit. “It’s true. My name isn’t Rebecca. It’s Brynn Starr. I’m... well, I was an influencer. I got canceled, and I came here to lie low.”

Silence.

“I didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” I add quickly, desperation creeping into my voice. “At first, it was just survival. But then... I thought I could help.”

Bishop Amos sighs, a sound so heavy it feels like the barn might collapse under it. “And you thought deception was the way to help?”

I flinch. Damn, that stings.

The worst part isn’t the anger or the accusations. It’s the disappointment. Eli looks at me like I’ve just kicked a puppy, and Hannah? She doesn’t even look at me at all.

Nothing stings worse than an Amish guilt trip. It’s like being scolded by a Hallmark card—soft, sweet, and painfully effective.

Bishop Amos finally speaks. “You have a lot to answer for, Brynn. But the question now is, what are you going to do to make it right?”

I don’t have an answer. Not yet. But as I stand there, the weight of my choices pressing down on me, one thing is clear: I can’t keep running.

*******

I sit in the barn, staring at a pitchfork like it holds the answers to life’s biggest questions. The smell of hay and manure wraps around me, a rustic reminder that I’ve traded Prada for poop.

How did I get here? Oh, right. By being a liar, a scammer, and a grade-A coward.

I lean back against the rough wooden wall, letting my head thunk against it. It’s not a glamorous moment. No soft lighting, no inspirational music swelling in the background. Just me, my sins, and a cow giving me side-eye like I don’t even deserve this barn.

I’ve been running my whole life. From bad choices, failed relationships, unpaid bills. I’ve sold detox teas, fake charity campaigns, and my own damn dignity. Always selling something—even myself. And now? Now I’m in a barn trying to decide if I should pack my things and run again. Classic Brynn Starr. Full-speed ahead until you hit a wall, then slither away like a snake in last season’s skin.

The problem is, I’m tired. Tired of lying, of pretending, of hustling my way through life. But can I really stay here? Me? The girl who once threw a tantrum because the hotel Wi-Fi wasn’t fast enough for my Instagram Live?

I think about Eli. His quiet faith in people, even me, despite everything. And Hannah, who could probably kill me with a look but still works beside me every day without saying a word about the blisters on my hands. Then there’s Bishop Amos, with his maddening ability to make you feel guilty without even trying.

Forgiveness isn’t free—it’s like a gym membership. You gotta show up and sweat for it, or you’ll just stay fat with regret.

I glance at the pitchfork again. It doesn’t answer, but the silence gives me space to realize something: I don’t want to run this time. Not because I’ve suddenly turned into some saintly version of myself, but because running feels... hollow. Staying feels harder, but maybe that’s the point.

I push myself off the ground, brushing hay off my dress. Tomorrow, I’ll tell Bishop Amos I want to stay. Not as a hustler or a con artist, but as someone who actually wants to earn the right to be here. It won’t be easy. It might not even work. But for once, I’m willing to try.

The barn door creaks as I step outside. The night air is cool, and the stars above are brighter than I’ve ever seen. For the first time in a long time, I feel something like hope. Small and shaky, but real.

*******

The first time I hold a hammer in the Amish community, I nearly knock myself unconscious. Turns out, nailing shingles isn’t the same as nailing a perfect TikTok transition. Eli doubles over laughing while I nurse my bruised thumb, muttering something about “city folk.” I glare at him, but even I can’t help laughing. It feels good. Imagine that, Brynn Starr: laughing without an audience.

Day by day, I start pulling my weight. The work is grueling, and I’m not a natural, but at least I’m trying. I help churn butter, mend fences (with fewer splinters than I expected), and even bake bread. It comes out lumpy and uneven, but Hannah nods approvingly. “Not bad,” she says. From Hannah, that’s basically a standing ovation.

The next time we’re at the farmer’s market, things are different. I’m not shouting about moonlit berries or making up elaborate stories about generational baking secrets. I’m just... there, standing behind the stall, letting the food speak for itself. People still buy, but now it feels honest. Hannah even lets me hand out samples.

A woman approaches the stall, her designer bag slung over her shoulder, sunglasses perched precariously on her nose. “Aren’t you Brynn Starr?” she asks.

For a moment, I freeze. The old panic flares up, but then I smile—small, genuine, and utterly un-Brynn-like. “Not anymore,” I say.

As she walks away, I feel lighter, like I’ve finally shed a skin that never fit right.

Starting over isn’t about erasing who you were. It’s about adding enough good stuff to the pile that people stop noticing the garbage underneath.