I Joined TikTok’s Rising Creator Program

Whoopsie daisy

I didn’t expect TikTok to matter much. For the last five years it’s just been a source of mind-numbing entertainment, and all I posted were memes. When I posted about my situation, it was just a way to vent. A side channel for chaos. I was living out of bags in a tent in a garage that couldn’t shut, scrubbing dried piss off walls in my rental property that got vandalized under a property manager who was paid to prevent this kind of thing. I had to walk away from my life, and that meant no income. No real plan. Just a house full of mold and lies and my own two hands to clean it up.

And then somehow TikTok showed me some love. One video, then another. Suddenly I was pulling over 100,000 views a day. People actually cared. Not just about the mess, but about the story. About the whole ugly thing. And for the first time in months, I started to feel like maybe there was a way out. Like maybe this wasn’t just going to end in bankruptcy and a lawsuit-shaped headstone. Maybe I could make something out of this disaster.

Then I got accepted into the Rising Creator program.

And right around the same time, on May 25, TikTok rolled out some kind of update that took my already-battered trust score and buried it six feet deep.

The account flatlined. Views cratered. Traffic got throttled so hard I couldn’t tell if I was doing something wrong, or if this was punishment, or just a new kind of death. And suddenly that little light at the end of the tunnel - TikTok, the one platform where I could maybe build something from the ruins - got switched off without warning.

That’s what this post is about.

How TikTok gave me a glimpse of a way out, and then slammed the door shut and asked me to dance for pennies.

The illusion of choice

When they invited me to the Rising Creator Program, they framed it like a reward. Like I’d earned something. My content was taking off, my analytics were amazing (to me, the guy who didn’t do social media), and this was supposed to be the next step - exposure to new audiences, commissions on products I actually used, and a shot at turning my shitshow of a life into something that looked a little like momentum.

That’s the pitch. What actually happened felt more like a bait-and-switch.

The minute I accepted, it was like I got dropped into a maze of checkboxes and algorithm penalties. Every other day I’d get spammed with collaboration offers for stuff like kids’ toys, makeup, and kitchenware - none of which I asked for, some of which they just add into my showcase without asking, and none of which I could even use because I wasn’t living in a functional house. Most of the invites say they’re based on my content, which is honestly laughable unless there’s some use for eyeliner and blenders while pressure washing poop puddles out of a basement that I haven’t figured out yet.

But here’s the real kicker: even though most of these brands either ghost you or never send the sample at all, not participating still dings your visibility. And the stuff that does arrive? It’s almost never what I’d choose to represent. I don’t want to be another TikTok mouthpiece slinging garbage just to get a few dollars in commission. I’m not out here trying to trick people into buying shit they don’t need. That flashlight from Skyfire? The twin tub washer? Those things are solid. I’ll talk about that all day. But everything else? I either can’t use it, don’t trust it, don’t get it, or can’t justify lying about it on camera.

And still, the platform treats silence like disobedience.

You don’t do Lives? Cool! Here’s your reach penalty. You didn’t click “interested” in a bullshit Shop campaign? Great! We’ll tank your next three posts. You’re not dancing, lip-syncing, or singing into your camera like a trained monkey for micro-rewards? Great, we’ll just go ahead and throttle your traffic even more.

I watched my account drop post-May-25-update from 8,000 views a day down to around 1,000. That’s after the May 25 update that already cut my numbers by 95%. At this point, even most of my followers don’t find me unless they search my profile. TikTok doesn’t push my videos to them anymore - not unless I run Lives a few times a week, or post Stories as a workaround (a way more manageable solution). And half my content gets flagged anyway. I got nailed for “illicit drug use” because I said the words “sewer pipe.” That’s not a joke.

I don’t think they understand what this platform actually represented for me. Dealing with a stressful chaotic situation that meant no job, no safety net, just a vandalized rental and a pile of credit card statements growing like a flytrap in the Little Shop of Horrors - TikTok gave me a thread to hold onto, or at least a goal to strive for in the mess. It felt like I could turn this shituation into something that helped other people, or at least entertained them without charging them a dime. And now? I feel like I’m being punished for not selling out. Like they threw me a rope, let me grab it, and then used it to drag me further out to sea.

I could walk away. I know that. It’s not costing me money. But what it is costing me is harder to quantify - the community I built here, the only real moral support I get most days, the feeling like maybe this story I’m living through isn’t pointless. So I keep trying. I try to play the game, just enough to stay visible, without completely turning into the kind of creator I swore I’d never be.

The update that broke the mirror

On May 25, TikTok flipped the switch. Whatever algorithm we used to have in the U.S. - the one that actually showed people what they were interested in - got replaced with the version they use in China. Douyin-style. I’ve read about it (by translating Chinese to English), and it tracks. The new system pushes anything with conflict, sex appeal, or straight-up chaos. It wants shiny people doing dances, yelling at each other in the comments, or selling you something every three seconds. It doesn’t care if you’re telling the truth. It doesn’t care if you’re trying to build community or share something real.

It cares if people click.

And if they don’t click fast enough? You're dead in the feed.

Storytelling doesn’t work the same anymore. Personal experience gets buried. Subtlety gets penalized. I’ve been trying to learn how to game it, but it’s exhausting. I’m not about to start every video with clickbait energy just to earn the right to speak plainly. If your account’s not already huge, and you don’t open strong and shallow, you’re invisible.

And it’s not like I’m watching much TikTok these days, maybe 30 minutes to an hour in the evening, but even when I do, it’s clear the whole feed is different. I used to get content that actually matched what I cared about. Now it’s influencers with washboard abs using voice filters, or saying absurd shit trying to pick fights with strangers. So yeah, maybe they’re A/B testing this shift, and maybe it’ll evolve, but for now? It sucks.

And look, I know I’m just venting here. But this isn’t just about ego or engagement stats. When I was hitting 100,000 views a day, that 10,000-follower mark felt like it meant something. Like I was building toward a real source of income, or at least a real signal that I wasn’t shouting into the void.

Now I’m sitting at 1,000 views a day if i post at least three times, trying to hit the same milestone for a platform that might not even be around in the U.S. in four months. It’s hard not to wonder what the hell I’m still doing there, but I’m still gonna post. I’m still gonna show my updates. I’m still gonna tell this story, and I’m going to keep the same energy I always have, because the people who found me early on - the people who followed not because I went viral but because they actually gave a shit - those people matter to me.

I’m not mad at them. I’m not mad at anyone trying to make this platform work. I’m sad that the window was slammed shut when I was trying to lift myself up and climb through it.

But here’s the thing. I don’t want to leave people with just another rant. Yeah, I’m frustrated. Yeah, the algorithm sucks. Yeah, I regret ever joining the Rising Creator Program instead of just continuing to post what I wanted (I graduated now, but that only seems to have made things worse). But the reason I’m still posting isn’t because I think TikTok’s going to save me.

It’s because I’m documenting something that deserves to be seen and sharing my experience.

What’s happening with this house. What happened with the tenants. The property manager. The cleanup. The lawsuits. The rot. The recovery. All of it. None of it’s pretty, and I’m not trying to make it marketable. But it’s real. And if I don’t tell it, no one will.

So I’ll keep showing up. Even if the views are shit, even if I never reach the 10k mark. Even if the platform’s fighting and messaging me about penalties. Even if the only people watching are the same twenty regulars who always leave a comment. That’s enough. That’s worth something.

And if the whole platform collapses tomorrow? Fine. I’ve already got the footage. I’ve got the story. And I’ll take it somewhere else. Because the algorithm might decide who gets seen, but it doesn’t get to decide whether the story matters.

I do.