Why I Left OnlyFans: The Good, The Bad, & The Ugly

By Trinity Barnette

I’ve been sitting on this for a while—unsure how to say it, when to say it, or if it even needed to be said at all. But if there’s one thing I’ve promised myself, and everyone who’s followed me through this journey, it’s honesty.

OnlyFans was a chapter. A messy, profitable, empowering, and exhausting chapter. I went in hoping for independence, financial freedom, and a space to be in control of my own narrative. And in some ways, I found that. The good was real—fast money, creative autonomy, and the feeling of owning my body on my own terms.

But the bad crept in slowly. The emotional burnout. The feeling of being consumed, not seen. The pressure to always perform, to stay relevant, to never stop creating or you’d lose everything you built in a blink. I watched my boundaries blur in ways I didn’t expect. I started to feel like a product—something to be bought, rated, and discarded.

And the ugly? That was the hardest part. The entitlement. The objectification. The disrespect. The quiet resentment I felt toward my own audience. The way I’d smile through it, post through it, hoping the next tip or message might feel different. It didn’t.

I left because I outgrew the space. Because the cost started outweighing the paycheck. Because I realized I was building someone else’s fantasy while neglecting my own peace. Leaving wasn’t about shame—it was about survival.

This isn’t a post to demonize the platform or those who use it. It’s a post to tell the truth. To show that even in the spotlight, even with the followers and the money, there’s a deeper story under the surface. And this is mine.

There were things I didn’t expect—things I didn’t know to brace for.

OnlyFans was marketed as a safe, empowering space for creators, but behind the paywall, there were cracks. Deep ones. The platform lacked the basic privacy and security features needed to protect people like me. There was no way to approve or deny subscription requests—no control over who came into your space. And that might not seem like a big deal to some, but when you’re a woman—especially one navigating sexuality and identity online—being stripped of that choice becomes dangerous.

It got to the point where the site itself made my skin crawl. It frustrated me how little power creators actually had. When people felt entitled to me—my time, my body, my responses—and didn’t get what they wanted, things would turn ugly fast.

Some of the harassment I experienced still lingers in the back of my mind. Men who couldn’t handle rejection, who would lash out when I didn’t reply to their messages. Who made new accounts just to stalk me. Who threatened to leak my content. Who reminded me, over and over again, that to them I wasn’t a person—I was a product.

But here’s what surprised me most: the good didn’t disappear. It bloomed somewhere in the chaos.

Before OnlyFans, I hated my body. I hated how my face looked. I hated that I couldn’t hide my bigger breasts, and the shame that seemed to follow them everywhere I went. I never felt at home in my skin. But through that lens—yes, even through that platform—I started to unlearn the shame.

I found a strange kind of confidence in owning my image. Not for men. Not for money. For me.

OnlyFans taught me self-love in the most unexpected way. It helped me see beauty in what I once believed were flaws. It taught me respect—not just for my body, but for my boundaries. And most of all, it taught me compassion for the parts of myself I spent years trying to shrink.

There’s a complexity to that. A duality. I left OnlyFans because it became unsafe, unfair, and unsustainable—but I carry with me the pieces of power I found there.