Lila Grayson wasn’t chasing fame. At 34, she was a single mom in Boise, Idaho, juggling a part-time bookkeeping gig and a rambunctious three-year-old named Ollie. Her Facebook Stories were her escape—a messy, unpolished window into her kitchen where she’d post quick clips of her cooking: a bubbling pot of spaghetti, Ollie smearing sauce on his cheeks, or a triumphant “Ta-da!” as she pulled lumpy muffins from the oven. Her 200-odd friends loved it, leaving comments like, “Girl, I need that recipe!” or “Ollie’s my chef hero.”
Then, in March 2025, Facebook dropped its latest update: Stories could now make money. Lila scrolled past the announcement one night, bleary-eyed after putting Ollie to bed. She tapped it out of curiosity. The app linked to a Creator Studio guide explaining it step-by-step: opt in via the tool, link a payout account (she used her PayPal), and meet the basics—1,000 followers and 60,000 minutes of view time across posts in the last 60 days. She didn’t qualify yet, but the fine print said Stories views could count toward that if she turned on “In-Stream Ads”—short ads that’d play before or after her clips. “Why not?” she shrugged, flicking the toggle on.
Her first monetized Story was a fluke. She’d filmed herself rolling out dough for garlic butter flatbreads, her chipped red nails fumbling as Ollie’s toy truck crashed into her ankle. “Dinner in 10, if I don’t burn it!” she laughed into the camera, posting it with a swipe-up poll: “Garlic or no garlic?” The next morning, a notification blinked: “$1.87 earned.” She stared at it, coffee sloshing as Ollie tugged her sleeve. “Seriously?” she muttered. An ad for a meal kit service had run before her clip, and 73 people watched it through.
Her best friend Mia, a hairstylist with a side hustle selling earrings online, was over that night, braiding Lila’s hair while Ollie napped. “That’s real money, Lila,” Mia said, eyes wide. “Your food’s cozy—it’s you. People want that.” Lila snorted. “It’s just me failing at Pinterest recipes.” But Mia nudged her: “Post more. See what happens.”
So Lila did, fumbling through the process. She learned she could track earnings in Creator Studio—pennies at first, but they added up. She posted daily: a shaky clip of her slicing apples with Ollie “helping” (mostly eating), or a quiet moment stirring soup, whispering, “He’s finally asleep, so this is for me.” She figured out how to add a “Stars” button—little digital tips viewers could send—and giggled when her cousin sent three stars worth 50 cents, writing, “For Ollie’s apron fund!”
The numbers crept up. Fifty views became 500 as friends shared her Stories. She hit 1,000 followers after a local mom group reposted her “5-Minute Toddler Tacos” clip. Ads—cookware, grocery apps—started flowing, and by May, she was cashing out $20 a week. It wasn’t much, but it bought diapers, a new spatula, and a rare latte for herself. A news article she read later confirmed the feature was a hit, with creators like her earning small but steady streams.
Lila humanized it all without trying. One rainy afternoon, she filmed herself burning a batch of cookies, cursing under her breath before cracking up. “Well, that’s Monday,” she typed, and it got 800 views—her biggest yet. Another night, voice trembling, she posted about a rough day: “Ollie’s sick, I’m wiped, but this stew’s keeping us going.” A stranger sent $2 in Stars with a note: “Hang in there, mama.”
By July, she was pulling $300 a month. She splurged on a secondhand ring light and a phone tripod, but kept it real—no fake smiles or staged counters. A viral Story—Ollie flipping a pancake that landed on their dog, Muffin—earned $60 in a day, ads and Stars pouring in. Her followers called it “Lila’s Lunch,” and she leaned into the chaos: flour-dusted aprons, Ollie’s sticky hugs, her tired but warm grin.