Montana Tucker: The Influence We Need
The term “influencer” is no longer new. Gen Z introduced it, repackaged it, and built a new economy around it. A world where people dance, create skits, or do whatever they believe will make them go viral. It’s a world built on followers, metrics, and a pressure to stay within the comfort zone of the crowd. Most influencers do their best to keep the majority happy, sticking to the script that got them there in the first place: follow the trends, chase the algorithm, feed the machine.
Montana Tucker is a different kind of influencer. The kind others would be wise to emulate.
Tucker first captured her audience through lighthearted, creative dance videos. Moments of joy broadcast to millions. A natural presence on camera, it is easy to be swept away by her smile, her warmth, and her seemingly effortless talent. With millions of followers across TikTok, Instagram, and YouTube, Tucker commands a platform that reaches across demographics and borders.
As the world grew darker, while antisemitism reemerged and history was rewritten by whispers and denial, Tucker realized her platform could not remain a stage for entertainment. It had to become a vehicle for memory. A tool for truth. In a culture where history fades with every swipe and scroll, Tucker made a decision few influencers would consider. She stepped into the darkest chapter of human memory and brought her audience with her.
Tucker’s grandparents are Holocaust survivors. Their story is not just a piece of history. It is a living inheritance. One at risk of being forgotten if not spoken aloud. Tucker understands the fragility of memory in an era that prizes convenience over complexity.
Years ago, she used her platform not to chase the next trend, but to return to Auschwitz with her grandmother, a survivor of its horrors. She filmed the experience and called it “How To: Never Forget.” It was not packaged for clicks. It was not built for virality. It was a raw truth, deliberately told.
She followed her conscience instead of the algorithm. She may have lost followers, confused those who preferred lighter fare. But she stayed grounded in the one thing more important than popularity: integrity.
Character, after all, rarely trends.
Since October 7, Tucker’s moral clarity has only sharpened. As the world erupted into noise—hashtags, boycotts, declarations drawn in absolutes—Tucker chose something harder and more human. When public support for Israel became a lightning rod for backlash, she did not retreat.
While many voices turned to anger or silence, Tucker held fast to her values. She has stood as a proud supporter of Israel and an even prouder voice for her Jewish identity. She has not turned to the language of hatred. She has spoken of peace. She has spoken of coexistence. She has met disagreement not with slogans, but with conversation. She has opened herself to difficult dialogue and resisted the temptation to demonize the other side for the sake of a soundbite.
No one in history was persuaded by rage. No one ever listened because they were shouted down. Progress happens when dignity is chosen over division. Tucker is walking that path. A path that requires more from us. A path that may take longer. A path that offers something real. A path that offers a real chance at a better tomorrow.
Too many voices online wrap rage in righteousness. They chant for justice without asking who they’re chanting for. They hashtag without listening. They wear the symbols but forget the stories. Tucker chooses something harder — she listens.
Tucker has now turned her voice toward another urgent cause: the safety of children.
She has led a new documentary, The Children of October 7, where she sits with the youngest survivors of that day. Children who woke to sirens instead of lullabies. Children who saw the unimaginable and now must find a way to live with it. She asks the questions others avoid. She holds the silences others try to fill. She tells the stories many would rather ignore. Some truths are not political. Some traumas cannot be rationalized.
Tucker could have stayed in the lane that made her famous. She could have kept dancing. Kept smiling. Kept entertaining a crowd that prefers its heroes uncomplicated. But she chose a harder road. Her rise was never just about rhythm. It was always about character.
Tucker still dances. Her movements are tributes—to unity, to memory, to lives too often kept off the headlines. She still dances—not for spectacle, not for escape, but as a quiet anthem beneath the noise. A rhythm that says, without spectacle or slogan: I will survive.
Influence is easy to manufacture. Authenticity is not.
If more influencers followed Montana Tucker’s algorithm, an algorithm of memory, conscience, and courage, the world would move forward in the right direction.
Not louder. Not angrier. Just closer to the place we claim we want to reach. Closer to a future where telling the truth matters more than telling people what they want to hear. Closer to a tomorrow that asks a little more from all of us, and rewards those who rise to meet it.
Montana Tucker is doing her part. Now it’s our turn to like, to share, and more than anything else, to follow.