In an era when family vlogging has become an ever-present industry, Shari Franke’s memoir stands as a powerful statement against the exploitation of children
True crime is a genre I typically avoid. It’s always made me uncomfortable, often feeling exploitative, and at times, borderline unethical. The way these traumatic real-life stories are presented — sensationalized like tabloid headlines — never sat well with me.
I first encountered the Franke family on TikTok in 2023, when former YouTube family vlogger Ruby Franke was arrested for child abuse. My curiosity was piqued, but out of respect for the family, I resisted the urge to dive into the online frenzy and instead waited for more information to surface.
Two years later, “Devil in the Family: The Fall of Ruby Franke,” a Hulu docuseries, premiered on Feb. 27, 2025, bringing the story to an even wider audience. It recounts the Franke family’s journey, spearheaded by the mother of the house, Ruby. In 2015, Ruby started the YouTube channel 8Passengers, which documented the family’s lives to over 2 million subscribers. Unbeknownst to viewers, a much more sinister story was forming behind the scenes.
The Hulu docuseries was marketed as a family tell-all, “the first time Shari and Chad, the Frankes’ two eldest adult children, and Kevin, Ruby’s husband, will share their story in depth on camera,” the description read.
Despite my aversion to true crime, I couldn’t help but be intrigued. One sentiment has always remained true to me: Victims of trauma should have the space to share their stories when they feel comfortable doing so.
I binged the docuseries in a day, entirely captivated by the disturbing story of how Ruby and the family’s counselor, Jodi Hildebrandt manipulated and abused the family.
Naturally, I turned to social media to see how others were reacting, which led me to Shari Franke’s memoir “The House of My Mother: A Daughter’s Quest For Freedom.” In October 2024, Shari announced the release of her memoir, stating in an Instagram post: “After years of silence, I’m finally sharing MY story in my own words.”
In her memoir, Shari reflects on her childhood as the eldest of the six siblings growing up on camera.
“I don’t remember the exact moment the cameras started rolling,” Shari writes. “All I know is that one day, we were a regular family, going about our lives. The next, there was a janky camera pointed in our direction, documenting every move for strangers on the internet.”
Shari recounts the 18 years of abuse she endured from Ruby. One haunting memory comes from when she was five, playing piano, and Ruby would hit her hands to “correct” her. “‘Curve your fingers, Shari. Count it out!’” Ruby barked, slamming the piano with her hand and making Shari jump. “‘And for heaven’s sake, don’t give me that face.’”
As Shari grew older, her resentment toward the YouTube channel deepened. After all, no one wants their awkward teenage years plastered on the internet for the world to see. One painful example Shari highlights in her memoir is a story of how Ruby bribed Shari with $100 to let her wax her eyebrows for a vlog. Shari agreed, only to be devastated when her mother made them too thin. The entire incident was recorded and posted on YouTube under the title: “Shari I’m So Sorry.”
Shari soon learned to adapt, recognizing that if she gave her mother the content she demanded, she could get something in return. Shari writes: “In abusive situations, fawning can manifest as smiling and nodding while you’re screaming inside. It’s doing whatever it takes to keep an abuser happy, because you’ve learned that’s the safest way to survive.”
Shari’s decision to keep her younger siblings nameless in the memoir and solely recount her experiences speaks volumes about her respect for their privacy and her determination to protect them from further exploitation.
Her sentiments on privacy nod to the broader implications of the family vlogging industry that thrives on people’s fascination with personal lives. This memoir isn’t just about one family; it’s a wake-up call to the dangers of monetizing childhood.
Shari directly calls out the industry, writing, “What does consent really look like when you’re a child, too afraid to say no? Personally, I mourn those precious formative years spent in service to someone else’s vision.”
What struck me most was Shari’s sheer vulnerability and strength throughout the memoir. Her ability to recount such painful moments — from feeling controlled by her mother’s constant demands for video content to the abuse she silently endured — made me both angry and deeply empathetic towards Shari. Her ability to reclaim her narrative and share it on her terms is empowering, and I couldn’t help but feel both heartbroken and inspired by her resilience.
This book will stay with me long after I’ve finished reading it, and I hope it sparks a conversation about the ethics of social media, privacy and the future of family-driven content creation. I would highly recommend this memoir to anyone interested in understanding the sinister side of family vlogging and readers who enjoy deeply personal stories of survival and resilience.
Edited by Ainsley Bryson | abryson@themaneater.com
Copy edited by Micah Shulman and Emma Short | eshort@themaneater.com
Edited by Annie Goodykoontz | agoodykoontz@themaneater.com