On any given day online, I read about people who are “big.” The McMansion consultants amassing legions of followers, charging $10,000 per exhalation. The heavyweight writers wielding their verbal power from Mt. Olympus. Everyone aspires to have more fans, followers, subscribers, and zeros at the end of their bank account balances. How is it that we went from a culture that was content with comfortable to demanding the world and everything in it? Why do we continue to perpetuate the myth that in order to be successful, you have to have more? More is the only way instead of one way.
“Big” is relative and subjective. What may be big to you may be small and insignificant to someone else. There are writers and consultants who have dollhouse-sized followings who have affected me more profoundly than the major leaguers swanning their way in with their six-figure follower counts.
I’m not tethered to my metrics or being a certain “size”; data is informative and directional, not gospel. It doesn’t signal the power of your message or your level of significance.
I don’t aspire to size binaries; I care about relationships and impact. I am not “big” or “small” — I’m Felicia, a human who has built a career on being intentional about what I put out into the world and the people who are on the receiving end of that message. I put more effort into winnowing my audience down to the right people instead of trying to megaphone my wears to the masses. And I’ve become successful by showing up every day and doing the work, not complaining about it.
I focus on the quality of my work and its impact, and I’ve quietly reaped the rewards.
A few years ago, a mentor I admire told me about how excited he was that he was being featured in a mailing list of one of those “gurus” — someone who routinely touted their half-million subscribers as a badge of honor. The morning the email went out, he waited patiently for all the clicks, cash money, and accolades. And then crickets. I used to work with clients who only wanted to partner with Instagram titans. Regardless of how much I talked about the power of “micro-influencers” and passionate brand fans, and how often their word-of-mouth is more influential than a one-off campaign with the IG girl of the moment. So they invested $25,000 on a campaign and they waited for the sales to roll in.
Welcome to Waiting for Godot. We have fifty-cent candy here.
Power, passion, impact — that’s what we should aspire to. Are we intentional in the words we say, when, where and how we say them? Are we considering our audience — have we defined it beyond a human with a wallet? Do our words convey that verve, or are we simply dialing it in, churning out garbage because some influencer told us that writing every day or amassing dozens of clients are the tickets to success? Is our voice distinct, and do we show up consistently or do we speak as if all the air has been wrenched from our chest? Frightened of ruffling feathers, of being bold and having a point-of-view you believe in?
When I was small, I was taught to “fit in.” Popularity was the holy grail of adolescence, but I was the weird kid who didn’t want to drink, fuck, or suck. I was the girl who had her head down in the book. I was the embodiment of the unpopular opinion. I blew every chance to fit in. Instead, I grew content with skirting the margins. And as I grew older I saw that there was power in being singular and distinct. I’m hyper-aware that my personality and blunt nature could be perceived as alienating and severe.
I’m a cactus, but boy, if you stick around you’ll bear witness to a beautiful bloom.
I think a lot about what I put out into the world because often my writing is someone’s first impression of me. I also consider my audience because while I write for me, I also write to them. Do I want to be perceived as the person who writes conspiracy-fueled rants, or do I want to be the person who offers value whether it gives people comfort that they’re not alone when I share personal essays or whether it helps someone who’s building their business? Do I want to be perceived as the person who shows up with a distinct, consistent voice and point-of-view, or do I want to write hollow pieces that game the algorithm?
Here’s the thing — I’m not quantifiably big. I don’t make five-figures a month on this platform. I don’t have million-dollar launches or consulting engagements. I don’t go on speaking tours and I’m not even on social media. But believe me when I say my choices have been deliberate because as Zadie Smith once wrote, time is where you spend your love. I spend time on my writing, the work I do for my clients, and the relationships I cultivate with my friends, peers, and community. That trifecta has afforded me a comfortable life. It’s allowed me to make time and use my fuck-ton of privilege to do pro-bono work for people I believe in.
Never did I consider my follower counts or newsletter subscribers. Instead, I challenged myself to be really fucking good at what I do. And the clients and relationships consistently follow suit. I’m not here to be a social media marketer or to garner adulation. In fact, swarms of people scare the fuck out of me. I want my world rich, textured, and filled with people who challenge and light me up.
I don’t need more, I want better.
If there’s anything I can offer you, it’s this — focus on showing up, cultivating real relationships, doing the work, and being really good at it.
Right on, as we used to say way back when.