I Was Suffering From An Algorithmic Identity Crisis

I’ve tried to be an influencer. More than once.

I pictured myself sipping Zero Sugar Cheerwine with the occasional YooHoo as a treat on some beach I couldn’t pronounce, cashing checks for posting shirtless selfies with hashtags like #workflowwednesday and #blessed. I imagined opening my garage to a lineup of cars I could only dream of and a closet full of baseball jerseys.

I wanted the dream. And for a hot minute, I chased it like it owed me money.

So I did what the experts said. I studied the algorithm. I tweaked headlines. I obsessed over hashtags. I regurgitated “hot takes” on trending topics I didn’t actually give a shit about. I wrote for Google and LinkedIn, not in a "they paid me" way, but in a "please, sir, may I have some visibility?" kind of way.

And the worst part?

I hated every single word of it.

Because none of it sounded like me. None of it was me.

Here’s what I eventually realized: the only reason anyone read anything I wrote in the early days was because it was mine. It had a pulse. It had opinions. It had... let’s say, "intimate metaphors." (People were curious about my point of view, and, yeah, my penis. But, like, metaphorically.)

When I stopped writing for people. and only for bots, that’s when the rot set in.

I realized I was in trouble when my content decisions start sounding like a sad strategy meeting in a beige conference room:

• “What’s performing well right now on social media?”
• “What’s trending on LinkedIn?”
• “What hooks are people using currently?”

On the surface, those sound like smart, strategic questions. But really, they’re just algorithm-worshipping bullshit dressed up as insight. It’s the creative equivalent of wearing a fake Rolex to impress strangers.

At first, it feels harmless. Just a little tweak here, a viral-sounding title there. But over time, a few dangerous things start to happen:

Your voice disappears – You start sounding like LinkedIn threw up on Medium. Buzzword soup with a sprinkle of "personal brand."

Your real self ghosts – That gap between who you are and who you pretend to be online? It turns into a black hole. And it sucks.

Your reputation tanks – Instead of being known for your actual skills or ideas, you're the person with the post about "5 leadership hacks Elon Musk probably uses."

It’s death by optimization, or said another way The Algorithmic Erosion of Identity.

It’s sneaky. Like rust. You don’t notice it at first, until your whole voice has corroded into content sludge.

It’s the coach who used to write soul-punching essays about purpose, now churning out listicles that read like ChatGPT with a Pinterest addiction.

The lawyer who shared smart, nuanced insights... now breaking down celebrity divorces because, hey, that’s what people click.

The researcher who used to publish deep dives, now posting knee-jerk takes on any trending study, even if it's way outside their lane.

It starts as a way to get noticed. And ends with you not recognizing your own damn content.

And here’s the kicker: when I did write what I actually cared about, the weird, the honest, the occasionally uncomfortable, my penis, people came (maybe literally, I don't know). Not instantly, but they showed up. And more importantly, they stayed. Because they weren’t here for SEO hacks or trending jargon, they were here for the real stuff. The good stuff. Me.

If you need more proof, let me show you how wild this ride has been:

I used to get 17,000 to 20,000 views per post on LinkedIn. Every. Damn. Time. Then one week the algorithm shifted, no warning, no flowers, and now I’m lucky if I get 500 views unless I pay. And guess what? Despite that brutal drop, I’m still getting comments. Still getting DMs. Still getting laughs. Because even if the audience shrank, the connection didn’t. My people stuck around. They like the writing. And maybe, just maybe, they still like my penis. (Again: metaphorically. Probably.)

So before you hit “post” on your next carefully-optimized, engagement-baiting masterpiece, stop and ask yourself:

“Am I posting this because it means something to me and the people I want to connect with, or because it might trick the algorithm into letting me sit at the cool table for a minute?”

One builds trust. The other builds a hollow brand you won’t even want to claim.

Write like you mean it.

Write like you’ve got a pulse.

And for the love of all that’s holy, write like no one’s penis is metaphorically watching.