Don’t Be Discouraged With Social Media

Aug 11, 2025

3 minutes read

There was a time when my social media posts carried some weight. Regionally and even nationally, I was recognized for my contributions to conversations about marketing and technology. My insights traveled, my posts circulated, and my voice felt amplified. But that time has long passed. Today, most of what I write goes unnoticed, mainly disappearing quietly into a feed overflowing with louder, newer, and more polished voices.

The funny thing is, I’m not bitter about it. In fact, I’ve grown to appreciate it.

When social platforms were young, the environment was intimate. Early adopters dominated the conversation, and you didn’t need to chase algorithms or hack your way into reach. You just showed up, shared your thoughts, and connected. Over time, though, everyone joined—literally everyone. People with extraordinary talent, originality, and creative energy poured in. And as the room filled, the spotlight naturally shifted. It wasn’t that I failed; it was simply that the world grew much bigger.

At first, losing visibility was humbling. But over the years, it became liberating. I realized how little I actually cared about being seen and how much I valued simply expressing myself. I write now the way a musician picks up their instrument every day—not for applause, not to fill a stadium, but because the act itself feels good. It’s a part of who I am.

These days, when I share something on social media, I’m not doing it to build influence or chase opportunity. I’m doing it because I enjoy writing, thinking, documenting, and connecting in whatever small ways remain. My influence is limited today, and I’m genuinely okay with that. It gives me space to experiment, to reflect, and to be honest without worrying about how it will perform.

Every once in a while, something still resonates. I’ll write a post that unexpectedly finds traction—a banger, as people say—and it reminds me that my voice can still carry when the timing is right. But I don’t expect those moments, and I don’t create for them. They’re pleasant surprises, not goals.

And I’ve come to believe something important: what I write doesn’t need to go viral to matter. Perhaps someday, long after my time is up, a friend or family member will stumble across a reflection I shared and find some wisdom or even get a small laugh out of it. That means more to me than any fleeting burst of engagement ever could.

For anyone out there slogging through social media—posting regularly, caring deeply, hoping to make a difference, and feeling invisible—I want to tell you this: don’t stop. Don’t let the lack of recognition discourage you. The platforms are crowded, the competition is enormous, and the algorithms are unpredictable. That doesn’t mean your voice doesn’t matter. It means the metrics aren’t the measurement of your impact.

Show up because you enjoy creating. Show up because your thoughts deserve space. Show up because someone, somewhere, someday might read something you wrote and feel seen, understood, encouraged, or inspired. Impact has never been as linear or as visible as the dashboards make us believe.

You’re allowed to create without chasing trends. You’re allowed to speak without optimizing for engagement. You’re allowed to share simply because it feels good to share.

The freedom that comes from releasing expectation is enormous. When you stop creating for recognition, you rediscover your creative instincts. You get your voice back. You reconnect with the joy that existed before audiences, metrics, and algorithms ever entered the equation.

And who knows—maybe the spotlight will swing back your way again. Perhaps it won’t. But either way, it doesn’t really matter. You’ll still be doing something you love. You’ll still be making your mark, even if the world isn’t clapping loudly while you do it.

So to anyone feeling unseen online: keep going. Keep writing. Keep sharing. Keep expressing yourself. The value is not in the attention you receive, but in the authenticity you practice. The world may be crowded, but there is still room for your voice—even if only a few people hear it.