The De-Influencer

We live in a world where everyone seems to be influencing someone. Most days, I’m just trying to stay honest with myself. This post is about what happens when we stop performing and start showing up as we really are.

This morning I went on a walk with a friend I adore but don’t see nearly enough. We met well over a decade ago when she taught my oldest child. We weren’t friends that year, but over time, as our boys became close, the two of us did too. We were never family friends or couple friends. Ours was a friendship built in motion. Every few weeks we took long walks where we caught up on life, trading stories about work, parenting, and everything in between.

Those walks were a small but steady ritual until life got in the way. The kids got older, work got busier, and somehow, the weeks turned into months. Nothing changed between us, but the rhythm of connection was gone. Then last week, I found myself telling another friend a story about her, and not five minutes later, she texted out of the blue: Want to go for a walk?

When we finally met, it felt like slipping back into a familiar song. We fell into conversation easily, each of us sharing what had filled the months apart. She talked about her work with animals and how it lights her up, about her kids, and about her classroom. I told her about my family, and then, for the first time, about my writing.

She had no idea I had written a book. I told her I had finished a memoir, that I was working with an agent on revisions, and that I had been publishing reflections on Substack. She had never heard of it, so when I described it as social media for writers, she asked a perfectly reasonable question. “Are you trying to be an influencer?”

I laughed, but inside, I bristled. “No,” I said, a little too quickly. I wasn’t sure why her question hit me so hard, but something in me tightened.

She went on to tell me about the moms in her classroom. “Some of them are influencers,” she said. “Like, actual ones. They have thirty, forty thousand followers.” She paused. “And you know what’s strange? The kids of those moms are often the ones who struggle the most. They’re the ones who act out, or seem lonely, or just look sad.”

That stopped me. She wasn’t being judgmental, just observant. And I knew instantly that she was right, not just about those specific parents, but about something bigger.

Influencing, at its core, is about performance. It’s about constructing a version of yourself for others to admire, emulate, or envy. And when you’re busy performing your life, there isn’t much room left to actually live it.

I thought about all the mothers online posting morning routines, organizing tips, recipes, and family photos that look like stills from a commercial. The “best mom” and “best wife” aesthetics. I get it. I spent years trying to prove my worth in similar ways: by being the perfect student, the perfect psychologist, the perfect friend, the perfect mother.

When I look back now, I can see how much of my energy went into maintaining appearances. For me, it wasn’t about vanity; it was about survival. I thought if I could hold everything together on the outside, maybe no one would notice that I wasn’t okay on the inside. Maybe if enough people thought I was enviable, I would finally feel okay myself. But all that holding together was exhausting. And it kept me disconnected from the people I loved most.

So when my friend asked if I wanted to be an influencer, something in me rebelled. I realized I’ve spent years trying to undo that very impulse. I don’t want to influence anyone to live better. I want to model what it looks like to be real.

I want to be a De-Influencer.

I don’t write to teach anyone how to live their best life. I write to tell the truth about mine; the messy, complicated, human truth. I don’t want to show people how to hold it all together; I want to show what it looks like to fall apart and rebuild. I don’t want to inspire perfection; I want to invite honesty.

Because I’ve learned that pretending to have it all figured out is the fastest way to lose connection, not just with others, but with ourselves.

When I was younger, I thought people would love me for being good, for being impressive, for getting it right. What I’ve learned instead is that people love me most when I’m just me. When I stop performing. When I stop pretending I’ve figured out how to live well.

Maybe that’s what the children of influencers are showing us without meaning to. Maybe they’re mirroring the disconnection that comes when adults perform instead of being present. Maybe they’re the truth-tellers, showing us what performance costs.

So no, I’m not trying to be an influencer. I want to be the opposite. I want to use words not to persuade but to reveal. I want to build community not through expertise but through honesty.

Here’s to the art of being real, even when it’s uncomfortable. To choosing truth over image, and connection over control. Thanks for walking this imperfect path with me.