The Attention Economy of False Gurus

It didn’t hit me like a revelation. There was no dramatic confrontation, and no Discord message or email I decided at the last second not to send. It was just a Thursday morning, and someone I’d followed for a long time posted a new leadership thread on LinkedIn. It was something about frameworks, founder psychology, and making decisions from abundance instead of fear.

And I didn’t click.

That’s it. That’s the moment.

Not even a few months ago, I would have saved the post somewhere labeled Strategy or Emotional Resilience, then bookmarked the author’s site, maybe looked up their latest Substack essay or pricing page, just to see how they’d “productized” their wisdom. I might have even emailed the link to someone on my team with a note like, “worth a read; feels relevant.”

But that day, I just… didn’t.

It was one of those moment when you realize that it feels like picking up someone else’s grocery list when I already had what I needed for dinner.

It’s fascinating how these small moments tend to linger with us. There was no heroic rejection of the thought-leader ecosystem, but because it was the first time in a long time I didn’t feel like I owed my attention to someone just because they had a platform, a mantra, and 10,000 followers.

There was a time when I really believed it was possible to hack my way into clarity. I believed that if I just followed the right people, drank enough of their Kool-Aid, adopted the right frameworks (for the low, low price of $49.99—today only), and stacked the right habits clarity would click into place like a well-designed dashboard.

I wouldn’t have to guess anymore. I would be unshakably clear, optimized, and evolved.

Unfortunately, most of these systems, it turns out, are built for one thing: keeping you coming back for more. They’re not there to impart wisdom. They are there to collect your hard-earned money as frequently as possible.

They provide just enough validation that it feels like a moment of certainty and clarity.

Somewhere in the chase, I forgot that clarity isn’t something you can download. It’s something you live into.

I think back sometimes to this consultant we hired—Mr. Penny Loafers with no socks. At first, I really wanted to believe in him. I didn’t expect magic, but I was tired, I didn’t want another spreadsheet or business book, and I wanted someone to tell me that I hadn’t wasted a decade.

That, I think, is the currency most false gurus deal in: attention. They’re collecting money but not imparting wisdom. And the attention they gather is mostly from people who just want to feel like the work they’ve done matters. Like they’re close to something that will make the hard parts make sense.

But clarity rarely shows up in a newsletter or that eBook I spent $20 on that was filled with typos and grammar errors. Clarity shows up in much simpler ways:

Noticing a child load and start the dishwasher without being asked.
Watching a team member grow into a role when you give them wings.
Realizing I hadn’t thought about a “troubling” competitor in weeks.

Those moments never trend, and the gurus will never talk about them. But they are the ones I’m learning to trust again.

I still read things. Still highlight too many Medium passages. Still love a good chart. But I don’t feel the same ache anymore; the one that used to whisper, If you don’t pay attention to this, you’ll miss your chance to matter.

These days, I’m practicing the idea that I already do and that I always have.

That the version of me who shows up to the messy middle, who skips the webinar and calls his dad back instead, who doesn’t chase the blueprint but still builds. That guy? He’s not missing anything.

He’s just learning to hear his own voice again.

And that is enough.