The Myth of Mass Appeal

A few weeks ago, I finished writing something I was proud of. For me, writing has always been a kind of therapy. I’ve managed to get a few followers on Medium, but most months I don’t earn enough to cover a single trip to Del Taco.

That morning, the pride I felt settled in the same relieved kind of way you feel after carrying a piano up three flights of stairs. It had taken longer than I expected. I’d rewritten the ending three times, and some parts of it even more. When I finally hit publish, I was still fighting the urge to read it just one more time.

I don’t have enough followers to see immediate changes in the stats, but I did do something I don’t generally do. I didn’t hit publish and then read the article again anyway. I just pushed away from my desk and got ready for the day.

That’s the moment I keep coming back to.

It’s interesting. I’ve been writing on Medium for five or six years. My number of followers is still in the three digits. I’ve always been okay with the slow growth of a few new followers each month. I’m honored that a few people find my words worth reading. But like I said, writing for me is therapy first.

What’s odd, though, is that writing is the only area of my life where I’m okay with things not “catching fire.” Everywhere else, I’ve believed that quality will be obvious, contagious, and scalable. Everywhere else, I watch carefully to see how much traction things gain or how much praise I get for what I’ve delivered.

The drive isn’t about ego, necessarily. It’s mostly about validation. I’ve spent the last 25 years of my professional life equating performance with personal worth.

Very early in my career, I let performance numbers begin to tell me a story I came to believe: if what I did didn’t get a lot of attention and praise, then I didn’t matter.

But the truth is, most of what really shapes us doesn’t come wrapped in attention. It’s not loud or obvious.

And that’s often how wisdom works—not loud or obvious.

Some of the best conversations I’ve ever had happened in living rooms with bad lighting and no agenda. Some of the best writing I’ve done never made it out of a shared doc. Some of the truest things I know were whispered, not shouted; said once, and never posted.

The myth of mass appeal is that the good stuff always rises to the top. That truth wins when it gets enough traction. When I checked out the top 10 “most watched” videos on YouTube, though, the thought crossed my mind: this is where we’ve descended to as a species.

Most of the time, the things that grow us aren’t loud. They’re patient. They show up consistently and don’t beg for recognition. They sit with you long enough that you forget where you first heard them and just start living them.

I used to think I had to chase attention in order to be helpful. That clarity would come wrapped in metrics. That wisdom could be packaged.

But I’m starting to believe something else now: maybe the most important things don’t trend because they’re not designed to. They’re not meant to be consumed at scale. They’re meant to be held.

Even though writing is therapy, I’ve still tried to write things in a way that would resonate widely, and they haven’t. Even so, I don’t regret that. I’ve learned a lot. And, I’m paying more attention now to the words I come back to when no one’s watching. The ones I say to my kids when the day is long. The ones I repeat to myself when I feel unsure. Those are the ones that matter.

There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be heard. But I don’t believe the size of the audience is the best measure of value. Sometimes, it’s the opposite. Sometimes, the most lasting truths arrive softly and stay close, like a friend who doesn’t need to announce their presence to be felt.

I’m learning to trust that.

I write what feels true to who I am, and I’m learning to let that be how I approach other areas of my life. To speak even when the room is small. To notice the difference between being visible and being honest.

And that is enough.