Authenticity, For Sale

On brands, alignment, and the cost of meaning something online.

For years now, I’ve been told—by friends, by strangers, by the internet at large—that I should be making money on social media.

Not in a vague, aspirational way. In a very specific, numbers-forward way. The kind that comes with screenshots of Stripe dashboards and casual assurances like, It’s actually easier than you think. The implication is always the same: if you have taste, if you have an eye, if your life photographs well, monetization should be inevitable.

This idea is everywhere right now. On TikTok. In newsletters. In conversations that start as compliments and end as informal audits of your digital potential. We are living in a moment where having a “nice life” is treated as an underutilized asset.

On paper, I fit the brief. I take beautiful photos. I write. I cook. I live a visually coherent life—remote landscapes, children, animals, food made with intention. People tell me this often, usually right before reminding me that I could be “doing more” with it.

What they rarely say is that “doing more” usually means deciding who you are for brands. And trusting that brands know who they are, too. This is where things get complicated.

I exist in a tier of the creator economy that doesn’t get much airtime— 14k IG followers. Below micro-influencer status. Inconsistent. Unoptimized. Real in a way that isn’t always helpful. Brands reach out, but the terms vary wildly. I’ve been offered five-figure deals—$12,000, clean, decisive—and I’ve also been offered free products framed as opportunity. Sometimes in the same quarter.

The inconsistency isn’t just financial; it’s philosophical. There’s no clear signal about what’s valued. Taste, but not too much of it. Authenticity, but only if it performs. A life that feels aspirational, but not so specific that it becomes hard to sell against.

Gifting, in particular, has become a kind of industry tell. It’s positioned as generosity, but it functions more like a hedge: we like you, just not enough to commit. An acknowledgment of aesthetic alignment without recognition of labor. Of originality. Of risk. Your life is interesting enough to borrow from, but not yet valuable enough to compensate.

What makes this disorienting is that I’ve seen what real brand alignment can look like.
For six years, I ran a dinner series called It’s a Dinner. When brands were involved, they were present—literally. The olive oil we used came from producers who showed up, who talked about their land, their methods, their priorities. There was intention in where things came from and clarity in what they supported. The relationship felt mutual. Specific. Grounded.

All from the It's a Dinner era of brand partnerships

That specificity feels increasingly rare now.

Most brands speak the same language. Sustainability. Transparency. Community. Authenticity. These words appear everywhere, but they’re rarely anchored to anything concrete. Values have become aesthetic markers—something you gesture toward rather than practice. Ambiguity, I’ve come to realize, isn’t a failure of branding. It’s the strategy.

Ambiguity protects brands. It allows them to align broadly without committing narrowly. It keeps them from having to say no—or stand firmly for anything that might cost them reach.

For creators, this creates a strange burden. We’re expected to intuit alignment without being given enough information to actually assess it. To make value judgments based on tone and typography. To perform sincerity while negotiating with entities that rarely offer it in return.

I do things intentionally. The ingredients I cook with. The places I spend my time. The work I say yes to. I want to bring that same discernment into the partnerships I accept. I want to work with brands that don’t just photograph well next to my life, but actually belong there.

But how do you tell which brands mean what they say? How do you distinguish conviction from good copy? There’s no shared rubric, no transparency standard, no expectation that brands explain themselves with the same vulnerability they often ask of creators.

And still—I want this to work. I want brands that want intention. Brands that are willing to be specific, even if it limits them. Brands that understand alignment as a responsibility, not just a vibe.

True Botanicals Partnership

What I don’t want is to dilute myself into someone else’s ambiguity just to be chosen.

Substack, for now, is where I can think clearly. It gives shape to a life that doesn’t run on agendas. I’m grateful for it. But I’m also aware of how small I am here—a small fish in a very large pond, trying to figure out how to stand out without flattening myself into something easier to sell.

I don’t think the future of this work is louder branding or better optimization.
I think it’s discernment. Specificity. And a willingness—on both sides—to actually mean something.

Because the real question isn’t whether creators can monetize their lives.
It’s whether brands are ready to stand for something when they ask to be part of them.