This morning, sitting with my coffee still steaming, I found myself caught in a strange mirror, one that reflects not just my face but my entire sense of self back at me through the lens of engagement metrics and algorithmic approval.

The question that emerged from the silence was unsettling: Am I allowing the algorithm to be the ghostwriter of my soul?

The Flow and the Fracture

Yesterday, I had a rhythm. The kind of deep, contemplative flow that writers know—where words emerge from some wordless place, where thinking and being merge into a single stream. I was writing, podcasting, and moving through my day with the particular energy of someone fully inhabiting their calling.

Then I made a video.

Not because the video wanted to be made, but because videos “perform better.” Because the algorithm favours movement over stillness and quick consumption over slow contemplation. And in that moment of optimising for the machine, I felt something fracture. The thinker’s vibe—that delicate frequency of deep attention—scattered like birds startled by a sudden noise.

I remained productive, sure. But productivity and presence are different creatures entirely.

The Avatar We Feed

Here’s what I’m noticing: we don’t just post content anymore. We post versions of ourselves—carefully curated avatars designed to trigger the dopamine dispensers hidden in silicon and code. Before I share anything, I find myself asking not “Is this true to who I am?” but “Will this land well? Will they like this version of me?”

It’s a subtle shift, this movement from authentic expression to algorithmic performance. So subtle we barely notice we’re doing it.

The people who know me (really know me) see the full spectrum. They get my contradictions, my uncertainties, my moments of stumbling toward insight. But those who encounter me only through screens meet the avatar I think they want to see. The one optimised for engagement.

And here’s the trap: when that avatar gets positive feedback, I do more of what “works” and less of what’s simply true. Slowly, imperceptibly, the tail begins wagging the dog.

Playing the Game or Being Played

But what if we approached this differently? What if, instead of pretending the game doesn’t exist, we acknowledged it fully—and then chose how consciously to play?

The algorithm is neither good nor evil. It’s simply a system optimised for attention, designed to surface what keeps people scrolling. Understanding this doesn’t make us victims; it makes us aware players in a larger game.

The question becomes: Do I play the game, or does the game play me?

When I write from my most authentic voice—when I let the barefoot philosopher speak without worrying about virality—something true moves through the words. It may not reach millions, but it reaches the right people. The intelligent misfits who are hungry for depth in a world optimised for speed.

When I chase algorithmic approval, I become a performer in my own life, a stranger wearing my face.

The Practice of Staying Rooted

Perhaps the answer isn’t to abandon the digital realm entirely but to approach it like any other contemplative practice—with intention, awareness, and a commitment to what Thoreau called “the essential facts of life.”

This means asking different questions before I post:

• Does this feel true to who I am in this moment?
• Would I share this if no one were watching?
• Am I creating from fullness or from need?
• Does this serve my authentic voice or my algorithmic avatar?

It means remembering that the most profound transformations happen slowly, in the quiet spaces between posts, in the long conversations that metrics can’t measure.

The Radical Act of Being

Maybe the most rebellious thing we can do in an attention economy is to stay true to our own rhythm. To write when we’re called to write, to speak when we have something worth saying, to create not because it will perform well, but because it wants to exist.

This isn’t about abandoning strategy or refusing to engage with the digital world. It’s about approaching that engagement from a place of rootedness rather than reactivity. It’s about understanding that our authentic voice—imperfect, searching, human—is more valuable than any avatar we could construct.

The algorithm will always be there, humming its electric song of optimisation. But beneath that song, if we listen carefully, we can still hear the older rhythm—the one that beats in time with our actual hearts, the one that knows the difference between being seen and being known.

What version of yourself are you feeding? And more importantly—who decides which version is real?

I’m curious about your own relationship with authenticity in digital spaces. How do you stay rooted in who you are while navigating the pull of algorithmic approval? What practices help you remember the difference between your genuine voice and the avatar you think people want to see?

Share your thoughts, but only if they feel true to you in this moment.