The Visibility Trap
How shame, scarcity, and the illusion of growth keep both creators and activists locked into a losing paradigm.
There’s a manipulation tactic that shows up in activist groups, in creator circles, in influencer culture…in fact, any system where visibility is currency and shame is leverage. You’ve seen it: the call to just keep showing up, the insistence that you’re making a difference, even when the structure around you offers no clarity, no feedback, and no visible outcome. It masquerades as encouragement, but psychologically it’s actually control.
This isn’t some new phenomenon. Activist groups use it to keep disillusioned members from leaving. They say "You’re part of something bigger," even as internal rot spreads and leadership consolidates power. Participation gets equated with loyalty, and action currency is the only money anyone is accepting. And the moment you begin to question whether anything is actually changing, someone tells you the problem is you—not the strategy, not the structure, not the silence around misconduct.
The creator economy runs the exact same play.
Substack, for instance, is now saturated with paywalled content about “how to grow your Substack.” You show up for insight, and are met with tactics to get more people to show up for you. Courses, strategies, monetization hacks, lead magnets, subscriber funnels, all sold with an implied promise: if you follow these steps, your work will finally matter. For a whole lot of people, that distills down to “if you buy this, YOU will matter.”
Sounds harsh, right? But it’s true.
Most of these creators haven’t monetized growth. They’ve monetized the illusion of growth. What they’re really selling isn’t a method—it’s emotional relief. They sell you the feeling that you are not invisible, that you can fix the ache of obscurity by paying for access. They’ve packaged your need for validation, slapped a price tag on it, and built an industry not of insight, but of dopamine and acceptance.
Here’s the part we don’t say out loud: Deep down, you understand that 1,000 subscribers won’t cure that hollow, anxious sense that your words don’t matter; after all, it becomes a temporary high that can only be momentarily cured. But even a 10% chance that it might work? That’s enough to open the wallet. Maybe another 1,000 subscribers will fix it. Maybe another 100 members will give us the credibility we crave. Maybe another ill-advised political action will make people notice us.
This is why it works: because it targets something primal. Humans are meaning-seeking, tribe-seeking creatures. We need to believe our effort has purpose, that we are not just “screaming into the void.” (Experiment: Do a search on Substack for that phrase and you’ll see what I mean.) There’s a reason why that sentence is so popular: it’s literally a euphemism for “I feel unseen, unheard, and unvalued.” That’s why monetizing it is so successful.
Many systems exploit that need. They co-opt our hunger to belong and turn it into a sales funnel.
And central to that manipulation is social proof—the psychological belief that if others are doing something, it must be valid. If people you admire have paid for these courses, if you see testimonials and big names endorsing a movement or growth strategy, if you are inundated with people telling you about their fantastic success using XYZ strategy, you’re far more likely to believe the system works, even if you don’t see results yourself.
In activism, this plays out in the form of group leaders doubling down on broken tactics. In creator culture, it’s the parade of "six-figure writers" implying that if it worked for them, it can work for you…and if it doesn’t, it’s your fault.
In influencer culture, it’s even more hollow. You see the luxury clothes, the jet-setting life, the beach shots and private flights. Except most of it is fake. That influencer isn’t at a five-star resort—they’re in their front yard with props, good lighting, clever camera angles, and Photoshop; in fact, you probably live better than they do.
But it doesn’t matter. The illusion is what sells. The curated life becomes the proof that their advice, their course, their product or brand must be worth buying. And once again, you become the casualty.
Meanwhile, those same creators or group leaders sprinkle in just enough encouragement to keep you locked in. Whether you’re looking to increase Substack followers or further a political cause that matters, these phrases probably sound familiar, and our brain hears them as a message we are desperately craving:
Keep going, because people are watching. (You are seen.)
Keep showing up. (You matter.)
Consistency is the key. (You are perfect the way you are and don’t need to self-reflect or question any of your processes.)
You’re not like those other people who are doing _____. (You’re special.)
These phrases seem supportive. But in context, they function as gaslighting—the emotional glue that holds a broken system together.
This becomes obvious when you add in the flip side of the coin: that you need to buy something quick because everything you’re doing is wrong.
This creates the imbalance between shame and validation, and if there is anything true about the human race, it’s that we will do anything to avoid shame. Even in the midst of these mixed messages, we hear one thing loud and clear:
If you quit, you failed. Not the platform. Not the method. You.
The worst part is that sometimes we recognize this as it’s happening, and yet still feel compelled to follow the path. That’s why it’s such effective programming, even though in our gut, we know it feels gross.
There’s nothing wrong with reading (or writing) articles about things that people might be doing wrong in a specific area. After all, my entire Substack is built on correcting wrong practices in activism groups. But know this: regardless of the group you’re in or the cause you champion, your value has nothing to do with it. Whether you succeed or fail, your identity is not tied to it. You matter. Full stop.
That might sound cheesy, but if we all believed this wholeheartedly, I’d have a lot less to write about, and ‘growth engines’ wouldn’t have such a seductive draw.
There’s nothing wrong with digging into your processes and being honest about whether they’re working. We all know the definition of insanity: doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. If something isn’t working, then be honest about that and fix it. But in this manipulative model, even that is monetized.
It’s the same architecture whether it’s a failing group, a Substack funnel, or a curated influencer feed:
Sell a sense of meaning.
Dangle visibility or purpose as a reward.
Use shame to discourage exit.
Blur the line between encouragement and manipulation.
Reinforce it all with curated social proof.
The cycle continues until people either burn out or wise up. Until they realize that what they joined for (impact, expression, community) was replaced by performance, pressure, and a quiet desperation to matter.
This isn’t about dismissing growth or community. These are critical parts of being human, especially in political activism when we are working to create something in line with our deepest values.
It’s about refusing to confuse metrics with value, and groupthink with belonging. It’s about recognizing that systems built on shame and scarcity will always collapse under the weight of their promises.
So what do we do instead?
We get honest about what we’re feeling and why it makes us vulnerable. We learn to spot the patterns. We ask who benefits from our loyalty, and who profits from our doubt. We dive into ourselves and find the ways that our own needs are being leveraged.
We create because we mean it, because we believe in what we’re writing and doing. We engage because the mission matters. Not because someone told us our value depended on it. It doesn’t, and the sooner we grasp that and really internalize it, the sooner these tricks stop working on us.
These tactics all spring from the same human need: to be seen, to matter, to belong. Whether it's buying a Substack growth course, following an influencer, or taking part in political actions and groups that feel slightly off—you're being sold the fear of missing out. FOMO is leverage. And when it's used to bypass your instincts or override your doubts, it becomes negative manipulation.
Understanding that is the key to resisting it. It doesn’t matter whether the context is personal branding, preparedness, or activism—the tactics are often identical. And they work because they’re tapping into something deep and universal.
The defense is clarity. It’s intentional trust systems that make it harder for that kind of manipulation to take root. It’s self-awareness that helps you spot when your need to matter is being weaponized. It’s self-honesty about things that hey, maybe you are doing wrong and need to fix—not because if you don’t, you don’t matter, but because you’re healthy enough to know that you matter either way and that you should be constantly and intentionally self-evaluating.
Interrogate the pitch. Track where the pressure is coming from inside you. And ask yourself who benefits from your urgency.
Build slowly. Trust carefully. Act deliberately. That’s how you stay free.
And let’s be clear: asking someone to pay for your work isn’t manipulation. That’s commerce. We all have bills to pay. Writers, artists, even activists at times—we all deserve to be compensated for our labor. But there’s a difference between offering value and exploiting vulnerability. It’s not the transaction that’s the problem. It’s the psychological bait: the implication that if you pay, if you join, if you comply—you will matter more as a person.
That’s the difference. And it matters.