Martin Sayers. I started following him a few weeks ago. And he’s right about one thing.

He was saying things worth hearing, specifically about copywriting and storytelling. The kind of elements I know and feel passionately about. He’s a health and wellness copywriter who writes honestly about the craft. The cost. The demands. Plus, he was talking about why so many good writers stay broke while mediocre ones thrive. That kind of honesty? It’s rare. So I stopped, just long enough to pay attention, because I thought he’d have some insight I didn’t, especially after he posted about the invisible copywriter. That resonated with me. The one doing extraordinary work, producing copy that transforms businesses, outperforming competitors, and still struggling to find work. I read it diligently. His diagnosis? No presence. No profile. No way for the right clients to find them. This world doesn’t reward the best writer, he said. It rewards the most visible one.

I read it at 6 in the morning, still half asleep, and felt it true, because he named something I felt. I know who that person is. It’s me. So I felt compelled to respond. Not to fight or argue. To add something to the conversation. To say one thing: here’s what it looks like from the inside.

Then I saw the link at the bottom. Please go here. And I understood. The post wasn’t a conversation. It was a funnel, designed to get me to buy his services. Because I didn’t work hard enough, wasn’t smart enough, or good enough to be heard. But he could help. For a small fee of a few hundred dollars.

So here’s what I DIDN’T say in the comment box.

I’ve been showing up. For years. Not performing. Showing up. Though the algorithm doesn’t know it, I’ve written campaigns with open rates near 62%. I’ve sat with organizations trying to find words for what they do and helped them tell those stories in ways that move people to action. Clients told me: You changed how we tell our story. I’m not invisible because I haven’t followed the advice. I’m invisible because the system wasn’t built to see the kind of work I do.

Algorithms reward volume and packaging. It counts likes, adds up keywords, and calculates posting frequency. It doesn’t know what to do with craft because math can’t measure the difference between a sentence that informs and a sentence that sticks with someone for three days. Martin’s right. Visibility matters. He’s just describing a different kind of invisible. It’s right where I’m living.

I’m feeling exhausted. It’s a particular exhaustion, not burnout. Burnout is running out of fuel. This is different. Showing up with a full tank of gas, then discovering the road is closed. You do everything right. You write the thing. You send the pitch. You craft the response. It’s heartfelt and genuine, and it provides more than it should. Real emotions.

And the reply? It’s a link. To a course. Because you aren’t smart enough to do it on your own. You have to pay someone to show you the way. At some point, you start to wonder: Is generosity a liability? Is storytelling’s craftwork a category error? Are the gifts you’ve spent a decade developing not the currency this economy accepts?

I don’t have a black-and-white answer to that. I’m not going to pretend I do. What I know is this: the loudest voice in the room telling you how to get seen? Is already being seen.

And some of us? We’re still figuring out how to be heard. Without becoming that.

---

Has generosity ever felt like a liability?

And what’s the last piece of writing that stayed with you for three days?