Confessions of a Reluctant Thought Leader

This has been rattling around in my brain for months. Time to set it free.

Photo by Christian Erfurt on Unsplash

When I announced I was stepping away—from the company I built over eleven years, the podcasts I built over five, the community I built over three—the reaction was a mix of surprise and disbelief - even from friends.

The most common question was “Why?” I shared that I wanted to go back to my roots. Back to the work. Back to building. Back to being an operator.

Those who knew me from my NPR days—or earlier—understood. It made sense to them. They knew this was something I regularly contemplated.

But others? The ones who knew me only as a voice behind a mic, the author of Redefining HR, the guy on the stage? They didn’t see it coming. They struggled to understand why I’d walk away from something I had spent years building.

Yes - I wanted to build again - but that was only part of the equation. This is the other part.

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A pivotal moment that validated this career shift came last year. Someone called me a “thought leader,” and my stomach tightened. It was at a networking event. An industry colleague waved me over, lit up with excitement, and introduced me to a group she was hosting as a thought leader in HR. Then, she tried to add more context about what I did. She struggled. She landed on influencer.

I forced a smile. In my head, a voice whispered: Is this really what you want to be known as?

That wasn’t the first time I’d been put on that pedestal. Conferences. Events. Articles. Lists. It had been happening for years. But in that moment, it hit me differently.

I didn’t just not see myself as a thought leader. I didn’t want to be one.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not going to pretend I didn’t enjoy parts of it. Traveling the world. Standing on a stage, 4,000 people hanging on your words? That’s a rush. That’s adrenaline. Seeing your articles resonate and go viral? That’s validating. Publishing books? Experiences I’ll never forget.

It can become addictive.

But I was never comfortable with the notion that I was more worthy of attention because I did those things.

Because let’s be real: The people you listen to on podcasts? The ones on stage? The ones who show up in your LinkedIn feed daily with a hot take? Most aren’t uniquely special. They probably aren’t smarter than you. They may not be more talented. They aren’t more deserving of respect just because of their follower count.

They’re just…louder. I don’t mean that in a literal sense. I mean that they’ve learned how to harness digital media to create noise. I did, too.

And the louder you get, the bigger your audience grows. The bigger your audience grows, the bigger your platform grows. The bigger your platform grows, the bigger your influence grows. The bigger your influence grows, the more you want to deliver to keep earning that.

There’s an arc to this.

Blogs lead to publications. Publications lead to stages. Stages lead to newsletters. Newsletters lead to podcasts. Podcasts lead to books. Books lead to bigger stages.

Before you know it, you’re managing all these things simultaneously. It’s a tremendous amount of work and effort - and it doesn’t stop. You feel a need to keep feeding the content beast.

The obligation to keep all the plates spinning is a grind. Eventually, it ground me down.

“I am not a thought leader. And neither are you.”

I wrote a blog post back in 2014 that said the same thing. It still holds up.

I never set out to be some guru of modern HR. I just wanted to build things. Share what I was learning. Help where I could. Put ideas into the world that others might find useful. Shine a light on work that matters. Bring people together for open-source collaboration in moments like when COVID hit and everything felt like it was falling apart.

When I started in media, I was hungry. I wanted to write. I wanted to present. I wanted to tell stories. I wanted the reps, and I wanted to grow.

But somewhere along the way, the expectation shifted. “Want” became “need.”

Instead of doing the work, I found myself more often talking about the work.

And here’s the truth: I missed doing the work.

The platform I built—through speaking, writing, podcasting—gave me access to incredible leaders. People who were in the trenches, making things happen. And the more I talked to them, the more I realized how much I missed being in it with them.

There’s a strange thing that happens as your platform grows. The work and the platform become intertwined with your identity. People expect things from you.

So you start commenting more and creating less. Reacting instead of building. Talking instead of doing.

It can be exhausting.

Keeping up with the podcasts, the newsletters, the speaking gigs, the social media, the marketing, the promotion of it all—it started feeling like a full-time job. Because it was a full-time job.

And it wasn’t the job I wanted.

And then there’s social media.

It’s changed. We all know it. Even LinkedIn, once a haven for professional discussion, has become a battlefield for hot takes and outrage bait. Rage farmers are harvesting clicks for clout. Posting for engagement points. Keeping score. Harnessing angst for algorithmic advantage.

I watched it happen - and I found myself pulling back. Taking more social media sabbaticals.

I prioritized my peace over my reach.

But here’s the thing—when you’re running a business, reach matters. Audience matters. It’s easy to get caught up in the numbers, the likes, the shares, the metrics. They’re not just vanity metrics for a small business owner - they’re tied to how you support your family.

Over the last year, I’ve done a lot of reflection that led to a clear conclusion - I don’t want to play that game anymore.

So I won’t.

This doesn’t mean I’m disappearing.

I’m not done creating, writing, posting, or speaking - from from it. Hell, I might even have another podcast in me at some point. But I’ll do it on my own terms.

No more chasing engagement. No more performing for the algorithm. No more content for the sake of “content.”

Instead, I’ll be investing my energy into my new role and team, pursuing new creative outlets like short filmmaking, and continuing my efforts to build a better world of work for everyone.

I want to build again.

So I am.

It’s been a tremendous ride, but it’s time for a detour to new adventures.

I’ve always aimed to keep it real with my community through the highs and lows of entrepreneurial life. I feel I owe you that candor - so it was important for me to share the burnout risks that come with platforms and audience.

Here’s to new chapters and new adventures.

And if you’ve made it this far—thanks for sticking with me.

I’ll see you out there. ✌🏼