Hey honeys and hustlers,

I used to collect subscriptions the way I collect notebooks—one for every idea, every workflow, every new promise of helping me become “more productive.” But lately I’ve been canceling. Not because I’m anti-tools, but because I got tired of paying for a stack that mostly kept me busy managing the stack. The surprising part is what happened next: my work got clearer. When I simplified what I actually do to writing and producing shows, I actually had to decide what helps me do that efficiently. I kept what genuinely supports my media business—my home base in Notion, a few essentials for writing, recording, design, publishing, and finance—and let the rest go.

I’m also not leaning on AI the way solopreneurs are being told we “should.” I use it sometimes, mainly in Notion and Perplexity, but I don’t want my business to run on constant prompting. The goal isn’t to outsource thinking; it’s to protect it. AI can help me move faster on small tasks and think through things I’m pondering in my business or creative projects, but it can’t replace taste, discernment, or the lived experience that makes my work sound like me. Doing less, better, has made my output feel sharper and my focus steadier. Fewer subscriptions means fewer tabs, fewer decisions, fewer subtle pulls away from the work, and fewer untracked renewal emails (yeah, sometimes I forgot I was even paying for things until that email hit my inbox). The real flex isn’t having the biggest tech stack; it’s having a setup that gets out of the way so I can actually make the thing.

Here’s a breakdown of what I spend per year running my business:

• Notion Business Plan (organization and planning): $120/year

• Riverside (podcast recording): $180/year

• Obsidian Sync Plan (writing): $99/year

• beehiiv (newsletter publishing, products, and website): $652/year

• Adobe (Photography Plan and Premiere video editing plan): $328/year

• Quickbooks (Accounting): $215/year

• Grammarly (virtual writing assistant): $72/year

• Hey (email inbox): $99/year

• Captivate (podcast hosting): $202/year

• Framer (personal website): $360/year

• Arc Studio Pro (screenwriting): $99/year

Total: $2,426

The ones I have affiliate codes for are down below in the footer if you’d like to check those out.

There are some SaaS tools I only pay for as needed: Bolt (vibe coding), nano banana (AI graphic design mock-ups), Namecheap (domains), and Dripify (LinkedIn DM automation. I pay for these by the month or by usage. There are some SaaS tools that I use for free and haven’t seen the need to upgrade to a paid plan: Canva (graphic design), Luma (events), and Perplexity (AI deep search/research). I used to pay for a social media scheduling tool, but now that I’m focused on social media dramatically less, I don’t see the point. All the places I post on now have native scheduling, which makes it easier if that’s something I want: LinkedIn, Threads, and YouTube are where I spend my time.

For all the things digital tools can do, sometimes there’s just nothing better than pen and paper to sketch and write out ideas. My favorite stationary companies for the last few years have been Ugmonk and Lochby. I get my pens from Amazon, which are pretty generic.

There are things that don’t make this list, like memberships or community subscriptions I’ve paid for in years past that have connected me with people to learn from that have helped me grow my business exponentially. My reasons for renewing or not renewing vary, but I think some professional membership organizations can be profoundly helpful if you’re participating when they can add to your momentum.

For some, that number above may seem like a lot. Others may be questioning how I got it so low. The main thing I’ve learned about SaaS tools over the years is that anyone acting like they aren’t important to get right and use effectively to run a business is probably trying to sell you a dream of a silver bullet software and workflow that’ll make you six figures on autopilot. Tools help us engage with the internet and our ideas more effectively. There are so many tools that sell analysis and automation, but they won’t ever change the fact that you have to create a product, project, or service that people actually want. So yeah, I use less, and I do less. But everything I hit publish on, I can stand behind, and that’s worth the money to me.

What are your favorite digital tools? Do you feel like you’re paying too much? Is there a tool you think will help you that you’re afraid to invest in? Comment or reply and let me know! Let’s workshop it together!

Happy Thursday, folks!

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Hey honeys and hustlers,

While people love to say that social media is a highlight reel, there are quite a few prominent examples of public failures. Short-form creators who are unable to pivot to long form (YouTube, podcast, a newsletter, events) for greater sponsorship opportunities or to sell their own products. Brands that absolutely fail at jumping on trends or crafting a brand voice online. Brand partnerships that fall flat because the audience identifies that it doesn’t feel aligned.

I got a lot of responses from last week’s article. It’s easy to get discouraged by social media marketing because online activity doesn't necessarily translate into success behind the scenes. When you see those examples day after day, it can start to feel like the only options are to either become a full-time content machine or accept that “social doesn’t work.” The truth is usually simpler: a lot of people (and companies) treat posting as the goal rather than a bridge to sustainable business goals—clear offers, consistent positioning, and a path from attention to action.

Social media isn’t directly correlated with sales, but it is often top-of-funnel for sales conversations when it’s done well. It’s where people get a first impression of your work, decide whether you’re credible, and quietly track whether you show up consistently enough to be trusted with their money. A good social presence doesn’t have to be loud or viral—it just needs to make it easier for the right people to understand what you do, who it’s for, and what to do next (read, subscribe, inquire, book, buy). In that sense, social is less a cash register and more a well-lit storefront window.

One of the fastest ways to make social feel less intimidating (and less cringey) is to model success on purpose: watch brands and creators who communicate clearly, respect their audience, and connect their content to a real business engine. Pay attention to how they talk about their work at different budget and skill levels—how often they show proof, how they explain the value, how they repeat key messages without sounding repetitive, and how their calls-to-action feel natural instead of pushy. Studying what’s working helps you see that effective marketing isn’t a personality type—it’s a set of learnable decisions that make your services and products easier to understand, remember, and say “yes” to.

Here are some social media marketing campaigns I'm watching heavily right now:

• Province of Canada x Heated Rivalry fleece rollout (mainly short-form video on Instagram)

• Austin Kleon's new book release campaign (images and articles on Substack, a book tour, and other in-person events. I wouldn’t be surprised to see him doing a round of podcast interviews after the book is released this week.)

• Career Colin's For the Firsts rebrand rollout (mainly short-form video and graphic carousels)

I’m curious, what brands and creators do you think are crushing it online? What do you love about their social media presence? What will you do/change/try in your own social media marketing strategy? Respond or leave a comment! I read every single one!

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Hey honeys and hustlers,

Yes, you should repurpose your work (and yes, you should do it yourself). Justin Bieber showed up at Coachella with a laptop, pulled up YouTube, took requests, and basically did karaoke with the crowd. A month later, and people are still clipping it like it happened yesterday. That’s the thing about a good “greatest hits” moment: it doesn’t feel stale. It doesn’t need a lot of pomp and circumstance. It doesn’t even need to be truly repackaged. It needs to feel like access. Access to your thought process. Access to your perspective. Access to your response to how people received it.

Creators talk about repurposing like it’s either:

• A moral failure (“I can’t post the same thing twice, people will hate me.”)

• A shortcut (“Let an AI tool chop it up, spray it everywhere, call it growth.”)

Both approaches miss the point. Repurposing isn’t about doing less work. It’s about getting full value from the work you already did. If you wrote a newsletter, recorded a podcast, or published a video, you didn’t just “make something”; you made an asset.

But an asset that isn’t distributed well won’t reach its intended audience. Yes, creating long-form media takes time, but don’t waste that time by not putting in the effort to market your work, products, or services. The goal of repurposing is to make sure your best ideas actually reach:

• the people who already like you but missed your upload/email

• the people who would like you if they saw you

• and future you, who will need proof you’ve always been this good (because you are that good)

Here’s where a lot of repurposing advice goes sideways: it turns distribution into a separate creative project. A new creative series made specifically for social media, with no clear objective or underlying strategy. A shiny new experiment on Threads (talking to myself here). Suddenly, you’re not using short-form media to share your work. You’re:

• redesigning everything to match a social media trend (while you tell yourself that it’s to expand your brand presence)

• rewriting your message to sound like someone else who you think has content that performs better than yours

• spending more time “packaging” than publishing

When distribution begins to feel like “new creations,” it quietly competes with the home base (more on this later).

Why you should do the repurposing yourself (at least for a while)

If you’re thinking: “I get it, but other creators’ repurposed stuff looks better than mine,” you’re not wrong. It probably does. But “better” is often a mix of:

• time (they’ve been doing it longer)

• taste (they’ve trained their eye through repetition)

• and infrastructure (templates, systems, editors, and feedback loops)

You don’t get any of that by outsourcing too early. Doing it yourself is how you build the muscle that makes repurposing feel effortless later.

1) You learn what your work is actually about

When you repurpose your own material, you start seeing the themes you keep returning to. You learn your angles. Your phrases. Your obsession list. AI isn’t at a place where it can effectively and specifically identify this for you. And even if it could, it shouldn’t. You should be able to define and shape this.

2) You find the moments that people actually care about

A SaaS/AI tool can find a “high energy” moment or phrase with keywords. It can’t find meaning. You know what sentence is the thesis of the project or product. You know which story angle lands or which part of the story hooked you. You know which part of the episode made you pause when you said it. That’s what should get shared.

3) You stop performing for the internet

A lot of creators don’t avoid repurposing because it’s hard. They avoid it because it triggers comparison. Repurposing forces the question: Can my work stand next to everyone else’s? Your work can look less produced than someone else’s and still be more valuable. The internet trains us to think that the most aesthetically pleasing packaging is the most credible. And my filmmaker brain wants to give in every time I see a beautiful edit with tasteful, accessibility-friendly captions. But the reality is that I only notice the full spectrum of short-form media because people put it out there for me to find, and that’s more important than the media's production quality.

The repurposing approach that doesn’t make you hate your life

Think of repurposing as “replaying,” not “rebuilding.” Your job is to take one finished piece and extract the parts that travel well. And maybe even bring people along for the ride!

1. Pick one home base piece at a time (newsletter/essay, podcast episode, or YouTube video).

2. Create a trailer for that home base piece. This could be a clip, but preferably it should be a little more involved. Like 2% more effort, please.

3. Make each moment point back home (subscribe, listen, read, join, download a related freebie, check out our membership, etc).

4. Repeat for 6 weeks before you decide it “didn’t work.”

5. Bonus: ask your audience to share the most useful or valuable resource you’ve created to bring them in on the fun.

Repurposing compounds. It looks slow until it suddenly doesn’t. Repurposing your content in a tasteful way shows that you have respect for your time, ideas, and the people who missed it the first time. Not everyone who’s following your journey now was following your journey when you started. And the ones that were probably loved what you posted, and are happy to be reminded of its greatness again.

Treat your ideas like they matter. I’m rooting for you.

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Hey honeys and hustlers,

Summer in the South has a certain kind of soul to it: sweat on your collarbone, ice clinking in a cocktail glass, bass from a DJ drifting down a brick street, and somebody’s auntie fanning themselves with a flyer for an event that starts right now. It’s the season where the air feels like a warm hand on your back—nudging you outside, into community, into motion. It’s also the season where creators quietly panic.

Summer can be weird for reach. People are out living. They’re not sitting inside, scrolling on their phones or computers as hard. Impressions and engagement dip. The algorithm feels like it took a vacation, too, without telling you. But lower reach doesn’t mean lower momentum. It might mean it’s the best time to build something that isn’t dependent on constant performance. A summer project. A series. A creative reboot. A love letter to the place you live, are from, or just love—even if the algorithm doesn’t love it back.

Summer is for showing up even when the numbers don’t. Summer invites you to make work that can’t be fully captured on a screen. No, that shouldn’t only be captured on a cell phone screen. Not because media doesn’t matter, but because your creative fuel matters more.

If your views are down right now, this isn’t the time to panic. It’s not just you, and it’s okay. When fewer people are watching, you get a little more freedom. You get to experiment. You get to play. You get to create without performing. Think of this as a seasonal creative container. A time to also indulge in life and broaden your perspective so that your work and business benefit. The South (and other places) have so much to offer creators. Museums may have after-hours event series. My favorite is Art on the Rocks by the Birmingham Museum of Art. They’re basically proof that culture doesn’t have to be quiet. People show up dressed like it’s an occasion. The lighting is soft. The drinks are cold. There’s typically a music artist. The art is still the art, but the energy changes when it’s shared. These nights exist all over the place. They’re local. They’re accessible. They’re community in motion. You can experience art with other people or even have your art featured.

Art walks in downtown streets are one of my favorite kinds of Southern gatherings. You’re moving, but slowly. You’re people-watching, but gently. You’re stepping into tiny galleries, popping into tents, noticing murals you never noticed, even though you’ve driven past them a hundred times. Maybe you dip into a local restaurant on main street after browsing. It’s slow. It’s intentional. It’s a great place to show your art.

Not every summer story or series has to be loud. Some of it is slow and tender:

• outdoor movie nights

• summer book clubs

• Sunday brunch on a balcony with live jazz

The South is not only fireworks and football. It’s also porch light intimacy. It’s the permission to linger. It’s a conversation that stretches until the bonfire leaves you smelling like smoke.

The South has been in the news for all the wrong reasons lately. That’s not the full story.

Yes, the South is complicated and confronting its history in a very public way. But it is also:

• artists building worlds in small towns

• friends turning parking lots into dance floors

• women and queer folks and Black folks making life and art out of what we’re given

• community organizers doing the unglamorous work of mutual aid and care

• people choosing joy without waiting for permission

This is not about denying what’s real. It’s about refusing to let one perspective be the only perspective. Because living here, building a life here, creating something meaningful here, means you learn how to hold contradiction. You learn how to make beauty while still telling the truth.

The goal isn’t to “win” summer. It’s to let it feed you. Go outside. Document what you love. Make a series that feels like a love letter. Because the South is more than a headline, and so are you.

If you’re doing a summer creative project, reply and tell me what you’re making—or send me your favorite local art walk/museum night/outdoor movie series or the like and I’ll start a running list. I wanna know what’s happening in your neck of the woods!

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Hey honeys and hustlers,

Grammarly bought Superhuman. Airbnb bought HotelTonight. Descript bought Squadcast. Somewhere, a startup founder refreshed their bank app so many times their thumb got promoted to Product Manager. Acquisitions can typically look like celebrity gossip for business nerds–fun to go down a rabbit hole about, but largely inconsequential to our daily lives. One day, a brand is living its best solo life. The next day, it’s “seeing someone,” then “it’s complicated,” then it is suddenly wearing a matching hoodie with a much larger company’s logo on it and answering to a new shared calendar.

If you are an indie creator or a small business owner, it is tempting to watch these deals like they are happening on a different planet. But high-level acquisitions are basically a very expensive version of something you already do all the time: leveraging shared resources to grow your reach, increase your resilience, and expand your impact. There are many smaller businesses that have been up for sale recently. Loom Coffee by cycling photographer Sean Benesh (which is now Loam Cycling Journal). BIPOC Podcast Creators is closing its newsletter and Discord community doors at the end of the month. The North Carolina Entrepreneurial Ecosystem Map was up for grabs by Resilient Ventures (previous guests on Honey & Hustle, links to the episode below).

The difference between these and million-dollar corporations? None of these reached deals for new leadership. Let’s decode what the big dogs are modeling, and translate it into moves you can actually make without needing a board, a banker, or a mysterious “strategic options” slide deck.

First, what is an acquisition really?

At the highest level, an acquisition is one organization saying:

“You have something we want. We would rather buy it than build it. We think together we can make more money, serve more people, or do both faster.”

The “something” is usually one (or more) of these:

• A product that fits like a missing puzzle piece.

• A customer base that is already warmed up.

• A brand people trust.

• A team that knows how to do the thing.

• A distribution channel that moves attention like a freight train.

• Data, tech, or operational systems that are hard to replicate quickly.

If you’re a creator or small business owner, your “something” might be:

• A loyal audience that actually opens emails.

• A distinct voice people can pick out in a crowded feed.

• A library of evergreen content.

• A community with inside jokes and real relationships.

• A repeatable system for making and selling products or services.

In big businesses, “acquisition” is a specific legal and financial event. In indie land, you have a spectrum of options that mimic the same strategic benefits, and you can pick the level of entanglement that matches your nervous system.

1. Collaboration (shared attention, shared creative energy)

2. Partnership (shared distribution, shared offers)

3. Joint venture (shared revenue, shared ownership of a project)

4. Mergers (two brands combining into one)

5. Asset purchases (buying an email list, IP, a product line)

6. Full acquisition (buying the whole business)

This is why acquisitions are relevant: you are already building assets. You are just calling them “my newsletter,” “my shop,” “my podcast,” or “my brand,” instead of “portfolio companies.” A community-centered approach to acquisitions is basically one question with three teeth: Is this deal growing the pie for the people who made the pie possible? In practice, that means asking:

• Will the people who love this thing still love it after the deal?

• Who gets stability, opportunity, or equity, and who gets squeezed?

• Does the acquisition protect the magic, or does it extract it?

Big acquisitions can be inspiring, but they can also be cautionary tales. When a big company buys a smaller one, they are often buying a shortcut to attention. Airbnb + HotelTonight is a clean example of a distribution play: expand offerings, capture more travel moments, and meet customers in different buying moods. Sometimes you want a full house. Sometimes you want a “I am sleeping here because my flight got canceled” hotel. You may not “acquire” another brand just to reach an adjacent audience, but you can:

• Collaborate with a creator who already has the audience you want.

• Bundle your products with a complementary business.

• Swap newsletter placements.

• Co-host events and capture emails together.

The goal is not to borrow attention like a library book and return it when it no longer suits you. The goal is to create shared distribution where both communities win.

Grammarly buying Superhuman reads like a “let’s make writing + communication feel premium, fast, and integrated” kind of bet. In acquisitions, speed is not just about shipping faster. It is learning faster. If you have ever paid for:

• A template.

• A course.

• A coach.

• A software tool.

• A contractor.

…you have participated in the small-business version of buying speed. Big companies do not buy speed casually. They buy it because they have clarity on what speed is worth. Where are you losing time every week? What do you keep avoiding because it is technically or emotionally annoying? What would it mean to buy speed in a way that also improves your quality of life? When you buy speed, you can spend the reclaimed time on the work that actually builds trust. That might look like deeper customer care, better storytelling, or more thoughtful products.

Sometimes the product is not the point. The trust is. A beloved brand is a shortcut to “yes.” It is the feeling of:

• “I know what this is.”

• “I have heard good things.”

• “I do not have to gamble with my time or money.”

You can “buy trust” by borrowing it ethically. Partner with respected people in your niche. Get testimonials from customers who share your values. Get featured in places your audience already trusts. Do not use someone else’s trust to sell something that does not deliver. That is how you turn a long-term brand into a short-term cash grab with a hangover.

A lot of acquisitions are basically list-building on hard mode. But the best acquirers understand that an email list is not just data; it is a relationship. And relationships are fragile. If you treat people like “users” instead of humans, they will leave. Or worse, they will stay and resent you, which is how you end up with a community full of unsubscribes.

If you are thinking about selling a project or buying someone else’s, a warm handover looks like:

• a public announcement, honest context, and a thank-you that does not sound like a corporate email.

• let people choose whether to stay.

• keep the thing they loved functioning during the transition.

• be transparent about changes.

Some acquisitions are talent plays. A company buys another company because the team is excellent, and excellence is hard to hire one person at a time. A go-to designer. A part-time editor. A producer. A bookkeeper. A customer support helper. This is what happened when CNN acquired Beme, the camera app co-founded by Casey Neistat, to bring in the team that built what we now know as the CNN app.

Not every creator wants to sell. Plenty of people want to keep their work independent, weird, and gloriously unscalable in the best way. But building an acquisition-ready asset is still useful because it forces you to create something that is documented, repeatable, transferable, and not dependent on you being awake, inspired, and caffeinated. That is not “selling out.” That is building something that can survive. If you disappeared for two weeks, what breaks? What knowledge lives only in your head? What processes could be written down once and reused forever?

A resilient business can serve people longer. Stability is a form of care. And if you ever do decide to sell, merge, or pass the torch, you can do it in a way that honors the people who made the torch worth carrying in the first place.

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Hey honeys and hustlers,

Today, I’m bringing you some words from Franceska, the writer behind the journey to perfection newsletter. This article feels like one of the best introductory articles to a newsletter I’ve ever read. Or maybe I’m just at a point in my life where I can relate. I’m utterly exhausted and have been having trouble focusing on deep work lately (like writing, editing videos, and all creative work, really). I haven’t run out of things to write about, not by a long shot, but I’m running low on energy to write. I hope to get back to my regular publishing schedule soon, but in the meantime, enjoy these words by Franceska. If you’re looking to start a newsletter soon, and I know many of you are, I hope this is a source of inspiration.

P.S. Thanks to all the folks who joined the Creator Database last month! One of you is featured below. If you’d like to be featured in a future article, it’s free to join!

per·fec·tion

/pərˈfekSH(ə)n/

The condition, state, or quality of being free—or as free as possible—from all flaws is truly the bane of my existence. Maybe that’s a little dramatic, so instead, let’s just say that, like many of us, I have a complicated relationship with perfection.

Perfection often feels like a mirage—a goal we chase our whole lives but never actually reach. If we’re lucky, we see it every so often in our lifetime. Literally once in a blue moon. And yet, this unrequited pursuit leaves so many of us disillusioned, stressed, anxious, and drowning in imposter syndrome. If we know this, then why do we still chase perfection? Who even set this standard?

In my household, that standard was set by my parents.

As the child of Haitian immigrants, failure was not an option. Since “no one is perfect” was an accepted truth, mistakes were allowed—but only in moderation. Too many mistakes threatened their vision of success, their version of perfection. Naturally, I rebelled. I rejected everything a perfect Haitian daughter was expected to be. Instead, I embraced alternative things like tattoos, skateboarding, gauged ears, Odd Future, and, to my parents’ horror, chose a creative path instead of becoming a pediatrician. I rejected this notion of perfection so deeply that I even opted out of my first name and rebranded myself with a nickname instead.

But despite my rebellion, something in me still craved perfection.

My parents’ expectations were one thing. The media’s illusions of perfection were another. But beyond all that, I’m left wondering—where did this notion of perfection even come from?

Matthew 5:48 (for my Bible lovers out there) says, “Be perfect as your Father in heaven is perfect.” Which, quite frankly, tells me absolutely nothing. If anything, it adds more pressure. Forget my measly human struggle with perfection—now I’m supposed to be perfect as God is perfect? How is that even possible? What does that even mean? And most importantly—how does one practically achieve perfection?

proc·ess

/ˈpräˌses/

The best answer I could come up with was the tired-ass saying, “Practice makes perfect.” That overused little phrase had stitched itself into my brain, offering nothing useful when it first popped into my head. It’s something people say when encouraging someone to master a skill. But after a while, I started to wonder—what if this idea extends beyond skills? What if practice makes perfect applies to mastering oneself? Was it actually that simple?

Thinking back to the concept of "being perfect like God," to be in the presence of something so grand, according to the bible, there's a need for renewal and purification, solidifying the essential need for process, bringing me to my next question. What if we've been viewing and engaging with the idea of perfection incorrectly? 

Personally, I can do without the process.

I find practice or processes mundane, tedious, and sometimes pointless. The image that best describes this annoyance is the movie Karate Kid (all versions are welcomed, but the Hillary Swank one is arguably the best and most underrated). The main characters all individually go through a process of training, doing the same thing over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and (exactly. It's just as annoying to watch) over again until they get all the training and practice they need, according to some sensei with all the answers, and then BOOM! They're prepared. Which is cute and all, but this ain't Karate Kid, and I don't have a Mr. Miyagi, time, or the patience, especially with life moving as fast as it does.

Like many of us, I've adopted an expectation of results that are as quick and convenient as possible, but things worth having are never that easy, and time does not bend to meet my expectations.

In high school, I was on the soccer team, and we would have to run like no one's business. I hated every minute of it and honestly don’t even know how I ended up on that team, but what always tripped me out was seeing how much we outran the other teams in our games. All that mundane running did have a purpose, even if it was to be a more equipped team or contribute to conditioning my phatty. It's not lost on me that there's value in the process of practice, but it doesn't mean I like it or even want to participate. 

These experiences—and many like them—suggested that process is essential for growth and transformation, bridging intention and actualization. They reinforced that perfection is not a fixed state but the intentional embrace of the steps needed to reach a goal.

I've chosen to test this theory by adopting perfection as a practice—not as an illusion of flawlessness, but as a committed journey toward true excellence.

prac·tice

/ˈpraktəs/

Two recent class sessions deeply challenged me, reinforcing why I’m here.

The first was with Manny Vega, a Nuyorican painter. We expected a discussion on the practice of Candomblé, but instead, he was divinely sent to remind us of the power of walking in practice. Manny told us that whatever we want to do, we have to do it. “You can’t just say you love someone. You gotta be love. You gotta embody it. You gotta practice it.”

Simple. Direct. But the weight of his conviction made it feel like a revelation. Manny spoke with an inner knowing—his words weren’t theoretical; they were lived. As I closed my laptop after that session, his message stayed with me. I found myself crying, overwhelmed, as if wrapped in a loving embrace from God, encouraging me to become. Manny doesn’t run from his path—he embraces it. He walks in it daily.

The second session was with the great Cornel West, a man who needs no introduction but was most recently a presidential candidate. Dr. West told us, “Find your voice or be an echo,” and “You have to live in the questions.”

That last phrase—living in the question—was another gentle nudge. I often find myself asking, What would life look like if…? I owe it to myself to lean into those questions, to explore the possibilities rather than just entertain them. I owe myself the chance to find my voice in a world that so often wants to speak for me. I owe it to myself to rest in God’s grace, knowing that becoming is a process of being perfected.

This Substack is an account of my journey in practice.

Practicing living in the questions.

Practicing deconstructing.

Practicing mastering self.

Practicing perfection.

There is a rhythm, a necessary repetition to process—just like any daily or spiritual practice. But more than a routine, practice is a lifelong commitment. A way of being. It is the continuous act of becoming, of leaning into growth, of embracing both the questions and the lessons they bring. With each step, each misstep, and each moment of clarity, I am learning that practice isn’t about reaching perfection—it’s about showing up, again and again, fully present in the becoming. 

Welcome to the journey to perfection. I’m happy you’ve arrived. 💚

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Hey honeys and hustlers,

On this exact day 10 years ago, I graduated from college with my bachelor’s degree. I went on to get my Master’s degree before moving to North Carolina and going full-time in my business. I can’t tell you whether college is “worth it” if you intend to become a creator or entrepreneur. But I can tell you what college has done for me. I truly feel that I had a full undergrad experience. The financial stress. Learning how to live with roommates. Studying abroad. Traveling to different cities on the university’s dime to volunteer and present research projects. Changing my degree program in my sophomore year. Making friends that I still have to this day. Having incredible professors who poured into me and mentored me. Being a part of the University Honors Program (UHP), which afforded me the opportunity to take electives that many students didn’t get the privilege of taking from non-traditional teachers. College brought me some of the richest experiences I’ve ever had. So here's a letter to my 22-year-old self, which I think is relevant to any college student right now.

I remember my first time coming to campus and my in-person interview with UHP. My interviewers were an older Black woman and an older white man, supporters of the program. I felt so welcome in this old church, with its creaky floors and stained glass windows. The excitement of accepting admission to this prestigious program and hallowed building soon turned to deep anxiety and disappointment after my first semester. College was a clear step up from high school curriculum, and for the first time in a long time, I didn't make all As in a semester. I remember emailing Mike, the director of UHP at the time, apologizing profusely for my shortcomings as a student. Telling him I felt unworthy of being in UHP. He emailed me back, during Christmas break no less, and took the time to encourage me. He told me to chin up and know that I would adjust to the rigor and demands of college. So I continued. Of course, my mom telling me that as long as I was still eligible for my scholarship that I was going back, was also a determining factor.

In the fall semester of my sophomore year, I changed my major to Spanish and earned dual credit for my Capstone course through UHP. A privilege that allowed me to study abroad in Spain the following summer. I spent two weeks on the Camino de Santiago. That trip started everything for me. I have no photos from that trip, the trip of a lifetime. So I worked all summer as a UAB Ambassador, and spent half my check on a DSLR camera from a pawn shop and never looked back.

Now, I've directed documentary short films and written narrative TV series. I've had photos in the NY Times and words in Essence. I've produced a branded video podcast and spoken at podcast festivals across the country. I've done creative work I'm deeply proud of. And that work and dedication to craft started in college.

It may not feel like it right now, but you won't remember a single grade from a single class. Getting your degree is important, but it's not who you are. It’s not your story. Going to college is just the setting where the story happens. The story is your becoming. The story, YOUR story, is the experiences you'll have that challenge you and push you and break you and build you and excite you. Now is the time for learning what you're good at, what interests you, and what moments make you feel like the truest version of yourself. I wish I could tell you that every rejection gets easier, that every loss feels lighter, that every creative experiment pushes you toward your goal, that every perceived failure or shortcoming gets easier to stomach. I won't lie to you. Some days will inevitably be harder than others.

But just by being here in college, you are creating the building blocks of who you are becoming. A person who is willing to try and try hard. A person who handles hard better. A person who is open to new ideas. A person who knows that failure is not the end. At least it was not the end for me. And this story, my story, your story, is only as good as you make it. Perfect stories don't get greenlit in Hollywood. Boringggggg. Every story needs tension, desire, challenges to overcome, and a satisfying transformation.

As I sit here, remembering the weight of the often too pretentious level I held myself to, and saw my peers holding themselves to, I feel it is imperative that you know the life path you choose is just as much about what you accomplish here as it is about who you impact through what you learn.

This experience isn't to be had in a vacuum. What you learn here shouldn't stay here. Who you become here shouldn't be the final version of who you are. Some people peak in college. Looking back, I'm glad I didn't. And I hope you don't either. I still feel like I'm scratching the surface of what I will do and achieve in this lifetime, good Lord willing. But more importantly, I'm excited to see what you achieve next. Late bloomers still bloom. Right now, you're planting seeds. I hope your feet feel planted in what you set out to do here, and accept the calling to move when it comes.

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Hey honeys and hustlers,

Most writers do not want to become on-camera personalities. Many do not even want to be perceived as such. Yet across newsrooms, digital magazines, and creator businesses, there is a growing expectation that every byline should also be a face, and that every story should be “packaged” into short-form video to compete with video-first platforms. That pressure is understandable. Video is rewarded by algorithms. Video is sticky. Video can feel like the fastest path to scale. But it is not the only path to parasocial closeness. I’ve written the non-video creator’s guide to digital marketing, and this feels like a part 2 to that discussion.

Parasocial relationships are not created by cameras. They are created by consistent proximity and meaningful specificity. They happen when audiences feel like they know the mind behind the work, when they recognize patterns of taste and values, and when they can reliably return for another “dose” of the writer’s perspective. Text and audio can do this extremely well, often with less performance anxiety and more control than video.

If you are a writer trying to build a fandom without becoming a short-form creator, the goal is not to imitate the vibe of TikTok. The goal is to build the conditions that make a reader think:

• “This person gets it.”

• “I trust their filter.”

• “I want to hear how they see the world.”

• “I miss them when they’re gone.”

That is the parasocial engine. And it can be built through newsletters, essays, podcasts, and community touchpoints such as social media posts and events.

Below are realistic ways writers can do this, plus what makes people like Simon Owens, Lia Haberman, and Danielle Corbett (Grants for Creators) so effective.

What makes writers feel “close” in text?

People often describe parasocial relationships as if they are purely emotional. In practice, they are built through craft. There are 5 elements that (I think) reliably create closeness without video.

1. A strong filter (taste is a personality)

One of the fastest ways to become “someone people follow” is not to share more of your life. It is to become a trustworthy filter. A filter is a repeatable pattern:

• What you pay attention to

• What you ignore

• How you interpret what you see

• The values you use to judge it

Simon Owens is a great example here because the work is not “about Simon.” It is about Simon’s media brain. Readers return because they want that brain to process the media industry for them. He writes The Long Story, a weekly newsletter that curates the “best long-form journalism he read that week.” When the format is consistent, the personality becomes legible.

2. Consistent cadence (reliability is intimacy)

Closeness is often just reliability over time. Not because readers are entitled to you, but because humans bond with what they can count on. A weekly newsletter sent at the same time each day of the week builds familiarity. A monthly audio episode builds ritual. Even a quarterly “big essay” can build anticipation if you signal it clearly. Choose a cadence you can keep on your worst week. Then keep it long enough for people to form the habit.

3. Specificity (the opposite of content)

A lot of “content” feels disposable because it is generic. Parasocial attachment grows when someone writes with sharp, lived-in specificity. Lia Haberman’s newsletter, ICYMI, is useful because it is concrete. It helps people do something and understand shifts in social platforms with enough detail to feel grounded.

4. Controlled access (the audience wants a window, not your whole house)

Many writers resist parasocial dynamics because they associate them with oversharing. You do not have to overshare to feel accessible. The trick is to offer a window:

• How you think

• How you decide

• How you notice

• How you revise

Danielle Corbett’s Grants for Creators succeeds because it gives creators access to a world that is usually opaque. It is not just information. It is a window into the logic of grants, applications, eligibility, and strategy. Share your process, not your private life.

• “Here’s how I research a story.”

• “Here’s the question I start with.”

• “Here’s what I cut, and why.”

• “Here’s what I changed my mind about.”

This creates intimacy without vulnerability hangovers.

5. A two-way loop (reply culture)

Video platforms have built-in feedback loops: comments, duets, stitches, and rapid iteration. Newsletters can feel one-way unless you deliberately design a loop. The simplest parasocial superpower for writers is: answering people back. You won’t believe how many people simply don’t respond to comments or emails. Not every email. Not forever. But enough that readers feel like there is a living person on the other side. Once readers see you respond, they begin to write to you, not just at you. That shift is a relationship.

The non-video parasocial stack

Think of parasocial closeness as a system with inputs you control. A repeatable voice. A predictable cadence (daily or weekly). A clear point of view. A sense of access, not intimacy, access. A feedback loop that makes readers feel seen. Video is just one format that can deliver these inputs. Text and audio can also deliver all five. The “stack” that tends to work best for non-video creators looks like this:

• Newsletter as the home base (the place where the relationship lives)

• Podcast or audio as the intimacy amplifier (voice, pacing, pauses, laughter, emphasis)

• Occasional public distribution (guest posts, podcast guesting, syndication, social posts, interviews with traditional media outlets)

• Lightweight community layer (comments, replies, office hours, a small paid tier, a Discord/Circle/Patreon, a monthly call)

You don’t have to do everything. You can start with one home base and then add one amplifier. Simon Owens, Lia Haberman, and Danielle Corbett show that fandom is not reserved for entertainers. It is available to anyone who can become a trusted guide. If video is not how you show up best, that is not a liability. It is a constraint that can sharpen your system. Text and audio can still make people feel like they know you. And when people feel like they know you, they stick around.

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Hey honeys and hustlers,

When I say “participation trophy,” I do not mean a cheap plastic stand-in for real skill. I mean a deliberate, private way of telling yourself, "I showed up." I mean a ritual that shows effort is worthy of celebration, even when the outcome is still pending or not the one you hoped for. A participation trophy is not the prize at the end. It is the fuel you pack for the middle. Most of us learned to treat rewards like punctuation. You only get the gold star after the sentence is complete. You only celebrate once the deal closes, the product or business launch is deemed successful, the numbers prove it, and everyone on the internet agrees it “counts.” And then we act surprised when motivation evaporates during the longest part of any meaningful goal: the part where you are practicing, experimenting, failing, and trying again.

I used to have a system that made this easy. Every time I hit a milestone in my business, I would buy a 500ml bottle of single-barrel sour beer. It was specific. It was special. It created a tiny ceremony around progress. It also had an edge of scarcity and story. Not just “a drink,” but that bottle. And when I stopped drinking, I lost more than alcohol. I lost a reliable way to signal to my nervous system that the work was worth continuing. So I had to ask a question I think many people avoid because it sounds too soft: what do you do when the old reward stops working, but the need for encouragement does not?

The problem with only rewarding wins

A win-only reward system sounds disciplined, but it quietly teaches you something brutal: that your effort has no value unless it produces a result on a specific timeline. That’s fine if you only have goals that behave like vending machines. Insert effort, immediately receive outcome.

But most creative work, business building, healing, skill development, and life-changing goals do not work like that. They are closer to gardening. You do a lot of the same actions for a long time before you see anything measurable. You water. You wait. You fight off pests you did not invite. You learn what the soil needs. You pluck weeds. You watch 237 YouTube videos on gardening while you wait some more.

If you wait to reward yourself until the harvest, you are essentially asking yourself to live without encouragement for an entire season. And when you do that long enough, you do not become tougher. You become tired. When people quit “too early,” it is not always because they lack ambition. It is often because they have no feedback loop that honors the process. Their brain keeps asking, “Why are we doing this?” and hears silence.

We talk about resilience as if it were a personality trait. Something you either have or you do not. But resilience is also a logistics problem. It is a systems problem. It is a how do I keep going on the days when nothing is working problem. Here is a truth that has become clearer to me the longer I build things: attempts are not the warm-up to the work. Attempts are the work.

• The attempts are where you gather data.

• The attempts are where you learn your patterns.

• The attempts are where you discover what you are actually afraid of.

• And the attempts are often only partly in your control.

If your reward system only recognizes what you cannot control, you will feel powerless even while you are doing the most courageous part. Attempting.

I think the reason “participation trophies” became an insult is because we associate them with external validation. Someone giving you something you did not earn. But self-awarded participation trophies are different. They are not a lie. They are a record. They say:

• I kept the promise I made to myself.

• I practiced the skill even when I was not good at it yet (and maybe even did it in public).

• I stayed in the room long enough to learn something.

• I am building evidence that I can be counted on.

Over time, that evidence becomes self-trust. And self-trust is one of the most valuable assets you can build. You can lose a client. You can miss a goal. You can have a bad quarter. But if you still trust yourself to respond with care and persistence, you are not starting over from zero.

What I used to do, and what I do now

Buying that bottle of beer worked for a while because it was a clear transaction: milestone equals treat. Without alcohol, I had to find rewards that were still sensory and still meaningful. Something my body could feel. Something that made my day brighter. And I realized I also needed a new definition of milestone. Sometimes the milestone is not revenue. This is for you and for me. Sometimes the milestone is:

• sending the email you have been avoiding for two weeks

• publishing something even if you feel tired (me, writing this at 5AM)

• pitching despite a streak of no’s

• doing the admin work that keeps the engine running

• asking for help before you burn out

• trying again after a setback

I wanted (and needed) trophies for the attempts, not just the outcomes. It’s not about the price tag of the proverbial participation trophy. It’s about what treating yourself for the attempts signals: I am paying attention to my own effort, because my effort is worth it.

If you are not sure what counts as a trophy, start by listing things that reliably change your mood (hopefully without creating a hangover, but I’m not here to judge). Physical, sensory, and environmental wins are especially effective:

• lighting your favorite candle for “good effort” days

• buying flowers on Fridays when you kept showing up

• taking a long walk on a trail you love

• printing your work and putting it somewhere visible

• gifting your workspace something small as a reward for consistency

Giving yourself participation trophies is not about pretending everything is amazing. It is about refusing to treat your humanity like a flaw. There will always be a part of you that wants certainty before it commits. But certainty is not available upfront. Most of the time, you commit first, then the proof arrives later. A participation trophy is a way of bridging that gap. It keeps you in motion while the results catch up. You are building a relationship with your future self where persistence is met with care, not neglect. Because the truth is, you do not need a crowd to clap for you to deserve encouragement. And if you are going to do hard things for a long time, you will need a way to celebrate the attempts.

That is life. That is the point. That is how you keep going.

So keep going. I’m rooting for you.

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Hey honeys and hustlers,

Today, I’m bringing you some words from Lex Roman, the writer and publisher behind Revenue Rulebreaker, which covers how solopreneurs make a living. They host events regularly on how to run paid subscriptions and grow your audience. They are Substack’s number one nemesis. For anyone speculating, I didn’t move to beehiiv because of Lex, but I do appreciate their perspective on building a sustainable media business. I care less about how Substack could be a much better platform than it is, and more about how platforms actually support creators. No matter what platforms you decide to spend your time, energy, and money on, I firmly believe that your biggest return will always be from spaces where you can show up as your full self. Today’s article is about how we can do that without worrying about the financial impact (when there are so many things impacting us financially right now). I hope you enjoy it.

P.S. Thank you to everyone who participated in our giveaway with Conntapp last month in honor of the 6th anniversary of the Honey & Hustle podcast! In case you missed me this week, I went live on Substack with Michelle Jackson on Wednesday and Daniel Hunter on Thursday, and you can watch the replays now!

My most popular post ever was a list of petty beefs. It converted 5 new paid subscribers right after I published it, and I hear about it whenever a reader discovers it in the archives. I’ve always been a mean girl. Now, I’ve monetized it.

There’s no use pretending you don’t have opinions on stuff, because the only thing worse than having a bad opinion is being neutral. I’ve worked with so many entrepreneurs over the years whose main professional perspective was that “you should have a website” or “you should send newsletters.” Ok? Is that all you got? Because if so, you’re convincing people that they need help from someone in your industry, but not you specifically.

If the alt-right has taught us anything useful—and yeah, I know that’s a stretch—it’s that people flock to leaders who make status quo challenging statements. Do that in a way that’s actually for the greater good you believe in, and you’ll attract like-minded supporters who will champion your work. 

I’ve been leaning into this harder since it seems to work. I made a list of all the controversial takes I could come up with. Some were not that controversial, like “Everyone has to become a marketer now,” but some were pretty fresh, like “You should kick more people off your newsletter” and “Substack is not growing your audience, they’re stealing it.”

Writing out that Substack statement helped me clarify my position on the tool. It wasn’t just “bad.” It was stealing from creators. I began writing a series of stories about how exactly I came to that conclusion, including this one. It’s rare that a single post of mine attracts much attention, but that story gets reshared on social every time there’s another Substack controversy.

Another topic I get fired up about is subscription fatigue. I run my business on a subscription model, and I’ve worked inside subscription businesses for over a decade. I’m sick of people parroting the same subscription fatigue excuses in response to a single struggling subscription business. The other day, I took to LinkedIn to debunk it. That post has 50k impressions. Maybe that’s not a lot to you, but that’s a lot for me. I got a note in my inbox today from a founder who saw it and wants to explore a partnership with me.

Subscription fatigue and Substack’s thievery are recurring themes I bring up on social media, on my blog, and at my events. I hammer on them over and over again through different lenses. I use relevant online conversations as a reason to update my thinking and repost from my archives. They never fail to bring new, right-fit audience members into my world and onto my newsletter.

You could think of these as content pillars or as a subset of your content pillars. Ideally, they are closely related to what you do or what you sell. Once someone reads your take, they’re going to want more, and you want to have more to give them. Even better if they are topics that are regularly discussed online, such as AI, the job market, the cost of living, or other highly politicized themes. That way, you have reasons to repeatedly bring up your past takes and plug right into a hot topic.

Ed Zitron has turned being an AI hater into a super profitable newsletter business. Molly White made a career out of busting crypto myths. I notice other publishers will paywall their most fiery perspectives if they feature insider intel. The only reason I ever personally paywall these is if I include personal stories I don’t want blasted widely. Otherwise, they should be public.

Making a list of your controversial takes is a good way to start. Dig deeper than what everyone else is saying in your space. Figure out what you really think about something and why. Tie it back to what you’re growing or selling. We don’t care that you put hot sauce on ice cream. We care that you just blasted apart a fundamental assumption we had about your industry.

It’s not enough to be good at your job in 2026. You need a perspective that grabs people out of their chairs and gets them tuning the hell into what you’re saying. You don’t have to be mean, but don’t be afraid to be controversial.

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Hey honeys and hustlers,

When we talk about "capital" in the creator economy, most people immediately think of money. Revenue. Bank accounts. Profit margins. But financial capital is only one type of capital you can build as a creative entrepreneur. And depending on your goals, it might not even be the most valuable. There are three types of capital that creators accumulate: financial capital, cultural capital, and content capital. Each one compounds differently. Each one unlocks different opportunities. And the most successful creators are strategic about which one they prioritize at different stages of their journey.

Financial Capital

Financial capital is straightforward: money in the bank. Revenue. Profit. The ability to hire. The ability to invest. The ability to weather a slow month without panic. This is what most creators are chasing. And for good reason—you need money to sustain a creative business. Exposure doesn't pay rent. But here's what's interesting: financial capital is often the lagging indicator of success, not the leading one. Cultural capital and content capital usually come first. They create the conditions for financial capital to follow.

Big Desk Energy is a newsletter by Tyler Denk, the co-founder of beehiiv, about the creator economy, SaaS growth strategies, and the beehiiv platform ecosystem. His newsletter is directly tied to his success in growing beehiiv. He drinks his own Kool-Aid—publishes a newsletter, promotes a newsletter, and showcases what's possible on the platform. Brands are lining up to advertise in his newsletter. Major media companies like Time and independent creators like Oliver Darcy (ex-CNN, creator of Status) have moved to beehiiv in part because of the ecosystem credibility that newsletters like Big Desk Energy create. He's built significant financial capital. Sponsorships. Consulting deals. Likely equity or partnerships.

But he built that financial capital by first building cultural and content capital. He leveraged his time at Morning Brew and became the go-to voice for a specific community (beehiiv power users and newsletter operators). He created a feedback loop: great content → more influence → more opportunities → more revenue. Financial capital is the reward for accumulating the other two.

Cultural Capital

Cultural capital is harder to quantify, but you know it when you see it. Its influence. Reputation. Access. The ability to shape conversations and open doors. Cultural capital is when people cite your work without being asked. When journalists reach out to you for commentary. When other creators want to collaborate. When brands want to be associated with you, not just advertise to your audience, but actually be affiliated with your name.

If you follow food, nightlife, or culture in New York City, you've probably heard of Feed Me. The newsletter has become the pulse check on what's happening in NYC. Big outlets look to Feed Me for trends. Emily Sundberg has broken stories. Her essay critiquing Substack's co-founders in their own weekly column—published on a beehiiv newsletter—nearly broke the internet. She's made hires. She's appeared on other high-profile NYC platforms, such as Subway Takes. She's built a media brand with serious cultural weight.

Is Feed Me making seven figures in revenue? Maybe, maybe not. But the cultural capital she's accumulated is massive. She has influence. She has a seat at the table in conversations about NYC culture. Brands, journalists, and public relations reps crave her attention. Other writers want to be featured or collaborate.

Cultural capital opens doors that money can't buy. It's the dinner invitation from the influential person who "just wants to pick your brain." It's the brand that reaches out, offering a partnership before you even pitch them. It's the conference that invites you to keynote rather than charging you to attend. Cultural capital is often more valuable than financial capital early in your career because cultural capital converts into financial capital. But it doesn't work the other way around. You can't pay your way into influence. You can't buy credibility. You have to earn it. Once you have cultural capital, monetization becomes easier. Sponsors seek you out. Collaborators want to work with you. Opportunities compound.

Content Capital

Content capital is the volume and quality of reusable, remixable, evergreen assets you've created. It's your archive. Your library. Your back catalog. Every article you write. Every video you publish. Every podcast episode you release. Every social media post. Every email. It's all content capital. And if you're strategic, content capital becomes a compounding asset.

According to Caleb Ralston, Alex Hormozi's team publishes 350 pieces of content per week. Short videos, social posts, carousel graphics, email newsletters, podcast clips. That's not a typo. 350 pieces. Per week. They're not creating 350 original ideas every week. They're taking one or two core ideas and remixing them across formats, platforms, and angles.

This is content capital at work. The more you create, the more raw material you have to remix. And if you're smart about documenting your ideas, frameworks, and stories, you can turn one piece of content into dozens. Alex Hormozi has built a content machine. He's everywhere. And that omnipresence creates cultural capital (everyone knows who he is), which creates financial capital (book sales, course sales, speaking fees, investments). But it all starts with content capital: the relentless accumulation of reusable assets.

Disclaimer: I do not think 99.9% of people should publish that much content per week. I think consistent quality over quantity matters, especially when you can build on your catalog with series, updated perspectives with new information, and different angles to your evergreen topics.

Which One Should You Prioritize?

This depends on where you are in your creator journey. Here’s how I see it.

Early stage (0-2 years): Prioritize content capital and cultural capital.

Your job early on is to create a lot, get your reps in, and build a reputation. You're not optimizing for revenue yet. You're optimizing for recognition and skill development. Publish frequently. Show up consistently. Build your archive. Network strategically. Get cited. Get featured. Build your name. Financial capital will come, but it's not the primary metric yet.

Growth stage (2-5 years):

Prioritize cultural capital and start converting it into financial capital.

By now, you should have a body of work and some influence. People know who you are in your niche. Now it's time to monetize that. Launch a paid product. Pitch sponsors. Raise prices. Hire help. Invest in systems. Keep building content capital, but start being more strategic about what converts.

Established stage (5+ years): Prioritize financial capital and use it to amplify the other two.

At this point, you have the resources to scale. Hire a team. Invest in production quality. Create premium experiences. Build intellectual property. Your content capital is vast. Your cultural capital is strong. Now you're optimizing for leverage and sustainability.

Chasing Money Too Early

The biggest mistake I see new creators make is optimizing for financial capital too early. They launch a paid product before they have an audience. They pitch sponsors before they have influence. They try to monetize before they've built trust. And it flops. Because they skipped the foundational work. You can't extract value you haven't created. If you haven't built content capital (a body of work or portfolio that demonstrates your expertise), why would someone pay for your course? If you haven't built cultural capital (a reputation and influence), why would a brand sponsor you?

Money is a lagging indicator. It shows up after you've created the conditions for it. So if you're early in your journey and frustrated that you're not making money yet, ask yourself:

• Am I creating enough? (content capital)

• Am I building relationships and reputation? (cultural capital)

If the answer to both is yes, financial capital will follow.

Huge Audience, Small Bank Account

On the flip side, some creators get so caught up in the game of influence and content that they forget to monetize. They have huge audiences. Strong reputations. Massive archives. But they're broke. This is also a trap. Because burnout is real. And you can't sustain a creative practice if you're constantly stressed about money. Cultural capital and content capital are beautiful. But they don't pay your rent.

At some point, you have to convert influence into income. Otherwise, you're just a hobbyist with a platform. There's no shame in making money from your work. In fact, it's a sign of maturity and sustainability. So if you've been creating for years and have influence but no revenue, it's time to monetize. Your audience wants to support you. Let them.

The Most Valuable Capital?

There's no universal answer. It depends on your goals. Most likely, you want some combination of all three. The key is being intentional about which one you're prioritizing at any given time—and understanding how they feed each other. Because the creators and entrepreneurs who win in the long term aren't just chasing money. They're building cultural influence and content libraries that will pay dividends for years to come.

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Hey honeys and hustlers,

Every business owner and entrepreneur knows this phrase: people buy from people they know, like, and trust. It's a good framework. It's helped countless businesses think about customer relationships. It's the foundation of content marketing, influencer partnerships, and brand building. But I think there's a fourth pillar we don't talk about enough: respect. People will buy from people they respect, even if they don't necessarily like them.

Being liked means people enjoy your company. They find you pleasant, relatable, fun. They want to hang out with you. They feel good in your presence. Being respected means people recognize your competence, integrity, and consistency. They might not want to grab drinks with you, but they trust your judgment. They value your opinion. They take you seriously. In business, you need both. But if you had to choose one, respect will take you further. Why? Because respect isn't contingent on mood, personality match, or fleeting connection. Respect is earned through demonstrated behavior over time. And once earned, it's durable.

You can lose likability in a moment (one bad take, one awkward interaction). But respect? Respect is harder to lose because it's rooted in a pattern of evidence. Think about people you've bought from or worked with, even though you didn't particularly like them:

• The lawyer who was brusque and no-nonsense but got the job done

• The consultant who wasn't warm but was undeniably brilliant

• The service provider who was all business but always delivered on time

• The creator whose personality centered around something you didn’t care about, but whose work was undeniable

You bought from them because you respected their competence and reliability. You didn't need to like them. You needed to trust that they could do what they said they'd do—and do it well.

How to Earn Respect (Not Just Likability)

Respect isn't about being popular. It's about being credible, consistent, and competent.

1. Do difficult things. Respect is earned by doing what others can't or won't do. Publish every week for two years straight when most people give up after three months. Ship a product even when it's scary and uncertain. Difficult things demonstrate discipline, courage, and commitment.

2. Be consistent. Respect compounds through reliability. If you say you'll publish every Wednesday, publish every Wednesday. If you promise a deliverable by Friday, deliver it by Friday. If you set a standard, hold yourself to it. Consistency signals that you take your work seriously. That you're not flaky. That people can count on you. You might not be the most charismatic person in the (virtual) room, but if you're the most reliable, you'll stand out.

3. Show up on time. This sounds basic, but it's not. Being on time signals respect for other people's time. It signals that you're organized, intentional, and professional.

4. Act with integrity, especially when it's hard. Integrity means doing the right thing even when no one is watching. Even when it costs you. It means admitting when you're wrong, giving credit where it's due (credit your team and collaborators!), honoring your commitments as best you can, and treating people well even when they can't do anything for you (I could say a lot about this, but that’s for another article).

Integrity builds respect because it shows that your values aren't negotiable. You're not performing goodness for the audience. You are good, consistently. And people notice that, even if they don't say it out loud.

5. Show mercy and grace when it hasn't been earned. Respect is also earned by how you treat people when they mess up. When they don't meet expectations. When they fail. Do you blow up? Do you publicly shame them? Do you cut them off immediately? Or do you extend grace? Do you assume good intent? Do you give people a chance to make it right?

Showing mercy when someone hasn't "earned" it demonstrates confidence, maturity, and emotional regulation. It shows that you're not reactive. That you're not fragile. That you can handle disappointment without collapsing or lashing out.

6. Practice self-respect. Self-respect can look like setting boundaries and enforcing them (be a kind boss to yourself) or being slow to anger and quick to listen. It sets the tone for how interactions will go.

Likability gets you attention. Respect gets you longevity. Likability is great for virality. For building a following quickly. For making people feel good in the moment. But likability is fickle. Trends change. Personalities clash. People get bored. Respect, on the other hand, is durable. Once you've earned someone's respect, they'll:

• Keep following you, even if your content isn't always “entertaining.”

• Buy from you even if your personality doesn't perfectly match theirs.

• Recommend you even if you're not their "favorite."

• Defend you when others criticize you.

Think about the creators and people you respect. KevOnStage. Dawn Staley. Michelle Obama. People who don’t often address issues publicly, but always have public support when they do. They might not be the funniest or most charismatic. They might not post every day. They might not have the best production quality. But they're consistent. They deliver. They do the work. They show up with integrity. And because of that, you trust their judgment. You take their recommendations seriously. You buy from them. That's the power of respect.

What would it look like if you optimized your business and personal brand for respect rather than for being liked/popular? Maybe you publish less frequently but with higher quality. Maybe you turn down partnerships that don't align with your values, even when they pay well. Maybe you focus on solving real problems instead of chasing trends. Maybe you build products that genuinely provide value rather than ones that look good on Instagram.

This is a different strategy. It's slower. It's less flashy. It won't go viral as often. But it builds durable loyalty. Because people who respect you don't leave when the algorithm changes. They don't leave when someone more entertaining comes along. They stay because they trust your judgment and value your work.

You Don't Have to Be Everyone's Favorite

Trying to be universally liked is exhausting. It's impossible. It requires you to soften your edges, water down your opinions, and perform a version of yourself that's palatable to most people. And even then, some people won't like you. Because likability is subjective and often arbitrary. But respect? Respect is earned through behavior. And you have control over your behavior.

That's enough. That's more than enough.

Thanks for reading 💌

If you made it this far, consider sharing this article on social media or with someone who would enjoy it. If you’re new here and want to catch up on previous podcast episodes, you might like my guest appearance on the Nosey AF podcast. Stephanie is an incredible host, and we had a really fun conversation. In this episode, we talked about filmmaking, creativity, and women’s sports.

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Hey honeys and hustlers,

Certain companies have a history of creating entrepreneurs. The PayPal Mafia is legendary. Elon Musk. Peter Thiel. Reid Hoffman. Max Levchin. Jawed Karim (YouTube co-founder). Roelof Botha (Sequoia partner). The list goes on. These are workers-turned-builders, thinkers, and risk-takers who went on to create or fund some of the most influential companies of the last two decades: Tesla, SpaceX, LinkedIn, YouTube, Palantir, Yelp, and Sequoia Capital's modern portfolio. The same pattern emerged with Stripe. Alumni of the company (affectionately called Stripe Mafia) have gone on to start Fast, Pry, Ramp, Vanta, and dozens of other startups. And The Hustle? Former writers and operators have launched their own newsletters, podcasts, agencies, and media companies (many of which work with beehiiv, Morning Brew, and more).

These companies don't just employ people. They train them. They give them ownership. They let them experiment. And when those people leave, they take that DNA with them and build the next wave of companies. Now, a new version of this is emerging. Companies that hire in-house creators—not just marketers who dabble in content, but true creators—are building the next generation of entrepreneurial talent across sports, politics, and more. And the smart companies are intentionally leaning into this.

What Is an In-House Creator?

An in-house creator is someone employed by a company to create content that builds brand, audience, and trust. They might be:

• Writing newsletters

• Photographing events, products, and key brand ambassadors

• Hosting podcasts

• Producing videos

• Running social media accounts

• Creating educational resources

• Building community

They're not traditional marketers. They're not just executing a brand playbook. They're creating original, personality-driven, audience-first content—under the umbrella of a company. Think:

• Wes Kao at Maven (newsletter, thought leadership)

• Guillaume Moubeche at lemlist (LinkedIn content, videos)

• Any of the creator-marketers at HubSpot, Shopify, or your favorite sports franchise

• The content teams at Morning Brew (some famously went on to create beehiiv) and The Hustle (Matt McGarry is now the founder of GrowLetter) when they were independent

These people have creator skills: storytelling, audience-building, content production, and community management. But they're using those skills within a company rather than for their own independent brand.

Why Creators Benefit from Going In-House

Having creative skills doesn’t necessarily mean that you should start a creative business. Maybe you need a training ground to hone your skills, pay your bills, benefit from mentors, save money, and build your network.

Building an independent creator business is hard. It's uncertain income. It's all on you. It's feast or famine. Going in-house gives you a salary. Health insurance. A team. A budget. Tools. Distribution. You get to create without the constant pressure of monetization. You can focus on your craft instead of hustling for sponsorships or paid subscriptions every month.

Working in-house exposes you to things that would take longer to learn as a solo creator:

• How to work with a team

• How to manage expectations from bosses

• How to scale content production

• How to measure impact beyond vanity metrics

• How to navigate corporate communication (which, love it or hate it, is a useful skill)

You're getting paid to get better at your craft. Being the voice of a well-known company gives you credibility. When you eventually go independent, you can say "I was the head of content at [Company]" or "I built the newsletter at [Brand]." That's social proof. You're borrowing their brand equity while building your own.

In-house creators meet other smart people. They get access to executives, investors, customers, and partners. They're in rooms they wouldn't otherwise be in. That network becomes your unfair advantage when you eventually build your own thing.

You can try things on the company's dime. Test new formats. Experiment with platforms. Learn what works and what doesn't—without risking your own livelihood. By the time you go independent, you've already made your mistakes and learned your lessons. You're starting from a place of experience, not from scratch.

The Alumni Effect

PayPal didn't just churn through employees. They created a culture of ownership, ambition, and intellectual rigor. When people left, they stayed connected. They invested in each other's companies. They referred talent. They became a network. The same is happening with creator-friendly companies.

Former Hustle employees have launched their own newsletters and frequently collaborate or cross-promote. Former HubSpot content people are now running their own agencies and courses—and they still speak glowingly about their time at HubSpot.

When you invest in creators, you're not just hiring for the next two years. You're planting seeds for the next two decades. Your former in-house creators become:

• Ambassadors for your brand

• Referral sources for customers and talent

• Case studies of what's possible

• Collaborators and partners down the road

They're an extended team, even after they leave. The Research Triangle’s bet on Apple's new campus (in the Raleigh-Durham-Chapel Hill area of North Carolina) is a version of this strategy. They're not just building an office. They're building a talent ecosystem. The Triangle has universities (UNC, Duke, NC State, NCCU), a strong tech scene, and a lower cost of living than SF or NYC. The Triangle is betting that by giving Apple the green light to set up shop there, they'll:

• Hire local talent

• Retain employees who want stability and affordability

• Create a pipeline of future entrepreneurs and innovators who got their start at Apple, who will stay in the area and positively impact the economy

In 10-20 years, there will be an "Apple Mafia" of people who worked at that Triangle campus and went on to build their own companies. It's a long-term talent strategy disguised as a real estate decision.

While I may be waxing poetic about the benefits, there are many cons to consider when it comes to being an in-house creator. Creators are often placed in the marketing and/or communications department, where they don’t have a senior-level or C-suite team that is super familiar with social media and audience creation. Many social-forward jobs aren’t given decision-making authority and are expected to work nights and weekends. Because content creation is now considered a core business skill, not a marketing add-on, many social-forward jobs want people willing to put their faces on camera, which comes at a huge personal cost to creators.

While I think in-house creators should be paid more, given NIL-structured contracts and salaries, and have a C-suite-level director for teams larger than 3 people, there’s something to be said for the demand for creativity that will long outlast the supply. Every company will need people who can tell stories, build audiences, and create trust at scale. Those people are creators.

Are you an in-house creator or thinking about hiring one? Reply and tell me what you're seeing in the space.

Thanks for reading 💌

If you made it this far, consider sharing this article on social media or with someone who would enjoy it. If you’re new here and want to catch up on previous podcast episodes, you might like our latest podcast episode featuring the highlights from our 2026 book club. I put together a playlist featuring all the books from the 2026 Honey & Hustle Book Club. But I realize not everyone has 10.5 hours to binge the whole thing, so I cut that down to a 90-minute highlight episode with the best moments, stories, and top lessons for creators and entrepreneurs building something they want to last.

🎧 Listen now (90 min) →

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• How top brands achieve 3,600% ROI from email marketing

• AI personalization techniques that drive 82% higher conversion rates

• Tactics that have delivered 30% better open rates and 50% higher clickthroughs

• How to build sequences for every stage of the customer journey, from welcome to re-engagement

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Hey honeys and hustlers,

There are a lot of platforms that promise to help creators and entrepreneurs make money. Patreon. Substack. Stan. Beacons. Buy Me a Coffee. Ko-fi. Circle. beehiiv. Kit. Kajabi. Podia. Teachable. Luma. These platforms promise to make your life easier. Handle payments. Host your media content. Manage your community. Send your emails. All so you can focus on creating and growing your business. And they do make your life easier. Until you realize that every dollar you earn is also making them money.

I'm not saying that's inherently bad. Building and maintaining software is expensive. Servers cost money. Payment processing costs money. Customer support costs money. These platforms deserve to get paid for the value they provide. But as a creative entrepreneur, you need to understand the economics of the tools you're using. Because once you understand what's in it for them, you can make smarter decisions about what's in it for you.

Most creator monetization platforms take a percentage of your earnings. This is the most common business model, and it's brilliantly aligned: they only make money when you make money. But the percentages vary wildly:

• Patreon: 5-12% depending on your plan, plus payment processing fees (roughly 2.9% + $0.30 per transaction)

• Substack: 10% of paid subscriptions only, plus payment processing fees from Stripe (roughly 3% per transaction)

• Buy Me a Coffee: 5% platform fee, plus payment processing fees from Stripe (roughly 3% per transaction)

• Ko-fi: 0% platform fee (they make money from optional premium features and tips from creators)

• Stan: 10% on the free plan, 5% on paid plans, plus payment processing

• beehiiv: No revenue share on ads or subscriptions; they charge a monthly or annual subscription fee based on subscriber count

• Kit (formerly ConvertKit): Monthly or annual subscription fee based on subscriber count; they take a cut of paid subscriptions on the free plan (roughly 3%)

Some platforms bet on your revenue (percentage model). Others bet on your audience size (SaaS model). Some do both. The percentage model scales with you—if you make $100, they make $10. If you make $10,000, they make $1,000. At scale, this can be significant. The SaaS model charges you based on your audience size, regardless of revenue. So if you have 10,000 subscribers, you're still paying the same amount each month even as your revenue grows. Neither is inherently better. It depends on your business model and revenue.

When Platforms Compete, Creators Win (Sometimes)

Substack added Notes (their answer to Twitter). beehiiv added a recommendation network and an ad network. Kit added a creator store. Patreon added video hosting. Stan added an AI solution for posting on LinkedIn. Everyone's trying to be the "all-in-one" solution.

But no platform is actually all-in-one. They're all really good at one or two things and mediocre at the rest. Substack is great for publishing once and distributing everywhere. But their email deliverability is not great, their website design options are limited, and their analytics are basic at best. beehiiv has incredible email tools and growth features. But their website design and product features are still in their infancy. Patreon is excellent for membership and recurring revenue. But it's not a great place to sell one-time digital products or run a traditional newsletter. Kit has powerful email automation and email design. But it's complex to use for beginners, expensive at scale, and lacks true website functionality (please don’t get me started on their landing pages).

Most successful creators use multiple platforms. They're not loyal to one tool—they're pragmatic about picking the best tool for each job.

• Newsletter on Substack, Kit, or beehiiv

• Community on Discord or Circle

• Course hosting on Podia or Teachable

• Video content on YouTube

• Event ticketing on Luma

• Link-in-bio with Stan or Beacons

This is smart. But it also means you're paying multiple platform fees, managing multiple dashboards, and dealing with integration headaches.

The Real Opportunity Cost

Let's say you're making $5,000/month in paid subscriptions on Substack. They're taking 10%, so that's $500/month or $6,000/year going to Substack. You could migrate to Ghost or beehiiv and potentially save that 10% and pay only according to how many total subscribers you have, which could be significantly less, but potentially lose the network effects of Substack notes. Is the $6,000/year savings worth slower growth if you haven’t figured out other ways to market your newsletter? Maybe. Maybe not.

In any case, you need to own your audience data.

• Export your email list and articles regularly (I need to get better at this)

• Have a direct relationship with your community (email, not just platform messaging)

• Diversify where your revenue comes from (don’t just rely on paid subscriptions, memberships, or ad revenue)

Substack creators learned this lesson when they realized they couldn't easily export paid subscriber payment data to migrate elsewhere. Patreon creators learned it when the platform changed its fee structure and faced backlash. Instagram creators learn it every time the algorithm changes and tanks their views.

For some creators, paying the platform tax is worth it for the time and mental energy saved. For others, especially at scale, bringing things in-house and paying directly for what you use makes more sense. There's no universal right answer. But you should at least know what you're paying and why.

What platforms are you using to monetize your creative work? Are you happy with them? Reply and let me know.