On accepting the title of “social media girl” (and finally refusing to apologize)
For years, I downplayed my job and dubbed it not “real” work. I’d talk about my strategy calls, design decks, metrics reports—parts of my job that sound respectable. You know, the things you can explain at a holiday dinner without your uncle raising an eyebrow.
Meanwhile, the task that lit me up most was the one I kept hiding behind: social media posts—the single string of words that can change the entire temperature of a room.
I kept it quiet because I didn’t think there was a future in being “the social media girl.” In my head, that was entertainment—fluff; the kid’s table of marketing. It’s funny how long you can turn away from the thing you’re best at when you don’t think the room will respect it.
Why this rhetoric stuck (and why it sucks)
I grew up on a version of success that wore blazers and had yellow office lighting. Success shook hands, exchanged business cards, and spoke in quarterly reports. Entrepreneurship looked like handing out catalogues from the back of a minivan. Grit was offline; credibility was printed in newspapers and awards; “networking” meant hotel coffee and name tags.
When it was time for me to pick a lane, social media looked like a toy—a punchline. A place to post baby photos and nostalgic lyrics, not build a P&L.
So even when I knew how to make content that moved people—moved them to think, to save, to inquire—I talked myself out of it. I built a business around what sounded serious and starved the work that actually made me a leader. Spoiler: burnout loves that kind of arrangement.
The conversation that made me say it out loud
Two coffees in with a friend I met on the internet (of course), I admitted it: the work I want to be known for lives on the internet. The tiny screen is where I’m the strongest. The thing I minimize is the thing that saves me (and, mostly, my clients) every single time.
And then we said the quiet part: there’s still shame baked into running a business here. Like we’re supposed to apologize for building networks out of comments and DMs. Like it only “counts” if it happens in a boardroom. That shame is outdated, but it’s sticky—and it keeps talented people performing a version of legitimacy that doesn’t fit.
The plot twist I didn’t see coming
When I dropped the apology and the asterisk, I got grateful.
Being raised between dial-up and decks gave us a weirdly perfect vantage point. We know the value of the handshake and the hyperlink. We understand referrals and reach. We know how a room feels and how a feed behaves.
We aren’t choosing between “real” networking and online presence. We’re the bridge. We get to carry the best parts of elbow grease into the URL world and make them play nice. And honestly? That’s a competitive advantage.
What I’m keeping from the old world (and what I’m absolutely not)
Keeping:
Craftsmanship: make it well or don’t ship it.
Reputation: tell the truth, keep promises, earn the second project.
Depth: say less, mean more.
Ditching:
Performance for the room: sounding important to be believed.
Gatekeeping: needing someone else’s stage to be “legit.”
The idea that content is fluff: it’s cultural infrastructure.
What “the social media girl” actually means in my business now
It means I’m a strategist with a poet’s attention span.
It means I can turn a short-lived moment into language that lands.
It means I can build a room out of pixels and make strangers feel like community.
It means I’m not ashamed that the medium is small—because the impact isn’t.
Content is not my appetizer anymore. It’s the main course I’ve been pretending was a side.
A small manifesto for anyone sitting on the fence
Your feed can be a studio, not a stage. Stop auditioning. Start making.
Authority is repetition with receipts. Hold a point of view longer than a trend cycle.
The metric that matters most is memory. If they quote you back to you, you’re winning.
We don’t chase virality; we curate resonance. (And yes, it converts.)
You don’t need permission to build a serious business in a “play” space. Play is why it works.
If you’re avoiding the title that fits
Maybe your version isn’t “social media girl.” Maybe it’s writer, strategist, artist, teacher—whatever role you quietly downplay because somewhere a grown-up told you it wasn’t serious enough.
Here’s the best thing I can offer from the other side: the room you’re afraid won’t respect you is already full of people who built their entire careers online while you were trying to make your job sound more palatable. They aren’t waiting for your apology. They’re waiting for your work.
And the clients you want? They don’t care what you call yourself. They care how you make them feel, what you help them see, and whether you can carry them somewhere they couldn’t go alone.
That’s what this medium (socials) does when you let it.
So yes—I’m the “social media girl.” I make sentences that travel farther than I can. I turn perspective into presence. I build culture in squares and captions and loops and lines.
And I sleep better now.
Because I stopped asking the room for respect and started giving my work the respect it deserved. Because I realized the internet isn’t a downgrade from “real” business—it’s the biggest table I’ve ever been invited to sit at.
Pull up a chair.
Bring your unique voice.
No blazer required.