I’ve hesitated more than once when someone asks me what I do.
Not because I’m ashamed. Not exactly.
But because the word marketing hits different than it used to.

I used to think it meant creativity. Influence. Ideas that moved people.
Now it sounds like manipulation. Like noise. Like the thing everyone’s trying to mute.

I didn’t get into this to sell snake oil.

I started my career in sales. I was good at it.
But I moved to marketing because I wanted to make things—not just convince people to buy them.
I loved the idea of branding.
How a well-told story could shift the way someone saw something.
I still believe that.
But somewhere along the way, it got muddy.
The stories gave way to scripts. Formulas. Funnels.
We stopped asking if we were saying something meaningful—and started asking if it would convert.

And I’ve played along.
I’ve written the headlines that overpromised.
I’ve dressed up evergreen offers as “limited-time” deals.
I’ve nodded when I should’ve pushed back.
Not out of malice. Just momentum.
Just going along with what the industry calls best practice.

But it wears on you—that quiet erosion of trust.
Yours and theirs.

I started to notice how people reacted when I said I was in marketing.
A pause. A polite nod.
Sometimes a joke about being one of those people.

And underneath it, something else—the bruise beneath the bruise.
Especially from the business minds I admire.
A quiet dismissal.
A look that says: Oh, marketing.
Like I’m less builder, more window-dresser.
Like I showed up late to the meeting and still want a seat at the table.

And I couldn’t argue.
Because sometimes I didn’t like how I was showing up either.

But I also know it doesn’t have to be that way.

I’ve seen brands that earn trust without gaming it.
Companies that don’t rely on hacks or hype—just a clear sense of who they are and why they matter.

Patagonia doesn’t market sustainability. They live it.
Their culture, their product, their leadership—every part of the business pulls in the same direction.
Their founder literally gave the company away to fund climate action.
That’s not messaging. That’s conviction.

And closer to home—Livsn, right here in Bentonville, AR.
Andrew Gibbs-Dabney doesn’t just talk about purpose—he lives it.
I’ve had the pleasure of meeting him, hearing his story, and seeing how deeply his mission and brand are aligned.
He’s chosen the harder road, and I admire him for it.

It’s rare.

Companies like these remind us:
When marketing’s done right, it doesn’t feel like marketing at all.
It feels like relevance.

That’s the kind of work I want to do.
Not because it’s more noble.
But because it feels human. Real. Durable.

The truth is, even after all these years, I’m still figuring it out.
How to show up without performing.
How to build trust without selling my soul.
How to create something that adds, not just sells.

Because marketing isn’t about convincing people to buy what they don’t need.
It’s about helping them find what they’ve been looking for.

Good businesses don’t need to scream.
They just need to show up, stay visible, and deliver.

I don’t have all the answers.
But I’d rather be honest about the mess than polished in the lie.

Because maybe marketing isn’t dirty.
Maybe we’ve just forgotten what it’s for.