I got my first marketing job nearly a decade ago. I was 25, didn’t know a thing about funnels, but I could write circles around most—and that was enough to get the gig.

Back then, good ideas didn’t need permission to live. An idea could carry the room. You didn’t need a spreadsheet to prove it had value—you needed conviction, timing, and just enough space for it to breathe. Not every idea was brilliant, but the best ones had a shot because they weren’t strangled by metrics or budget before they ever got off the ground.

That version of the industry is all but gone.

What’s left is something more constrained. Fragile. A little more afraid.

And that fear isn’t abstract. It has shape.
Trump is back in office. Tariffs are flying. The economy is holding its breath.
Anxiety isn’t creeping in. It’s already moved in, unpacked, and taken over the guest room.
CEOs are retreating. CFOs are slashing.
The word pause is just the polite prelude to cut.

If you’ve ever sent a “just checking in” email and gotten silence in return, you’ve felt the undertow—slow, quiet, and strong enough to pull your whole pipeline apart.

But the rot runs deeper than budget cuts. It’s trust.

Clients used to believe marketing could build something. A brand. A relationship. A little momentum. Now, success means leads. Everything else is indulgent. Vanity. Waste. You bring in leads out the gate or you’re on borrowed time.

Attribution culture turned marketing into a vending machine—put in a dollar, get out two.
If you can’t promise that, you’re replaced before the coffee’s even brewed.
There’s no room to build. No patience for trust.
Just ROI, on demand—Quick wins or you’re out.

Then there’s AI. The sharpest knife in the back.
It showed up quietly at first—just another tool.
Now it’s the whole toolbox.

I used to send over ideas and get questions back.
“Can we push this further?”
“Could this line land harder?”
That back and forth felt like something was being built.

Now it’s just, “Can ChatGPT do this cheaper?”

It’s not that the work is worse. It’s just... hollow.
Faster, sure. Easier, definitely.
But there’s no tension in it. No risk.
Just safe, bloodless work churned out in seconds.

And maybe that’s the part that stings—the speed at which patience disappeared.
Not just with the process, but with the people behind it.

I get it. Clients have the budgets they have. The pressure they’re under is real too.
It’s not their fault.

But that doesn’t make it any easier to watch the work get flattened into timelines and targets.
To feel like creativity only matters if it converts by Friday.

Budgets are tight—I know that.
But I also know this isn’t the solution.

I’ve worked in marketing for years.
Started as a minimum-wage content creator and clawed my way into strategic roles—eventually leading teams and managing six-figure budgets.

I’ve seen downturns before. I’ve watched agencies collapse, freelancers pivot, and brands rebrand themselves into oblivion.

But this one feels different.
It’s a perfect storm—economic fear, cultural distrust, and technological disruption all at once.
You can’t just tighten your belt through this.
You have to figure out who you are in it.

So here I am.
No strategy to sell. No framework to peddle.
Just me, figuring it out.

I came into marketing as a writer, and that’s what I’m going to do.
Not to be right. Not even to be heard.
Just to understand.

This isn’t about attention or positioning.
It’s about keeping a human voice alive in a space drowning in noise and automation.
Speaking plainly when most are posturing.
Saying something true—even if it doesn’t trend.

Not thought leadership—just a note from someone in the thick of it, tracing the cracks and looking for what still holds steady