The Branded Self
How marketing turned identity into performance
When everyone becomes a brand, what happens to the person?
Marketing is no longer confined to boardrooms and branding agencies – it has seeped into the fabric of our everyday lives, guiding how we present ourselves, how we consume, and even how we think. In today’s world, every individual, consciously or not, is a marketer. The student polishing his LinkedIn profile before graduation, the yoga teacher curating her pastel-toned Instagram grid, the retiree sharing motivational posts about a “second life” as a coach – all of them are tapping into marketing’s seductive power. We have entered a cultural moment where everyone is not only encouraged but almost required to be a brand, to turn the self into a product, with a clear message, audience, aesthetic, and aspirational tone. It’s no longer enough to be competent or interesting; one must be marketable.
Nowhere is this shift more glaring than in the workplace. Once, a CEO represented the company. Now, the company often plays second fiddle to the CEO’s personal brand. From Richard Branson to Sheryl Sandberg, leaders are no longer simply executive decision-makers; they are thought leaders, Twitter provocateurs, TED Talk darlings. They cultivate their brands with as much rigour as any product line, knowing that a well-marketed self can outlast any tenure. The same is true lower down the ladder – employees, freelancers, and interns all feel compelled to craft narratives around their careers: a LinkedIn caption becomes a pitch, a portfolio website a lifestyle manifesto. The quiet competence of just doing a good job isn’t enough anymore. It must be spun, spotlighted, and shareable.
Even in the realm of leisure and lifestyle, marketing dictates taste. Hobbies aren’t just for enjoyment, they must be strategically shared, hashtagged, and monetised. A person doesn’t merely enjoy reading, no, they’re a “bookstagrammer”, their shelf curated like a museum. Someone can’t just cook, they must be a “home chef,” plating dishes like a Michelin contender for the algorithm’s appetite. The most banal moments – making a smoothie, buying a candle, choosing sneakers – are transformed into branded statements, because every choice is now a performance. People aren’t just curating their homes; they’re branding them, lighting candles to match their mood boards and selecting mugs that fit the season’s colour palette. Life itself has become an ad campaign.
What this means is that marketing doesn’t just reflect value, it manufactures it. A mediocre product, skilfully branded, will always outshine a brilliant one kept quiet. We now live in an age where presentation trumps substance, where virality confers more legitimacy than merit. A TikToker can earn millions for sharing five-second makeup hacks, while scientists and artists struggle in obscurity. Books are judged by their cover – literally – and people by their follower count. Influence is no longer earned through expertise but through engagement. As a result, a glossy emptiness has permeated culture, where things look better than they are, and where mediocrity, once something to overcome, is now algorithmically rewarded.
Marketing has also blurred the line between the authentic and the artificial. Because when everything is curated, what is real? Is that beach photo a moment of joy, or a brand-building asset? Are those friends or collaborators? Is that passion real, or is it a niche being exploited for clout? There is a profound loneliness in this endless performance. Behind every “content creator” is often someone hungry for connection, relevance, affirmation, not always from malice, but from necessity. In a system that rewards visibility above all, even the most intimate parts of life become content. Your grief, your recovery, your body, your dog’s cancer diagnosis – market it! Be raw! Be vulnerable! But only if it goes viral.
Still, marketing is not purely villainous. It can give voice to the voiceless. Marginalised creators, grassroots movements, and small businesses can harness marketing to bypass gatekeepers and reach global audiences. It can democratise visibility, allowing talent to emerge from unexpected places. But this potential for empowerment is often drowned out by the noise of the manufactured, the strategic, the marketable. And here lies the paradox: marketing has become both the ladder and the labyrinth. It offers a path to success, but the cost is often one’s authenticity, sanity, or soul.
At its best, marketing is storytelling: strategic, persuasive, imaginative. But in our overexposed world, the story often eclipses the substance. People don’t need to be brilliant, only look like they might be. We are sold aspirations, not realities. Even dating apps have turned into marketing arenas, where bios are taglines and photos brand assets. Love, identity, beliefs…. everything becomes a pitch. We are all in the business of selling ourselves, whether we know it or not.
Perhaps the most dangerous effect of this marketing-saturated age is its silent erosion of our inner lives. When every action might be posted, every thought monetised, every choice optimised for audience reception, how can we be truly present?
When we shop, do we choose what we love or what will photograph well?
When we read, do we read for pleasure or for prestige?
When we travel, do we see or do we shoot content?
Even our experiences are increasingly filtered through the lens of performance. We don’t just live anymore….. we brand.
So, if you’ve made it this far, perhaps it means something in you still longs for a life less curated, less cropped, less captioned. Maybe you are tired of living like a press release. Maybe, beneath the branding, there is still a pulse of something real. Guard it. Nurture it. Because in a world obsessed with visibility, the most radical thing you can do is be real, quietly, without applause.
To reclaim our humanity in this era of relentless marketing, we must learn to distinguish between the signaland the noise. We must ask whether our choices come from within or from what is trending. We must create because we are moved, not because the algorithm demands it. There is no shame in using marketing – it is a tool. But when the tool begins to shape the soul, we risk becoming more product than person. In a world obsessed with branding, the rarest thing might just be a genuine self.
In defence of the self before the brand, for the unmarketed moments that still make us human, unbranded and unfiltered,
T.
Your piece made me pause because, in many ways, I’ve lived it. I’ve caught myself picking a café not because I loved the coffee, but because the lighting was perfect for a photo. I’ve written something deeply personal, then hesitated, wondering if it would “perform well.” And, embarrassingly, I once bought a book I had no intention of reading—just because it looked good on my shelf.
We talk a lot about “authenticity” online, but let’s be honest: in a world where perception is currency, even authenticity has become a brand strategy. It reminds me of what Jeff Bezos once said: “Your brand is what people say about you when you’re not in the room.” But what happens when you’re never truly out of the room? When your life—your thoughts, your grief, your joy—is constantly on display, curated for maximum impact?
The real tragedy isn’t that we market ourselves—it’s that we often don’t even realize we’re doing it. The line between “who I am” and “who I need to appear to be” blurs, and before we know it, we’re not living for ourselves, but for an audience we might not even like.
Lately, I’ve been trying to reclaim the unmarketed parts of my life. Reading books I’ll never post about. Writing things that won’t go viral. Sitting in a café with bad lighting because, damn it, the coffee is actually good. Maybe that’s the rebellion we need—to live moments that don’t need a caption.
This subject needed to be addressed. Thank you for doing it, Tamara.
My husband worked in advertising, and he once told me that a Buddhist said he was in the business of killing the soul. We are now all in the business of killing our own souls. You are so right! I have fallen into the trap of trying to self-promote myself, especially as a poet. I quickly learned that poetry is not everyone's cup of tea, and my poetry will not be every poetry lover's cup of tea. So I just left it all and continued to write when and how I felt like writing. I don't care anymore that it's only 2 or 3 or 5 people who read my poem. When one of them says they have listened to my poem on repeat and cried, I felt like my heart reached out to that person, and that's all that matters. I'd rather keep my soul behind closed doors and only air it when I write and without expectations.